11020 ---- ANGELS AND MINISTERS AND OTHER VICTORIAN PLAYS by LAURENCE HOUSMAN _Angels and Ministers_ AND _Possession_ WERE FIRST Introduction The Victorian era has ceased to be a thing of yesterday; it has become history; and the fixed look of age, no longer contemporary in character, which now grades the period, grades also the once living material which went to its making. With this period of history those who were once participants in its life can deal more intimately and with more verisimilitude than can those whose literary outlook comes later. We can write of it as no sequent generation will find possible; for we are bone of its bone and flesh of its flesh; and when we go, something goes with us which will require for its reconstruction, not the natural piety of a returned native, such as I claim to be, but the cold, calculating art of literary excursionists whose domicile is elsewhere. Some while ago, before Mr. Strachey had made the name of Victoria to resound as triumphantly as it does now, a friend asked why I should trouble to resuscitate these Victorian remains. My answer is because I myself am Victorian, and because the Victorianism to which I belong is now passing so rapidly into history, henceforth to present to the world a colder aspect than that which endears it to my own mind. The bloom upon the grape only fully appears when it is ripe for death. Then, at a touch, it passes, delicate and evanescent as the frailest blossoms of spring. Just at this moment the Victorian age has that bloom upon it--autumnal, not spring-like--which, in the nature of things, cannot last. That bloom I have tried to illumine before time wipes it away. Under this rose-shaded lamp of history, domestically designed, I would have these old characters look young again, or not at least as though they belonged to another age. This wick which I have kindled is short, and will not last; but, so long as it does, it throws on them the commentary of a contemporary light. In another generation the bloom which it seeks to irradiate will be gone; nor will anyone then be able to present them to us as they really were. Contents PART ONE: ANGELS AND MINISTERS I. THE QUEEN: GOD BLESS HER! (A Scene from Home-Life in the Highlands) II. HIS FAVOURITE FLOWER (A Political Myth Explained) III. THE COMFORTER (A Political Finale) PART TWO IV. POSSESSION (A Peep-Show in Paradise) PART THREE: DETHRONEMENTS V. THE KING-MAKER (Brighton--October, 1891) VI. THE MAN OF BUSINESS (Highbury--August, 1913) VII. THE INSTRUMENT (Washington--March, 1921) Part One: Angels and Ministers The Queen: God Bless Her! Dramatis Personae QUEEN VICTORIA LORD BEACONSFIELD MR. JOHN BROWN A FOOTMAN The Queen: God Bless Her! A Scene from Home-Life in the Highlands _The august Lady is sitting in a garden-tent on the lawn of Balmoral Castle. Her parasol leans beside her. Writing-materials are on the table before her, and a small fan, for it is hot weather; also a dish of peaches. Sunlight suffuses the tent interior, softening the round contours of the face, and caressing pleasantly the small plump hand busy at letter-writing. The even flow of her penmanship is suddenly disturbed; picking up her parasol, she indulgently beats some unseen object, lying concealed against her skirts_. QUEEN. No: don't scratch! Naughty! Naughty! (_She then picks up a hand-bell, rings it, and continues her writing. Presently a fine figure of a man in Highland costume appears in the tent-door. He waits awhile, then speaks in the strong Doric of his native wilds_.) MR. J. BROWN. Was your Majesty wanting anything, or were you ringing only for the fun? (_To this brusque delivery her Majesty responds with a cosy smile, for the special function of Mr. John Brown is not to be a courtier; and, knowing what is expected of him, he lives up to it_.) QUEEN. Bring another chair, Brown. And take Mop with you: he wants his walk. MR. J.B. What kind of a chair are you wanting, Ma'am? Is it to put your feet on? QUEEN. No, no. It is to put a visitor on. Choose a nice one with a lean-back. MR. J.B. With a lean back? Ho! Ye mean one that you can lean back in. What talk folk will bring with them from up south, to be sure! Yes, I'll get it for ye, Ma'am. Come, Mop, be a braw little wee mon, and tak' your walk! (_And while his Royal Mistress resumes her writing, taking Mop by his "lead" he prepares for departure._) Have ye seen the paper this morning yet? Ma'am. (_The address of respect is thrown in by way of afterthought, or, as it were, reluctantly. Having to be in character, his way is to tread heavily on the border-line which divides familiarity from respect._) QUEEN. Not yet. MR. J.B. (_departing_). I'll bring it for ye, now. QUEEN. You had better send it. J.B. (_turning about_). What did ye say? ... Ma'am. QUEEN. "Send it," Brown, I said. Mop mustn't be hurried. Take him round by the stables. (_He goes: and the Queen, with a soft, indulgent smile, that slowly flickers out as the labour of composition proceeds, resumes her writing_.) (_Presently_ ENTERS _a liveried Footman, who stands at attention with the paper upon a salver. Touching the table at her side as an indication, the Queen continues to write. With gingerly reverence the man lays down the paper and goes. Twice she looks at it before taking it up; then she unfolds it; then lays it down, and takes out her glasses; then begins reading. Evidently she comes on something she does not like; she pats the table impatiently, then exclaims_:) Most extraordinary! (_A wasp settles on the peaches._) And I wish one could kill all wicked pests as easily as you. (_She makes a dab with the paper-knife, the wasp escapes._) Most extraordinary! (_Relinquishing the pursuit of wasps, she resumes her reading_.) (_In a little while Mr. John Brown returns, both hands occupied. The chair he deposits by the tent door, and hitches Mop's "lead" to the back of that on which the Queen is sitting. With the small beginnings of a smile she lowers the paper, and looks at him and his accompaniments_.) QUEEN. Well, Brown? Oh, yes; that's quite a nice one.... I'm sure there's a wasps' nest somewhere; there are so many of them about. J.B. Eh, don't fash yourself! Wasps have a way of being aboot this time of year. It's the fruit they're after. QUEEN. Yes: like Adam and Eve. J.B. That's just it, Ma'am. QUEEN. You'd better take it away, Brown, or cover it; it's too tempting. J.B. (_removing the fruit_). Ah! Now if God had only done that, maybe we'd still all be running aboot naked. QUEEN. I'm glad He didn't, then. J.B. Ye're right, Ma'am. QUEEN. The Fall made the human race decent, even if it did no good otherwise. Brown, I've dropped my glasses. (_He picks them up and returns them_.) QUEEN. Thank you, Brown, J.B. So you're expecting a visitor, ye say? QUEEN. Yes. You haven't seen Lord Beaconsfield yet, I suppose? J.B. Since he was to arrive off the train, you mean, Ma'am? No: he came early. He's in his room. QUEEN. I hope they have given him a comfortable one. J.B. It's the one I used to have. There's a good spring-bed in it, and a kettle-ring for the whisky. QUEEN. Oh, that's all right, then. J.B. Will he be staying for long? Ma'am. QUEEN. Only for a week, I'm afraid. Why? J.B. It's about the shooting I was thinking: whether it was the deer or the grouse he'd want to be after. QUEEN. I don't think Lord Beaconsfield is a sportsman. J.B. I know that, Ma'am, well enough. But there's many who are not sportsmen that think they've got to do it--when they come north of the Tweed. QUEEN. Lord Beaconsfield will not shoot, I'm sure. You remember him, Brown, being here before? J.B. Eh! Many years ago, that was; he was no but Mr. Disraeli then. But he was the real thing, Ma'am: oh, a nice gentleman. QUEEN. He is always very nice to me. J.B. I remember now, when he first came, he put a tip into me hand. And when I let him know the liberty he had taken, "Well, Mr. Brown," he said, "I've made a mistake, but I don't take it back again!" QUEEN. Very nice and sensible. J.B. And indeed it was, Ma'am. Many a man would never have had the wit to leave well alone by just apologising for it. But there was an understandingness about him, that often you don't find. After that he always talked to me like an equal-just like yourself might do. But Lord, Ma'am, his ignorance, it was surprising! QUEEN. Most extraordinary you should think that, Brown! J.B. Ah! You haven't talked to him as I have, Ma'am: only about politics, and poetry, and things like that, where, maybe, he knows a bit more than I do (though he didn't know his Burns so well as a man ought that thinks to make laws for Scotland!). But to hear him talking about natural facts, you'd think he was just inventing for to amuse himself! Do you know, Ma'am, he thought stags had white tails like rabbits, and that 'twas only when they wagged them so as to show, that you could shoot them. And he thought that you pulled a salmon out o' the water as soon as you'd hooked him. And he thought that a haggis was made of a sheep's head boiled in whisky. Oh, he's very innocent, Ma'am, if you get him where he's not expecting you. QUEEN. Well, Brown, there are some things you can teach him, I don't doubt; and there are some things he can teach you. I'm sure he has taught me a great deal. J.B. Ay? It's a credit to ye both, then. QUEEN. He lets me think for myself, Brown; and that's what so many of my ministers would rather I didn't. They want me to be merely the receptacle of their own opinions. No, Brown, that's what we Stewarts are never going to do! J.B. Nor would I, Ma'am, if I were in your shoes. But believe me, you can do more, being a mere woman, so to speak, than many a king can do. QUEEN. Yes; being a woman has its advantages, I know. J.B. For you can get round 'em, Ma'am; and you can put 'em off; and you can make it very awkward for them--very awkward--to have a difference of opinion with you. QUEEN (_good-humouredly_). You and I have had differences of opinion sometimes, Brown. J.B. True, Ma'am; that _has_ happened; I've known it happen. And I've never regretted it, never! But the difference there is, Ma'am, that I'm not your Prime Minister. Had I been--you'd 'a been more stiff about giving in--naturally! Now there's Mr. Gladstone, Ma'am; I'm not denying he's a great man; but he's got too many ideas for my liking, far too many! I'm not against temperance any more than he is--put in its right place. But he's got that crazy notion of "local option" in his mind; he's coming to it, gradually. And he doesn't think how giving "local option," to them that don't take the wide view of things, may do harm to a locality. You must be wide in your views, else you do somebody an injustice. QUEEN. Yes, Brown; and that is why I like being up in the hills, where the views _are_ wide. J.B. I put it this way, Ma'am. You come to a locality, and you find you can't get served as you are accustomed to be served. Well! you don't go there again, and you tell others not to go; and so the place gets a bad name. I've a brother who keeps an inn down at Aberlochy on the coach route, and he tells me that more than half his customers come from outside the locality. QUEEN. Of course; naturally! J.B. Well now, Ma'am, it'll be for the bad locality to have half the custom that comes to it turned away, because of local option! And believe me, Ma'am, that's what it will come to. People living in it won't see till the shoe pinches them; and by that time my brother, and others like him, will have been ruined in their business. QUEEN. Local option is not going to come yet, Brown. J.B. (_firmly_). No, Ma'am, not while I vote conservative, it won't. But I was looking ahead; I was talking about Mr. Gladstone. QUEEN. Mr. Gladstone has retired from politics. At least he is not going to take office again. J.B. Don't you believe him, Ma'am. Mr. Gladstone is not a retiring character. He's in to-day's paper again--columns of him; have ye seen? QUEEN. Yes; quite as much as I wish to see. J.B. And there's something in what he says, I don't deny. QUEEN. There's a great deal in what he says, I don't understand, and that I don't wish to. J.B. Now you never said a truer thing than that in your life, Ma'am! That's just how I find him. Oh, but he's a great man; and it's wonderful how he appreciates the Scot, and looks up to his opinion. (_But this is a line of conversation in which his Royal Mistress declines to be interested. And she is helped, at that moment, by something which really does interest her_.) QUEEN. Brown, how did you come to scratch your leg? J.B. 'Twas not me, Ma'am; 'twas the stable cat did that--just now while Mop was having his walk. QUEEN. Poor dear Brown! Did she fly at you? J.B. Well, 'twas like this, Ma'am; first Mop went for her, then she went for him. And I tell ye she'd have scraped his eyes out if I'd left it to a finish. QUEEN. Ferocious creature! She must be mad. J.B. Well, Ma'am, I don't know whether a cat-and-dog fight is a case of what God hath joined together; but it's the hard thing for man to put asunder! And that's the scraping I got for it, when I tried. QUEEN. You must have it cauterised, Brown. I won't have you getting hydrophobia. J.B. You generally get that from dogs. QUEEN. Oh, from cats too; any cat that a mad dog has bitten. J.B. They do say, Ma'am, that if a mad dog bites you--you have to die barking. So if it's a cat-bite I'm going to die of, you'll hear me mewing the day, maybe. QUEEN. I don't like cats: I never did. Treacherous, deceitful creatures! Now a dog always looks up to you. J.B. Yes, Ma'am; they are tasteful, attractive animals; and that, maybe, is the reason. They give you a good conceit of yourself, dogs do. You never have to apologise to a dog. Do him an injury--you've only to say you forgive him, and he's friends again. (_Accepting his views with a nodding smile, she resumes her pen, and spreads paper_.) QUEEN. Now, Brown, I must get to work again. I have writing to do. See that I'm not disturbed. J.B. Then when were you wanting to see your visitor, Ma'am? There's his chair waiting. QUEEN. Ah, yes, to be sure. But I didn't want to worry him too soon. What is the time? J.B. Nearly twelve, Ma'am. QUEEN. Oh! then I think I may. Will you go and tell him: the Queen's compliments, and she would like to see him, now? J.B. I will go and tell him, Ma'am. QUEEN. And then I shan't want you any more--till this afternoon. J.B. Then I'll just go across and take lunch at home, Ma'am. QUEEN. Yes, do! That will be nice for you. And Brown, mind you have that leg seen to! (_Mr. John Brown has started to go, when his step is arrested_.) J.B. His lordship is there in the garden, Ma'am, talking to the Princess. QUEEN. What, before he has seen _me_? Go, and take him away from the Princess, and tell him to come here! J.B. I will, Ma'am. QUEEN. And you had better take Mop with you. Now, dear Brown, do have your poor leg seen to, at once! J.B. Indeed, and I will, Ma'am. Come, Mop, man! Come and tell his lordship he's wanted. (EXIT _Mr. John Brown, nicely accompanied by Mop_.) (_Left to herself the Queen administers a feminine touch or two to dress and cap and hair; then with dignified composure she resumes her writing, and continues to write even when the shadow of her favourite minister crosses the entrance, and he stands hat in hand before her, flawlessly arrayed in a gay frock suit suggestive of the period when male attire was still not only a fashion but an art. Despite, however, the studied correctness of his costume, face and deportment give signs of haggard fatigue; and when he bows it is the droop of a weary man, slow in the recovery. Just at the fitting moment for full acceptance of his silent salutation, the Royal Lady lays down her pen_.) QUEEN. Oh, how do you do, my dear Lord Beaconsfield! Good morning; and welcome to, Balmoral. LORD B. (_as he kisses the hand extended to him_). That word from your Majesty brings all its charms to life! What a prospect of beauty I see around me! QUEEN. You arrived early? I hope you are sufficiently rested. LORD B. Refreshed, Madam; rest will come later. QUEEN. You have had a long, tiring journey, I fear. LORD B. It was long, Madam. QUEEN. I hope that you slept upon the train? LORD B. I lay upon it, Ma'am. That is all I can say truly. QUEEN. Oh, I'm sorry! LORD B. There were compensations, Ma'am. In my vigil I was able to look forward--to that which is now before me. The morning is beautiful! May I be permitted to enquire if your Majesty's health has benefited? QUEEN. I'm feeling "bonnie," as we say in Scotland. Life out of doors suits me. LORD B. Ah! This tent light is charming! Then my eyes had not deceived me; your Majesty is already more than better. The tempered sunlight, so tender in its reflections, gives--an interior, one may say--of almost floral delicacy; making these canvas walls like the white petals of an enfolding flower. QUEEN. Are you writing another of your novels, Lord Beaconsfield? That sounds like composition. LORD B. Believe me, Madam, only an impromptu. QUEEN. Now, my dear Lord, pray sit down! I had that chair specially brought for you. Generally I sit here quite alone. LORD B. Such kind forethought, Madam, overwhelms me! Words are inadequate. I accept, gratefully, the repose you offer me. (_He sinks into the chair, and sits motionless and mute, in a weariness that is not the less genuine because it provides an effect. But from one seated in the Royal Presence much is expected; and so it is in a tone of sprightly expectancy that his Royal Mistress now prompts him to his task of entertaining her_.) QUEEN. Well? And how is everything? LORD B. (_rousing himself with an effort_). Oh! Pardon! Your Majesty would have me speak on politics, and affairs of State? I was rapt away for the moment. QUEEN. Do not be in any hurry, dear Prime Minister. LORD B. Ah! That word from an indulgent Mistress spurs me freshly to my task. But, Madam, there is almost nothing to tell: politics, like the rest of us, have been taking holiday. QUEEN. I thought that Mr. Gladstone had been speaking. LORD B. (_with an airy flourish of courtly disdain_). Oh, yes! He has been--speaking. QUEEN. In Edinburgh, quite lately. LORD B. And in more other places than I can count. Speaking--speaking-- speaking. But I have to confess, Madam, that I have not read his speeches. They are composed for brains which can find more leisure than yours, Madam--or mine. QUEEN. I have read some of them. LORD B. Your Majesty does him great honour--and yourself some inconvenience, I fear. Those speeches, so great a strain to understand, or even to listen to--my hard duty for now some forty years--are a far greater strain to read. QUEEN. They annoy me intensely. I have no patience with him! LORD B. Pardon me, Madam; if you have read _one_ of his speeches, your patience has been extraordinary. QUEEN. Can't you stop it? LORD B. Stop?--stop what, Madam? Niagara, the Flood? That which has no beginning, no limit, has also no end: till, by the operation of nature, it runs dry. QUEEN. But, surely, he should be stopped when he speaks on matters which may, any day, bring us into war! LORD B. Then he would be stopped. When the British nation goes to war, Madam, it ceases to listen to reason. Then it is only the beating of its own great heart that it hears: to that goes the marching of its armies, with victory as the one goal. Then, Madam, above reason rises instinct. Against that he will be powerless. QUEEN. You think so? LORD B. I am sure, Madam. If we are drawn into war, his opposition becomes futile. If we are not: well, if we are not, it will not be his doing that we escape that--dire necessity. QUEEN, But you _do_ think it necessary, don't you? (_To the Sovereign's impetuous eagerness, so creditable to her heart, he replies with the oracular solemnity by which caution can be sublimated_) LORD B. I hope it may not be, Madam. We must all say that--up till the last moment. It is the only thing we _can_ say, to testify the pacifity of our intention when challenged by other Powers. QUEEN (_touching the newspaper_). This morning's news isn't good, I'm afraid. The Russians are getting nearer to Constantinople. LORD B. They will never enter it, Madam. QUEEN. No, they mustn't! We will not allow it. LORD B. That, precisely, is the policy of your Majesty's Government. Russia knows that we shall not allow it; she knows that it will never be. Nevertheless, we may have to make a demonstration. QUEEN. Do you propose to summon Parliament? LORD B. Not Parliament; no, Madam. Your Majesty's Fleet will be sufficient. (_This lights a spark; and the royal mind darts into strategy_) QUEEN. If I had my way, Lord Beaconsfield, my Fleet would be in the Baltic to-morrow; and before another week was over, Petersburg would be under bombardment. LORD B. (_considerately providing this castle in the air with its necessary foundations_). And Cronstadt would have fallen. QUEEN (_puzzled for a moment at this naming of a place which had not entered her calculations_). Cronstadt? Why Cronstadt? LORD B. Merely preliminary, Madam. When that fortified suburb has crumbled--the rest will be easy. QUEEN. Yes! And what a good lesson it will teach them! The Crimea wasn't enough for them, I suppose. LORD B. The Crimea! Ah, what memories-of heroism--that word evokes! "Magnificent, but not war!" QUEEN. Oh! There is one thing, Lord Beaconsfield, on which I want your advice. LORD B. Always at your Majesty's disposal. QUEEN. I wish to confer upon the Sultan of Turkey my Order of the Garter. LORD B. Ah! how generous, how generous an instinct! How like you, Madam, to wish it! QUEEN. What I want to know is, whether, as Prime Minister, you have any objection? LORD B. "As Prime Minister." How hard that makes it for me to answer! How willingly would I say "None"! How reluctantly, on the contrary, I have to say, "It had better wait." QUEEN. Wait? Wait till when? I want to do it _now_. LORD B. Yes, so do I. But can you risk, Madam, conferring that most illustrious symbol of honour, and chivalry, and power, on a defeated monarch? Your royal prestige, Ma'am, must be considered Great and generous hearts need, more than most, to take prudence into their counsels. QUEEN. But do you think, Lord Beaconsfield, that the Turks are going to be beaten? LORD B. The Turks _are_ beaten, Madam.... But England will never be beaten. We shall dictate terms--moderating the demands of Russia; and under your Majesty's protection the throne of the Kaliphat will be safe-- once more. That, Madam, is the key to our Eastern policy: a grateful Kaliphat, claiming allegiance from the whole Mahometan world, bound to us by instincts of self-preservation--and we hold henceforth the gorgeous East in fee with redoubled security. His power may be a declining power; but ours remains. Some day, who knows? Egypt, possibly even Syria, Arabia, may be our destined reward. (_Like a cat over a bowl of cream, England's Majesty sits lapping all this up. But, when he has done, her commentary is shrewd and to the point_.) QUEEN. The French won't like that! LORD B. They won't, Madam, they won't. But has it ever been England's policy, Madam, to mind what the French don't like? QUEEN (_with relish_). No, it never has been, has it? Ah! you are the true statesman, Lord Beaconsfield. Mr. Gladstone never talked to me like that. LORD B.(_courteously surprised at what does not at all surprise him_). No?... You must have had interesting conversations with him, Madam, in the past. QUEEN (_very emphatically_). I have never once had a conversation with Mr. Gladstone, in all my life, Lord Beaconsfield. He used to talk to me as if I were a public meeting--and one that agreed with him, too! LORD B. Was there, then, any applause, Madam? QUEEN. No, indeed! I was too shy to say what I thought. I used to cough sometimes. LORD B. Rather like coughing at a balloon, I fear. I have always admired his flights-regarded as a mere _tour de force_--so buoyant, so sustained, so incalculable! But, as they never touch earth to any serviceable end, that I could discover--of what use are they? Yet if there is one man who has helped me in my career--to whom, therefore, I should owe gratitude--it is he. QUEEN. Indeed? Now that does surprise me! Tell me, Lord Beaconsfield, how has he ever helped you? LORD B. In our party system, Madam, we live by the mistakes of our opponents. The balance of the popular verdict swings ever this way and that, relegating us either to victory or defeat, to office or to opposition. Many times have I trodden the road to power, or passed from it again, over ruins the origin of which I could recognise either as my own work or that of another; and most of all has it been over the disappointments, the disaffections, the disgusts, the disillusionments-- chiefly among his own party--which my great opponent has left me to profit by. I have gained experience from what he has been morally blind to; what he has lacked in understanding of human nature he has left for me to discover. Only to-day I learn that he has been in the habit of addressing--as you, Madam, so wittily phrased it--of addressing, "as though she were a public meeting," that Royal Mistress, whom it has ever been my most difficult task not to address sometimes as the most charming, the most accomplished, and the most fascinating woman of the epoch which bears her name. (_He pauses, then resumes_.) How strange a fatality directs the fate of each one of us! How fortunate is he who knows the limits that destiny assigns to him: limits beyond which no word must be uttered. (_His oratorical flight, so buoyant and sustained, having come to its calculated end, he drops deftly to earth, encountering directly for the first time the flattered smile with which the Queen has listened to him_.) Madam, your kind silence reminds me, in the gentlest, the most considerate way possible, that I am not here to relieve the tedium of a life made lonely by a bereavement equal to your own, in conversation however beguiling, or in quest of a sympathy of which, I dare to say, I feel assured. For, in a sense, it is as to a public assembly, or rather as to a great institution, immemorially venerable and august that I have to address myself when, obedient to your summons, I come to be consulted as your Majesty's First Minister of State. If, therefore, your royal mind have any inquiries, any further commands to lay upon me, I am here, Madam, to give effect to them in so far as I can. (_This time he has really finished, but with so artful an abbreviation at the point where her interest has been most roused that the Queen would fain have him go on. And so the conversation continues to flow along intimate channels_.) QUEEN. No, dear Lord Beaconsfield, not to-day! Those official matters can wait. After you have said so much, and said it so beautifully, I would rather still talk with you as a friend. Of friends you and I have not many; those who make up our world, for the most part, we have to keep at a distance. But while I have many near relatives, children and descendants, I remember that you have none. So your case is the harder. LORD B. Ah, no, Madam, indeed! I have my children--descendants who will live after me, I trust--in those policies which, for the welfare of my beloved country, I confide to the care of a Sovereign whom I revere and love....I am not unhappy in my life, Madam; far less in my fortune; only, as age creeps on, I find myself so lonely, so solitary, that sometimes I have doubt whether I am really alive, or whether the voice, with which now and then I seek to reassure myself, be not the voice of a dead man. QUEEN (_almost tearfully_). No, no, my dear Lord Beaconsfield, you mustn't say that! LORD B.(_gallantly_). I won't say anything, Madam, that you forbid, or that you dislike. You invited me to speak to you as a friend; so I have done, so I do. I apologise that I have allowed sadness, even for a moment, to trouble the harmony-the sweetness--of our conversation. QUEEN. Pray, do not apologise! It has been a very great privilege; I beg that you will go on! Tell me--you spoke of bereavement--I wish you would tell me more--about your wife. (_The sudden request touches some latent chord; and it is with genuine emotion that he answers_.) LORD B. Ah! My wife! To her I owed everything. QUEEN. She was devoted to you, wasn't she? LORD B. I never read the depth of her devotion-till after her death. Then, Madam--this I have told to nobody but yourself--then I found among her papers--addressed "to my dear husband"--a message, written only a few days before her death, with a hand shaken by that nerve-racking and fatal malady which she endured so patiently--begging me to marry again. (_The Queen is now really crying, and finds speech difficult._) QUEEN. And you, you--? Dear Lord Beaconsfield; did you mean--had you ever meant----? LORD B. I did not then, Madam; nor have I ever done so since. It is enough if I allow myself--to love. QUEEN. Oh, yes, yes; I understand--better than others would. For that has always been my own feeling. LORD B. In the history of my race, Madam, there has been a great tradition of faithfulness between husbands and wives. For the hardness of our hearts, we are told, Moses permitted us to give a writing of divorcement. But we have seldom acted on it. In my youth I became a Christian; I married a Christian. But that was no reason for me to desert the nobler traditions of my race--for they are in the blood and in the heart. When my wife died I had no thought to marry again; and when I came upon that tender wish, still I had no thought for it; my mind would not change. Circumstances that have happened since have sealed irrevocably my resolution-never to marry again. QUEEN. Oh, I think that is so wise, so right, so noble of you! (_The old Statesman rises, pauses, appears to hesitate, then in a voice charged with emotion says_) LORD B. Madam, will you permit me to kiss your hand? (_The hand graciously given, and the kiss fervently implanted, he falls back once more to a respectful distance. But the emotional excitement of the interview has told upon him, and it is in a wavering voice of weariness that he now speaks_.) LORD B. You have been very forbearing with me, Madam, not to indicate that I have outstayed either my welcome or your powers of endurance. Yet so much conversation must necessarily have tired you. May I then crave permission, Madam, to withdraw. For, to speak truly, I do need some rest. QUEEN. Yes, my dear friend, go and rest yourself! But before you go, will you not wait, and take a glass of wine with me? (_He bows, and she rings_.) And there is just one other thing I wish to say before we part. LORD B. Speak, Madam, for thy servant heareth. (_The other servant is now also standing to attention, awaiting orders_.) QUEEN. Bring some wine. (_The Attendant_ GOES.) That Order of the Garter which I had intended to onfer upon the Sultan-- have you, as Prime Minister, any objection if I bestow it nearer home, on one to whom personally--I cannot say more--on yourself, I mean. (_At that pronouncement of the royal favour, the Minister stands, exhausted of energy, in an attitude of drooping humility. The eloquent silence is broken presently by the Queen_.) QUEEN. Dear Lord Beaconsfield, I want your answer. LORD B. Oh, Madam! What adequate answer can these poor lips make to so magnificent an offer? Yet answer I must. We have spoken together briefly to-day of our policies in the Near East. Madam, let me come to you again when I have saved Constantinople, and secured once more upon a firm basis the peace of Europe. Then ask me again whether I have any objection, and I will own--"I have none!" (RE-ENTERS _Attendant. He deposits a tray with decanter and glasses, and retires again_.) QUEEN. Very well, Lord Beaconsfield. And if you do not remind me, I shall remind you. (_She points to the tray_.) Pray, help yourself! (_He takes up the decanter_.) LORD B. I serve you, Madam? QUEEN. Thank you. (_He fills the two glasses; presents hers to the Queen, and takes up his own_.) LORD B. May I propose for myself--a toast, Madam? (_The Queen sees what is coming, and bows graciously_.) LORD B. The Queen! God bless her! (_He drains the glass, then breaks it against the pole of the tent, and throws away the stem_.) An old custom, Madam, observed by loyal defenders of the House of Stewart, so that no lesser health might ever be drunk from the same glass. To my old hand came a sudden access of youthful enthusiasm--an ardour which I could not restrain. Your pardon, Madam! QUEEN (_very gently_). Go and lie down, Lord Beaconsfield; you need rest. LORD B. Adieu, Madam. QUEEN. Draw your curtains, and sleep well! (_For a moment he stands gazing at her with a look of deep emotion; he tries to speak. Ordinary words seem to fail; he falters into poetry_.) "When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering Angel, thou!" (_It has been beautifully said, they both feel. Silent and slow, with head reverentially bowed, he backs from the Presence_.) (_The Queen sits and looks after the retreating figure, then at the broken fragments of glass. She takes up the hand-bell and rings. The Attendant_ ENTERS.) QUEEN. Pick up that broken glass. (_The Attendant collects it on the hand-tray which he carries_) Bring it to me! ... Leave it! (_The Attendant deposits the tray before her, and_ GOES. _Gently the Queen handles the broken pieces. Then in a voice of tearful emotion she speaks_.) Such devotion! Most extraordinary! Oh! Albert! Albert! (_And in the sixteenth year of her widowhood and the fortieth of her reign the Royal Lady bends her head over the fragments of broken glass, and weeps happy tears_.) CURTAIN His Favourite Flower Dramatis Personae THE STATESMAN THE HOUSEKEEPER THE DOCTOR THE PRIMROSES His Favourite Flower A Political Myth Explained _The eminent old Statesman has not been at all well. He is sitting up in his room, and his doctor has come to see him for the third time in three days. This means that the malady is not yet seriously regarded: once a day is still sufficient. Nevertheless, he is a woeful wreck to look at; and the doctor looks at him with the greatest respect, and listens to his querulous plaint patiently. For that great dome of silence, his brain, repository of so many state-secrets, is still a redoubtable instrument: its wit and its magician's cunning have not yet lapsed into the dull inane of senile decay. Though fallen from power, after a bad beating at the polls, there is no knowing but that he may rise again, and hold once more in those tired old hands, shiny with rheumatic gout, and now twitching feebly under the discomfort of a superimposed malady, the reins of democratic and imperial power. The dark, cavernous eyes still wear their look of accumulated wisdom, a touch also of visionary fire. The sparse locks, dyed to a raven black, set off with their uncanny sheen the clay-like pallor of the face. He sits in a high-backed chair, wrapped in an oriental dressing-gown, his muffled feet resting on a large hot-water bottle; and the eminent physician, preparatory to taking a seat at his side, bends solicitously over him_. DOCTOR. Well, my dear lord, how are you to-day? Better? You look better. STATESMAN. Yes, I suppose I am better. But my sleep isn't what it ought to be. I have had a dream, Doctor; and it has upset me. DOCTOR. A dream? STATESMAN. You wonder that I should mention it? Of course, I--I don't believe in dreams. Yet they indicate, sometimes--do they not?-certain disorders of the mind. DOCTOR. Generally of the stomach. STATESMAN. Ah! The same thing, Doctor. There's no getting away from that in one's old age; when one has lived as well as I have. DOCTOR. That is why I dieted you. STATESMAN. Oh, I have nothing on my conscience as to that. My housekeeper is a dragon. Her fidelity is of the kind that will even risk dismissal. DOCTOR. An invaluable person, under the circumstances. STATESMAN. Yes; a nuisance, but indispensable. No, Doctor. This dream didn't come from the stomach. It seemed rather to emanate from that outer darkness which surrounds man's destiny. So real, so horribly real! DOCTOR. Better, then, not to brood on it. STATESMAN. Ah! Could I explain it, then I might get rid of it. In the ancient religion of my race dreams found their interpretation. But have they any? DOCTOR. Medical science is beginning to say "Yes"; that in sleep the subconscious mind has its reactions. STATESMAN. Well, I wonder how my "subconscious mind" got hold of primroses. DOCTOR. Primroses? Did they form a feature in your dream? STATESMAN. A feature? No. The whole place was alive with them! As the victim of inebriety sees snakes, I saw primroses. They were everywhere: they fawned on me in wreaths and festoons; swarmed over me like parasites; flew at me like flies; till it seemed that the whole world had conspired to suffocate me under a sulphurous canopy of those detestable little atoms. Can you imagine the horror of it, Doctor, to a sane--a hitherto sane mind like mine? DOCTOR. Oh! In a dream any figment may excite aversion. STATESMAN. This wasn't like a dream. It was rather the threat of some new disease, some brain malady about to descend on me: possibly delirium tremens. I have not been of abstemious habits, Doctor. Suppose--? DOCTOR. Impossible! Dismiss altogether that supposition from your mind! STATESMAN. Well, Doctor, I hope--I hope you may be right. For I assure you that the horror I then conceived for those pale botanical specimens in their pestiferous and increscent abundance, exceeded what words can describe. I have felt spiritually devastated ever since, as though some vast calamity were about to fall not only on my own intellect, but on that of my country. Well, you shall hear. (_He draws his trembling bands wearily over his face, and sits thinking awhile_.) With all the harsh abruptness of a soul launched into eternity by the jerk of the hangman's rope, so I found myself precipitated into the midst of this dream. I was standing on a pillory, set up in Parliament Square, facing the Abbey. I could see the hands of St. Margaret's clock pointing to half-past eleven; and away to the left the roof of Westminster Hall undergoing restoration. Details, Doctor, which gave a curious reality to a scene otherwise fantastic, unbelievable. There I stood in a pillory, raised up from earth; and a great crowd had gathered to look at me. I can only describe it as a primrose crowd. The disease infected all, but not so badly as it did me. The yellow contagion spread everywhere; from all the streets around, the botanical deluge continued to flow in upon me. I felt a pressure at my back; a man had placed a ladder against it; he mounted and hung a large wreath of primroses about my neck. The sniggering crowd applauded the indignity. Having placed a smaller wreath upon my head, he descended.... A mockery of a May Queen, there I stood! DOCTOR (_laying a soothing hand on him_). A dream, my dear lord, only a dream. STATESMAN. Doctor, imagine my feelings! My sense of ridicule was keen; but keener my sense of the injustice--not to be allowed to know _why_ the whole world was thus making mock of me. For this was in the nature of a public celebration, its malignity was organised and national; a new fifth of November had been sprung upon the calendar. Around me I saw the emblematic watchwords of the great party I had once led to triumph: "Imperium et Libertas," "Peace with Honour," "England shall reign where'er the sun," and other mottoes of a like kind; and on them also the floral disease had spread itself. The air grew thick and heavy with its sick-room odour. Doctor, I could have vomited. DOCTOR. Yes, yes; a touch of biliousness, I don't doubt. STATESMAN. With a sudden flash of insight--"This," I said to myself, "is my Day of Judgment. Here I stand, judged by my fellow-countrymen, for the failures and shortcomings of my political career. The good intentions with which my path was strewn are now turned to my reproach. But why do they take this particular form? Why--why primroses?" DOCTOR. "The primrose way" possibly? STATESMAN. Ah! That occurred to me. But has it, indeed, been a primrose way that I have trodden so long and so painfully? I think not. I cannot so accuse myself. But suppose the Day of Judgment which Fate reserves for us were fundamentally this: the appraisement of one's life and character--not by the all-seeing Eye of Heaven (before which I would bow), but by the vindictively unjust verdict of the people one has tried to serve--the judgment not of God, but of public opinion. That is a judgment of which all who strive for power must admit the relevancy! DOCTOR. You distress yourself unnecessarily, dear lord. Your reputation is safe from detraction now. STATESMAN. With urgency I set my mind to meet the charge. If I could understand the meaning of that yellow visitation, then I should no longer have to fear that I was going mad! (_At this point the door is discreetly opened, and the Housekeeper, mild, benign, but inflexible,_ ENTERS, _carrying a cup and toast-rack upon a tray_.) HOUSEKEEPER. I beg pardon, my lord; but I think your lordship ought to have your beef-tea now. STATESMAN. Yes, yes, Mrs. Manson; come in. DOCTOR. You are right, Mrs. Manson; he ought. HOUSEKEEPER (_placing the tray on a small stand_). Where will you have it, my lord? STATESMAN. In my inside, Mrs. Manson--presently--he, he! DOCTOR. Now, let me take your pulse...Yes, yes. Pretty good, you know. (_Mrs. Manson stands respectfully at attention with interrogation in her eye_.) STATESMAN. Yes, you may bring me my cap now. (_Then to the Doctor_). I generally sleep after this. (_Mrs. Manson brings a large tasselled fez of brilliant colour, and adjusts it to his head while he drinks. She then, goes to the door, takes a hot-water bottle from the bands of an unseen servant and effects the necessary changes. All this is done so unobtrusively that the Statesman resumes his theme without regarding her. When she has done she goes_.) Ah! Where was I? DOCTOR. If you "could understand," you said. STATESMAN. Ah, yes; understand. Again a strange faculty of divination came upon me. I stood upon the international plane, amid a congress of Powers, and let my eye travel once more over the Alliances of Europe. I looked, Doctor, and truly I saw, then, surprising shifts and changes in the political and diplomatic fabric which I had helped to frame. Time, and kingdoms had passed. I saw, at home and abroad, the rise of new parties into power, strange coalitions, defections, alliances; old balances destroyed, new balances set up in their place. I saw frontiers annulled, treaties violated, world-problems tumbling like clowns, standing on their heads and crying, "Here we are again!" Power--after all, had solved nothing! My eye travelled over that problem of the Near East, which, for some generations at least, we thought to have settled, to Vienna, Petersburg, Constantinople--and away farther East to Teheran and--that other place whose name I have forgotten. And, as I looked, a Recording Angel came, and cried to me in a voice strangely familiar, the voice of one of my most detested colleagues--trusted, I mean--"You have put your money on the wrong horse!" And I had, Doctor; if what I saw then was true--I had! Yes, if ever man blundered and fooled his countrymen into a false and fatal position--I was that man! It wasn't a question of right or wrong. In politics that doesn't really matter; you decide on a course, and you invent moral reasons for it afterwards. No, what I had done was much worse than any mere wrongdoing. All my political foresight and achievements were a gamble that had gone wrong; and for that my Day of Judgment had come, and I stood in the pillory, a peepshow for mockery. But why for their instrument of torture did they choose primroses? Oh, I can invent a reason! It was Moses Primrose, cheated of his horse with a gross of green spectacles cased in shagreen. But that was not the reason. For then came new insight, and a fresh humiliation. As I looked more intently I saw that I was _not_ being mocked; I was being worshipped, adulated, flattered; I had become a god--for party purposes perhaps--and this was my day, given in my honour, for national celebration. And I saw, by the insight given me, that they were praising me _for having put their money on the wrong horse!_ Year by year the celebration had gone on, until they had so got into the habit that they could not leave off! All my achievements, all my policies, all my statecraft were in the dust; but the worship of me had become a national habit--so foolish and meaningless, that nothing, nothing but some vast calamity--some great social upheaval, was ever going to stop it. DOCTOR. My dear lord, it is I who must stop it now. You mustn't go on. STATESMAN. I have done, Doctor. There I have given you the essentials of my dream; material depressing enough for the mind of an old man, enfeebled by indisposition, at the end of a long day's work. But I tell you, Doctor, that nothing therein which stands explainable fills me with such repulsion and aversion as that one thing which I cannot explain--why, why primroses? DOCTOR. A remarkable dream, my lord; rendered more vivid--or, as you say, "real"--by your present disturbed state of health. As to that part of it which you find so inexplicable, I can at least point toward where the explanation lies. It reduces itself to this: primroses had become associated for you--in a way which you have forgotten--with something you wished to avoid. And so they became the image, or symbol, of your aversion; and as such found a place in your dream. (_So saying the doctor rises and moves toward the window, where his attention suddenly becomes riveted_.) STATESMAN. Perhaps, Doctor, perhaps, as you say, there is some such explanation. But I don't feel like that. DOCTOR. Why, here are primroses! This may be the clue? Where do they come from? STATESMAN. Ah, those! Indeed, I had forgotten them. At least; no, I could not have done that. DOCTOR. There is a written card with them, I see. STATESMAN. Her Gracious Majesty did me the great honour, hearing that I was ill, to send and inquire. Of course, since my removal from office, the opportunity of presenting my personal homage has not been what it used to be. That, I suppose, is as well. DOCTOR. And these are from her Majesty? STATESMAN. They came yesterday, brought by a special messenger, with a note written by her own hand, saying that she had picked them herself. To so great a condescension I made with all endeavour what return I could. I wrote--a difficult thing for me to do, Doctor, just now--presented my humble duty, my thanks; and said they were my favourite flower. DOCTOR. And were they? STATESMAN. Of course, Doctor, under those circumstances any flower would have been. It just happened to be that. DOCTOR. Well, my lord, there, then, the matter is explained. You _had_ primroses upon your mind. The difficulty, the pain even, of writing with your crippled hand, became associated with them. You would have much rather not had to write; and the disinclination, in an exaggerated form, got into your dream. Now that, I hope, mitigates for you the annoyance--the distress of mind. STATESMAN. Yes, yes. It does, as you say, make it more understandable. Bring them to me, Doctor; let me look my enemy in the face. (_The Doctor carries the bowl across and sets it beside him. Very feebly he reaches out a hand and takes some_.) My favourite flower. He--he! My favourite flower. (_Lassitude overtakes him--his head nods and droops as he speaks_.) A primrose by the river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more. Who was it wrote that?--Byron or Dr. Watts? My memory isn't what it used to be. No matter. It all goes into the account. My favourite flower! "For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May!" (_The Doctor takes up his hat, and tiptoes to the door_.) Tell me, where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? (_He breaks, and lets the petals fall one by one_.) (_The Doctor goes out_.) Let us all ring fancy's knell; I'll begin it--Ding-dong bell, Ding-dong, bell. (_He goes to sleep_.) CURTAIN The Comforter Dramatis Personae W.E. GLADSTONE MRS. GLADSTONE MR. ARMITSTEAD MR. JOHN MORLEY A FOOTMAN The Comforter A Political Finale _The Scene is a sitting-room in Downing Street. The date March, 1894. The time 10.30 p.m._ _Mrs. Gladstone sits before the fire, on a sofa comfortable for two, finishing off a piece of knitting. Apparently she has just rung the bell, on the arrival from the dining-room of her husband and his two guests, for presently the door opens and the footman presents himself for orders. Mr. Gladstone takes down from the bookshelf a backgammon board, which he opens upon a small table somewhat distant from the fireplace_. GLADSTONE. Well, Armitstead, draughts, or backgammon? ARMITSTEAD. It was backgammon you promised me. GLADSTONE. A rubber? ARMITSTEAD. I shall be delighted. (_They seat themselves, and begin to set the board. Mr. Morley stands detached looking on, grave, not quite at ease_.) MRS. G. (_to the footman_). James, bring up the wine and some biscuits. JAMES. Whisky, madam? MRS. G. No, no; biscuits. Soft biscuits for the other gentlemen, and some hard ones for the master. JAMES. Yes, madam. (_He goes, and in a few minutes returns, sets wine and biscuits on the side-table, and retires_?) MORLEY (_to_ GLADSTONE). Now? GLADSTONE. If you will be so good, my dear Morley, I shall be much obliged. (_Slowly and thoughtfully Mr. Morley goes over to fireplace, where he stands looking at Mrs. Gladstone, who is now beginning to "cast-off" a completed piece of knitting. The rattle of the dice is heard_.) GLADSTONE. You play. (_Thereafter, as the game proceeds, the dice are heard constantly_.) MORLEY. Well, dear lady? MRS. G. Well, Mr. Morley? So Mr. Gladstone is at his game, and has sent you to talk to me. MORLEY. Precisely. You have guessed right. MRS. G. He always thinks of me. MORLEY. Yes. MRS. G. Won't you sit down, Mr. Morley? MORLEY. By you? With pleasure. MRS. G. And how is the world using you? MORLEY. Like Balaam's ass. The angel of the Lord stands before me with a drawn sword, and my knees quail under me. MRS. G. I thought you didn't believe in angels, Mr. Morley. MORLEY. In the scriptural sense, no. In the political, they are rare; but one meets them--sometimes. MRS. G. And then they frighten you? MORLEY. They make a coward of me. I want to temporise--put off the inevitable. But it's no good. Angels have to be faced. That's the demand they make on us. MRS. G. You have something on your mind. MORLEY. Yes. But we'll not talk about it--yet. MRS. G. I have something on mine. MORLEY. Anything serious? MRS. G. It concerns you, Mr. Morley. Would you very much mind accepting a gift not originally intended for you? MORLEY. I have accepted office on those terms before now. MRS. G. Ah! Mr. Gladstone has always so trusted you. MORLEY. Yes. MRS. G. More than he has most people. MORLEY. I have been finding that out. It has become a habit, I'm afraid. I can't cure him. MRS. G. What I had on my mind, Mr. Morley, was this: I have knitted this comforter for you; at least, it's for you if you would like it. MORLEY. Angel! MRS. G. Does that mean that you don't want it? MORLEY. Oh, no! It will be very good discipline for me; made by you, I shall have to wear it. MRS. G. But you know, it's a very remarkable thing that I _can_ offer it you. Ever since we married I have been knitting comforters for Mr. Gladstone, which he has always either been losing or giving away. This is the first time I have been able to get ahead of him. He still has two. Isn't that a triumph? MORLEY. It is, indeed. MRS. G. He's more careful now, and doesn't lose them. He begins to feel, I suppose, that he's getting old--and needs them. MORLEY. You surprise me! Why, he is not yet ninety! MRS. G. Do you know, he still sleeps like a child! Sometimes I lie awake to watch him. It's wonderful. MORLEY. It's habit, madam; that, and force of will. MRS. G. And really it is only then I can feel that he quite belongs to me. All the rest of the time it's a struggle. MORLEY. In which you have won. MRS. G. Have I? MORLEY. Every time. MRS. G. (_wistfully_). Do I, Mr. Morley? MORLEY. It is you, more than anything, who have kept him young. MRS. G. Oh, no! I'm the ageing influence. MORLEY. I don't believe it. MRS. G. Yes; I stand for caution, prudence. He's like a great boy.... You don't think so; you see the other side of his character. But here have I been, sixty years, trying to make him take advice! MORLEY. And sometimes succeeding. Gods, and their makers! What a strange world! MRS. G. Spending one's life feeding a god on beef-tea, that's been my work. (_The dear lady sighs_.) MORLEY. And making comforters for him. MRS. G. It's terrible when he won't take it! MORLEY. The beef-tea? MRS. G. No, the advice. For I'm generally right, you know. MORLEY. I can well believe it. Strange to think how the welfare and destiny of the nation have sometimes lain here--in this gentle hand. MRS. G. We do jump in the dark so, don't we? Who can say what is really best for anyone? MORLEY. And prescribing for a god is more difficult. MRS. G. Much more. MORLEY. So when he comes to ask a mere mortal for advice--well, now you must judge how difficult it has been for _me._ MRS. G. Have you been giving him advice? MORLEY. In a way; yes. MRS. G. And has he taken it? MORLEY. A few days ago he told me of a resolution he had come to. I could not disapprove. But now I wonder how it is going to strike _you_? MRS. G. Has anything special happened? He has not told me. MORLEY (_gravely_). To-morrow, or the day after, he will be going down to Windsor. MRS. G. Oh, I'm sorry! That always depresses him. He and the Queen don't get on very well together. MORLEY. They will get on well enough this time, I imagine. MRS. G. (_a little bit alarmect_). Does that mean--any change of policy? MORLEY. Of policy--I hope not. Of person--yes. MRS. G. Is anyone leaving the Cabinet? MORLEY. We may all be leaving it, very soon. He asked me to tell you; he had promised Armitstead a game. Look how he is enjoying it! MRS. G. (_shrewdly_). Ah! then I expect he is winning. MORLEY. Oh? I should not have called him a bad loser. MRS. G. No; but he likes winning better--the excitement of it. MORLEY. That is only human. Yes, he has been a great winner--sometimes. MRS. G. When has he ever lost--except just for the time? He always knows that. MORLEY. Ah, yes! To quote your own sprightly phrase, we--he and the party with him--are always "popping up again." MRS. G. When did I say that? MORLEY. Seven years ago, when we began to win bye-elections on the Irish question. The bye-elections are not going so well for us just now. MRS. G. But the General Election will. MORLEY. Perhaps one will--in another seven years or so. MRS. G. But isn't there to be one this year? MORLEY (_gravely_). The Cabinet has decided against it. MRS. G. But Mr. Morley! Now the Lords have thrown out the Irish Bill there must be an election. MORLEY. That was Mr. Gladstone's view. MRS. G. Wasn't it yours, too? MORLEY. Yes; but we couldn't--we couldn't carry the others. MRS. G. Then you mean Mr. Gladstone is going to form a new Cabinet? MORLEY. No. A new Cabinet is going to be formed, but he will not be in it. That is his resolution. I was to tell you. (_At this news of the downfall of her hopes the gentle face becomes piteously woeful; full of wonder also_.) MRS. G. He asked you--to tell me that! MORLEY. Yes. MRS. G. Oh! Then he really means it! Had he been in any doubt he would have consulted me. (_Tears have now come to sustain the dear lady in her sense of desolation. Mr. Morley, with quiet philosophy, does his best to give comfort_.) MORLEY. It was the only thing to do. Ireland kept him in politics; if that goes, he goes with it. MRS. G. But Ireland--doesn't go. MORLEY. As the cause for a General Election it goes, I'm afraid. MRS. G. But that isn't honest, Mr. Morley! MORLEY. I agree. MRS. G. And it won't do any good--not in the end. MORLEY. To that also, I agree. Ireland remains; and the problem will get worse. MRS. G. But, indeed, you are wrong, Mr. Morley! It was not Ireland that kept my husband in politics; it was Mr. Chamberlain. MORLEY. That is a view which, I confess, had not occurred to me. Chamberlain? MRS. G. No one could have kept Mr. Chamberlain from leading the Liberal party, except Mr. Gladstone. And now he never will! MORLEY. That, certainly, is a triumph, of a kind. You think that influenced him? Chamberlain was a friend of mine once--is still, in a way. (_He pauses, then adds ruefully_) Politics are a cruel game! (_He sighs and sits depressed. But mention of her husband's great antagonist has made the old lady brisk again_.) MRS. G. Do you know, Mr. Morley, that if Mr. Gladstone had not made me pray for that man every night of my life, I should positively have hated him. MORLEY (_with a touch of mischief_). You do that?--still? Tell me--(I am curious)--do you pray for him as plain "Joe Chamberlain," or do you put in the "Mister"? MRS. G. I never mention his name at all; I leave that to Providence--to be understood. MORLEY. Well, it _has_ been understood, and answered--abundantly; Chamberlain's star is in the ascendant again. It's strange; he and Mr. Gladstone never really got on together. MRS. G. I don't think he ever really tried--much. MORLEY. Didn't he? Oh, you don't mean Mr. Gladstone? MRS. G. And then, you see, the Queen never liked him. That has counted for a good deal. MORLEY. It has--curiously. MRS. G. Now why should it, Mr. Morley? She ought not to have such power--any more than I. MORLEY. How can it be kept from either of you? During the last decade this country has been living on two rival catchwords, which in the field of politics have meant much--the "Widow at Windsor," and the "Grand Old Man." And these two makers of history are mentally and temperamentally incompatible. That has been the tragedy. This is _her_ day, dear lady; but it won't always be so. MRS. G. Mr. Morley, who is going to be--who will take Mr. Gladstone's place? MORLEY. Difficult to say: the Queen may make her own choice. Spencer, perhaps; though I rather doubt it; probably Harcourt. MRS. G. Shall you serve under him? MORLEY. I haven't decided. MRS. G. You won't. MORLEY. Possibly not. We are at the end of a dispensation. Whether I belong to the new one, I don't yet know. MRS. G. The Queen will be pleased, at any rate. MORLEY. Delighted. MRS. G. Will she offer him a peerage, do you think? MORLEY. Oh, of course. MRS. G. Yes. And she knows he won't accept it. So that gives her the advantage of seeming--magnanimous! MORLEY. Dear lady, you say rather terrible things--sometimes! You pray for the Queen, too, I suppose; or don't you? MRS. G. Oh yes; but that's different. I don't feel with her that it's personal. She was always against him. It was her bringing up; she couldn't help being. MORLEY. So was Chamberlain; so was Harcourt; so was everybody. He is the loneliest man, in a great position, that I have ever known. MRS. G. Till he met you, Mr. Morley. MORLEY. I was only speaking of politics. Sixty years ago he met _you_. MRS. G. Nearly sixty-three. MORLEY. Three to the good; all the better! MRS. G. (_having finished off the comforter_). There! that is finished now! MORLEY. A thousand thanks; so it is to be mine, is it? MRS. G. I wanted to say, Mr. Morley, how good I think you have always been to me. MORLEY. I, dear lady? I? MRS. G. I must so often have been in the way without knowing it. You see, you and I think differently. We belong to different schools. MORLEY. If you go on, I shall have to say "angel," again. That is all I _can_ say. MRS. G. (_tremulously_). Oh, Mr. Morley, you will tell me! Is this the end? Has he--has he, after all, been a failure? MORLEY. My dear lady, he has been an epoch. MRS. G. Aren't epochs failures, sometimes? MORLEY. Even so, they count; we have to reckon with them. No, he is no failure; though it may seem like it just now. Don't pay too much attention to what the papers will say. He doesn't, though he reads them. Look at him now!--does that look like failure? (_He points to the exuberantly energetic figure intensely absorbed in its game_.) MRS. G. He is putting it on to-night a little, for _me_, Mr. Morley. He knows I am watching him. Tell me how he seemed when he first spoke to you. Was he feeling it--much? MORLEY. Oh, deeply, of course! He believes that on a direct appeal we could win the election. MRS. G. And you? MORLEY. I don't. But all the same I hold it the right thing to do. Great causes must face and number their defeats. That is how they come to victory. MRS. G. And now that will be in other hands, not his. Suppose he should not live to see it. Oh, Mr. Morley, Mr. Morley, how am I going to bear it! MORLEY. Dear lady, I don't usually praise the great altitudes. May I speak in his praise, just for once, to-night? As a rather faithless man myself-- not believing or expecting too much of human nature--I see him now, looking back, more than anything else as a man of faith. MRS. G. Ah, yes. To him religion has always meant everything. MORLEY. Faith in himself, I meant. MRS. G. Of course; he had to have that, too. MORLEY. And I believe in him still, more now than ever. They can remove him; they cannot remove Ireland. He may have made mistakes and misjudged characters; he may not have solved the immediate problem either wisely or well. But this he has done, to our honour and to his own: he has given us the cause of liberty as a sacred trust. If we break faith with that, we ourselves shall be broken--and we shall deserve it. MRS. G. You think that--possible? MORLEY. I would rather not think anything just now. The game is over; I must be going. Good night, dear friend; and if you sleep only as well as you deserve, I could wish you no better repose. Good-bye. (_He moves toward the table from which the players are now rising_.) GLADSTONE. That is a game, my dear Armitstead, which came to this country nearly eight hundred years ago from the Crusades. Previously it had been in vogue among the nomadic tribes of the Arabian desert for more than a thousand years. Its very name, "backgammon," so English in sound, is but a corruption from the two Arabic words _bacca_, and _gamma_ (my pronunciation of which stands subject to correction), meaning--if I remember rightly--"the board game." There, away East, lies its origin; its first recorded appearance in Europe was at the Sicilian Court of the Emperor Frederick II; and when the excommunication of Rome fell on him in the year 1283, the game was placed under an interdict, which, during the next four hundred years, was secretly but sedulously disregarded within those impregnably fortified places of learning and piety, to which so much of our Western civilisation is due, the abbeys and other scholastic foundations of the Benedictine order. The book-form, in which the board still conceals itself, stands as a memorial of its secretive preservation upon the shelves of the monastic libraries. I keep my own, with a certain touch of ritualistic observance, between this seventeenth century edition of the works of Roger Bacon and this more modern one, in Latin, of the writings of Thomas Aquinas; both of whom may not improbably have been practitioners of the game. ARMITSTEAD. Very interesting, very interesting. (_During this recitation Mr. Gladstone has neatly packed away the draughts and the dice, shutting them into their case finally and restoring it to its place upon the bookshelf_.) GLADSTONE. My dear, I have won the rubber. MRS. G. Have you, my dear? I'm very glad, if Mr. Armitstead does not mind. ARMITSTEAD. To be beaten by Mr. Gladstone, ma'am, is a liberal education in itself. MORLEY (_to his host_). I must say good-night, now, sir. GLADSTONE. What, my dear Morley, must you be going? MORLEY. For one of my habits it is almost late--eleven. ARMITSTEAD. In that case I must be going, too. Can I drop you anywhere, Morley? MORLEY. Any point, not out of your way, in the direction of my own door, I shall be obliged. ARMITSTEAD. With pleasure. I will come at once. And so--good-night, Mrs. Gladstone. Mr. Prime Minister, good-night. GLADSTONE. Good-night, Armitstead. MORLEY (_aside to Mr. Gladstone_). I have done what you asked of me, sir. GLADSTONE. I thank you. Good-night. (_The two guests have gone; and husband and wife are left alone. He approaches, and stands near_.) So Morley has told you, my dear? MRS. G. That you are going down to Windsor to-morrow? Yes, William. You will want your best frock-suit, I suppose? GLADSTONE. My best and my blackest would be seemly under the circumstances, my love. This treble-dated crow will keep the obsequies as strict as Court etiquette requires, or as his wardrobe may allow. I have a best suit, I suppose? MRS. G. Yes, William. I keep it put away for you. GLADSTONE (_after a meditative pause begins to recite_). "Come, thou who art the wine and wit Of all I've writ: The grace, the glory, and the best Piece of the rest, Thou art, of what I did intend, The all and end; And what was made, was made to meet Thee, thee, my sheet!" Herrick, to his shroud, my dear! A poet who has the rare gift of being both light and spiritual in the same breath. Read Herrick at his gravest, when you need cheering; you will always find him helpful. MRS. G. Then--will you read him to me to-night, William? GLADSTONE. Why, certainly, my love, if you wish. (_He stoops and kisses her_.) MRS. G. (_speaking very gently_). I was waiting for that. GLADSTONE. And I was waiting--for what you have to say. MRS. G. I can say nothing. GLADSTONE. Why, nothing? MRS. G. Because I can't be sure of you, my dear. You've done this before. GLADSTONE. This time it has been done for me. My own say in the matter has been merely to acquiesce. MRS. G. Ah! so you say! And others--others may say it for you; but-- GLADSTONE. Anno Domini says it, my dear. MRS. G. Anno Domini has been saying it for the last twenty years. Much heed you paid to Anno Domini. GLADSTONE. You never lent it the weight of your counsels, my own love-- till now. MRS. G. I know, William, when talking is useless. GLADSTONE. Ah! I wonder--if I do. MRS. G. No; that's why I complain. Twenty years ago you said you were going to retire from politics and take up theology again--that you were old, and had come to an end. Why, you were only just beginning! And it will always be the same; any day something may happen--more Bulgarian atrocities, or a proposal for Welsh disestablishment. Then you'll break out again! GLADSTONE. But I am in favour of Welsh disestablishment, my dear--when it comes. MRS. G. Are you? Oh, yes; I forgot. You are in favour of so many things you didn't used to be. Well, then, it will be something else. You will always find an excuse; I shall never feel safe about you. GLADSTONE (_in moved tone_). And if you could feel safe about me-- what then? MRS. G. Oh, my dear, my dear, if I could! Always I've seen you neglecting yourself--always putting aside your real interests--the things that you most inwardly cared about, the things which you always meant to do when you "had time." And here I have had to sit and wait for the time that never came. Isn't that true? GLADSTONE. There is an element of truth in it, my dear. MRS. G. Well, twenty years have gone like that, and you've "had no time." Oh, if you could only go back to the things you meant to do, twenty years ago--and take them up, just where you left off--why, I should see you looking--almost young again. For you've been looking tired lately, my dear. GLADSTONE. Tired? Yes: I hoped not to have shown it. But three weeks ago I had to own to myself that I was beginning to feel tired. I went to Crichton Browne (I didn't tell you, my love); he said there was nothing the matter with me--except old age. MRS. G. You should have come to me, my dear; I could have told you the only thing to do. GLADSTONE. Is it too late to tell me now? MRS. G. Yes; because now you've done it, without my advice, William. Think of that! For the first time! GLADSTONE (_gravely surprised_). So you have been wishing it, have you? (_And the devoted wife, setting her face, and steadying her voice, struggles on to give him what comfort she may, in the denial of her most cherished hopes_.) MRS. G. I've been waiting, waiting, waiting for it to come. But it was the one thing I couldn't say, till you--till you thought of it yourself! GLADSTONE. Did I do so? Or did others think of it for me? I'm not sure; I'm not sure. My judgment of the situation differed from theirs. I couldn't carry them with me. In my own Cabinet I was a defeated man. Only Morley stood by me then. (_Deep in the contemplation of his last political defeat, he is not looking at her face; and that is as well. Her voice summons him almost cheerfully from his reverie._) MRS. G. William dear, can you come shopping with me to-morrow? Oh, no, to-morrow you are going to Windsor. The day after, then. GLADSTONE. What is that for, my dear? MRS. G. We have to get something for Dorothy's birthday, before we go home. You mustn't forget things like that, you know. Dorothy is important. GLADSTONE. Not merely important, my love; she is a portent--of much that we shall never know. Dorothy will live to see the coming of the new age. MRS. G. The new age? Well, so long as you let it alone, my dear, it may be as new as it likes; I shan't mind. GLADSTONE. We will leave Dorothy to manage it her own way. MRS. G. Then you will shop with me--not to-morrow--Thursday? GLADSTONE. Piccadilly, or Oxford Street? MRS. G. I thought Gamage's. GLADSTONE. Holborn? That sounds adventurous. Yes, my love, I will shop with you on Thursday--if all goes well at Windsor to-morrow--with all the contentment in the world. (_They kiss_.) Now go to bed; and presently I will come and read Herrick to you. (_She gets up and goes toward the door, when her attention is suddenly arrested by the carpet._) MRS. G. William! Do you see how this carpet is wearing out? We shall have to get a new one. GLADSTONE. It won't be necessary now. Those at Hawarden, if I remember rightly, are sufficiently new to last out our time. MRS. G. I wish I could think so, my dear. They would if you didn't give them such hard wear, walking about on them. The way you wear things out has been my domestic tragedy all along! GLADSTONE (_standing with folded hands before her_). My love, I have just remembered; I have a confession to make. MRS. G. What, another? Oh, William! GLADSTONE. I cannot find either of my comforters. I'm afraid I have lost them. I had both this morning, and now both are gone. MRS. G. Why, you are worse than ever, my dear! Both in one day! You have not done that for twenty years. GLADSTONE. I am sorry. I won't do it again. MRS. G. Ah! so you say! Poor Mr. Morley will have to wait now. I had promised him this. There! (_Making him sit down, she puts the comforter round his neck, and gives him a parting kiss_.) And now I'm going. GLADSTONE. Go, my love! I will come presently. (_But he has not quite got rid of her. Her hands are now reaching down to the back of the sofa behind him_.) What are you looking for? MRS. G. My knitting-needles. You are sitting on them. Now mind, you are not to sit up! GLADSTONE. I won't sit up long. (_Quietly and serenely she goes to the door, looks back for a moment, then glides through it, leaving behind a much-deceived husband, who will not hear the sound of her solitary weeping, or see any signs of it on her face when presently he comes to read Herrick at her bedside_.) (_For a while he sits silent, peacefully encompassed in the thoughts with which she has provided him; then very slowly he speaks.)_ GLADSTONE. Well, if it pleases her--I suppose it must be right! CURTAIN Possession Dramatis Personae JULIA ROBINSON _Sisters_ LAURA JAMES _Sisters_ MARTHA ROBINSON _Sisters_ SUSAN ROBINSON _Their Mother_ THOMAS ROBINSON _Their Father_ WILLIAM JAMES _Husband to Laura James_ HANNAH _The family servant_ Part Two The Everlasting Habitations "All hope abandon ye who enter here." "_Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness; that, when ye jail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations_" Possession A Peep-Show in Paradise SCENE.--_The Everlasting Habitations_ _It is evening (or so it seems), and to the comfortably furnished Victorian drawing-room a middle-aged maid-servant in cap and apron brings a lamp, and proceeds to draw blinds and close curtains. To do this she passes the fire-place, where before a pleasantly bright hearth sits, comfortably sedate, an elderly lady whose countenance and attitude suggest the very acme of genteel repose. She is a handsome woman, very conscious of herself, but carrying the burden of her importance with an ease which, in her own mind, leaves nothing to be desired. The once-striking outline of her features has been rounded by good feeding to a softness which is merely physical; and her voice, when she speaks, has a calculated gentleness very caressing to her own ear, and a little irritating to others who are not of an inferior class. Menials like it, however. The room, though over-upholstered, and not furnished with any more individual taste than that which gave its generic stamp to the great Victorian period, is the happy possessor of some good things. Upon the mantel-shelf, backed by a large mirror, stands old china in alternation with alabaster jars, under domed shades, and tall vases encompassed by pendant ringlets of glass-lustre. Rose-wood, walnut, and mahogany make a well-wooded interior; and in the dates thus indicated there is a touch of Georgian. But, over and above these mellowing features of a respectable ancestry, the annunciating Angel of the Great Exhibition of_ 1851 _has spread a brooding wing. And while the older articles are treasured on account of family association, the younger and newer stand erected in places of honour by reason of an intrinsic beauty never previously attained to. Through this chamber the dashing crinoline has wheeled the too vast orb of its fate, and left fifty years after (if we may measure the times of Heaven by the ticks of an earthly chronometer) a mark which nothing is likely to erase. Upon the small table, where Hannah the servant deposits the lamp, lies a piece of crochet-work. The fair hands that have been employed on it are folded on a lap of corded silk representing the fashions of the nineties, and the grey-haired beauty (that once was) sits contemplative, wearing a cap of creamish lace, tastefully arranged, not unaware that in the entering lamp-light, and under the fire's soft glow of approval, she presents to her domestic's eye an improving picture of gentility. It is to Miss Julia Robinson's credit--and she herself places it there emphatically--that she always treats servants humanly, though at a distance. And when she now speaks she confers her slight remark just a little as though it were a favour_. JULIA. How the days are drawing out, Hannah. HANNAH. Yes, Ma'am; nicely, aren't they? (_For Hannah, being old-established, may say a thing or two not in the strict order. In fact, it may be said that, up to a well-understood point, character is encouraged in her, and is allowed to peep through in her remarks_.) JULIA. What time is it? HANNAH (_looking with better eyes than her mistress at the large ormolu clock which records eternally the time of the great Exhibition_). Almost a quarter to six, Ma'am. JULIA. So late? She ought to have been here long ago. HANNAH. Who, Ma'am, did you say, Ma'am? JULIA. My sister, Mrs. James. You remember? HANNAH. What, Miss Martha, Ma'am? Well! JULIA. No, it's Miss Laura this time: you didn't know she had married, I suppose? HANNAH (_with a world of meaning, well under control_). No, Ma'am. (_A pause_.) I made up the bed in the red room; was that right, Ma'am? JULIA (_archly surprised_). What? Then you knew someone was coming? Why did you pretend, Hannah? HANNAH. Well, Ma'am, you see, you hadn't _told_ me before. JULIA. I couldn't. One cannot always be sure. (_This mysteriously_.) But something tells me now that she is to be with us. I have been expecting her over four days. HANNAH (_picking her phrases a little, as though on doubtful ground_). It must be a long way, Ma'am. Did she make a comfortable start, Ma'am? JULIA. Very quietly, I'm told. No pain. HANNAH. I wonder what she'll be able to eat now, Ma'am. She was always very particular. TULIA. I daresay you will be told soon enough. (_Thus in veiled words she conveys that Hannah knows something of Mrs. James's character_.) HANNAH (_resignedly_). Yes, M'm. JULIA. I don't think I'll wait any longer. If you'll bring in tea now. Make enough for two, in case: pour it off into another pot, and have it under the tea-cosy. HANNAH. Yes, Ma'am. (_Left alone, the dear lady enjoys the sense of herself and the small world of her own thoughts in solitude. Then she sighs indulgently_.) JULIA. Yes, I suppose I would rather it had been Martha. Poor Laura! (_She puts out her hand for her crochet, when it is arrested by the sound of a knock, rather rapacious in character_.) Ah, that's Laura all over! (_Seated quite composedly and fondling her well-kept hands, she awaits the moment of arrival. Very soon the door opens, and the over-expected Mrs. James--a luxuriant garden of widow's weeds, enters. She is a lady more strongly and sharply featured than her sister, but there is nothing thin-lipped about her; with resolute eye and mouth a little grim, yet pleased at so finding herself, she steps into this chamber of old memories and cherished possessions, which translation to another and a better world has made hers again. For a moment she sees the desire of her eyes and is satisfied; but for a moment only. The apparition of another already in possession takes her aback_.) JULIA (_with soft effusiveness_). Well, Laura! LAURA (_startled_). Julia! JULIA. _Here_ you are! LAURA. Whoever thought of finding you? JULIA (_sweetly_). Didn't you? (_They have managed to embrace: but Laura continues to have her grievance_.) LAURA. No! not for a moment. I really think they might have told me. What brought you? JULIA. Our old home, Laura. It was a natural choice, I think: as one was allowed to choose. I suppose you were? LAURA (_her character showing_.) I didn't ask anyone's leave to come. JULIA. And how are you? LAURA. I don't know; I want my tea. JULIA. Hannah is just bringing it. LAURA. Who's Hannah? JULIA. _Our_ Hannah: our old servant. Didn't _she_ open the door to you? LAURA. What? Come back, has she? JULIA. I found her here when I came, seven years ago. I didn't ask questions. Here she is. (Enter _Hannah with the tea-tray_.) LAURA (_with a sort of grim jocosity_). How d'ye do, Hannah? HANNAH. Nicely, thank you, Ma'am. How are you, Ma'am? (_Hannah, as she puts down the tray, is prepared to have her hand shaken: for it is a long time (thirty years or so in earthly measure) since they met. But Mrs. James is not so cordial as all that_.) LAURA. I'm very tired. JULIA. You've come a long way. (_But Laura's sharp attention has gone elsewhere_.) LAURA. Hannah, what have you got my best tray for? You know that is not to be used every day. JULIA. It's all right, Laura. You don't understand. LAURA. What don't I understand? JULIA. Here one always uses the best. Nothing wears out or gets broken. LAURA. Then where's the pleasure of it? If one always uses them and they never break--'best' means nothing! JULIA. It is a little puzzling at first. You must be patient. LAURA. I'm not a child, Julia. JULIA (_beautifully ignoring_). A little more coal, please, Hannah. (_Then to her sister as she pours out the tea_.) And how did you leave everybody? LAURA. Oh, pretty much as usual. Most of them having colds. That's how I got mine. Mrs. Hilliard came to call and left it behind her. I went out with it in an east wind and that finished me. JULIA. Oh, but how provoking! (_She wishes to be sympathetic; but this is a line of conversation she instinctively avoids_!) LAURA. _No_, Julia! ... (_This, delivered with force, arrests the criminal intention_.) _No_ sugar. To think of your forgetting that! JULIA (_most sweetly_). Milk? LAURA. Yes, you know I take milk. (_Crossing over, but sitting away from the tea-table, she lets her sister wait on her_.) JULIA. Did Martha send me any message? LAURA. How could she? She didn't know I was coming. JULIA. Was it so sudden? LAURA. I sent for her and she didn't come. Think of that! JULIA. Oh! She would be sorry. Tea-cake? LAURA (_taking the tea-cake that is offered her_). I'm not so sure. She was nursing Edwin's boy through the measles, so of course _I_ didn't count. (_Nosing suspiciously_.) Is this China tea? JULIA. If you like to think it. You have as you choose. How is our brother, Edwin? LAURA. His wife's more trying than ever. Julia, what a fool that woman is! JULIA. Well, let's hope he doesn't know it. LAURA. He must know. I've told him. She sent a wreath to my funeral, 'With love and fond affection, from Emily.' Fond fiddlesticks! Humbug! She knows I can't abide her. JULIA. I suppose she thought it was the correct thing. LAURA. And I doubt if it cost more than ten shillings. Now Mrs. Dobson--you remember her: she lives in Tudor Street with a daughter one never sees--something wrong in her head, and has fits--she sent me a cross of lilies, white lilac, and stephanotis, as handsome as you could wish; and a card--I forget what was on the card.... Julia, when you died-- JULIA. Oh, don't Laura! LAURA. Well, you did die, didn't you? JULIA. Here one doesn't talk of it. That's over. There are things you will have to learn. LAURA. What I was going to say was--when I died I found my sight was much better. I could read all the cards without my glasses. Do _you_ use glasses? JULIA. Sometimes, for association. I have these of our dear Mother's in her tortoise-shell case. LAURA. That reminds me. Where is our Mother? JULIA. She comes--sometimes. LAURA. Why isn't she here always? JULIA (_with pained sweetness_). I don't know, Laura. I never ask questions. LAURA. Really, Julia, I shall be afraid to open my mouth presently! JULIA (_long-suffering still_). When you see her you will understand. I told her you were coming, so I daresay she will look in. LAURA. 'Look in'! JULIA. Perhaps. That is her chair, you remember. She always sits there, still. (ENTER _Hannah with the coal_.) Just a little on, please, Hannah--only a little. LAURA. This isn't China tea: it's Indian, three and sixpenny. JULIA. Mine is ten shilling China. LAURA. Lor', Julia! How are you able to afford it? JULIA. A little imagination goes a long way here, you'll find. Once I tasted it. So now I can always taste it. LAURA. Well! I wish I'd known. JULIA. Now you _do_. LAURA. But I never tasted tea at more than three-and-six. Had I known, I could have got two ounces of the very best, and had it when---- JULIA. A lost opportunity. Life is full of them. LAURA. Then you mean to tell me that if I had indulged more then, I could indulge more now? JULIA. Undoubtedly. As I never knew what it was to wear sables, I have to be content with ermine. LAURA. Lor', Julia, how paltry! (_While this conversation has been going on, a gentle old lady has appeared upon the scene, unnoticed and unannounced. One perceives, that is to say, that the high-backed arm-chair beside the fire, sheltered by a screen from all possibility of draughts, has an occupant. Dress and appearance show a doubly septuagenarian character: at the age of seventy, which in this place she retains as the hall-mark of her earthly pilgrimage, she belongs also to the 'seventies' of the last century, wears watered silk, and retains under her cap a shortened and stiffer version of the side-curls with which she and all 'the sex' captivated the hearts of Charles Dickens and other novelists in their early youth. She has soft and indeterminate features, and when she speaks her voice, a little shaken by the quaver of age, is soft and indeterminate also. Gentle and lovable, you will be surprised to discover that she, also, has a will of her own; but for the present this does not show. From the dimly illumined corner behind the lamp her voice comes soothingly to break the discussion_.) OLD LADY. My dear, would you move the light a little nearer? I've dropped a stitch. LAURA (_starting up_). Why, Mother dear, when did you come in? JULIA (_interposing with arresting hand_). Don't! You mustn't try to touch her, or she goes. LAURA. Goes? JULIA. I can't explain. She is not quite herself. She doesn't always hear what one says. LAURA (_assertively_). She can hear me. (_To prove it, she raises her voice defiantly._) Can't you, Mother? MRS. R. (_the voice perhaps reminding her_). Jane, dear, I wonder what's become of Laura, little Laura: she was always so naughty and difficult to manage, so different from Martha--and the rest. LAURA. Lor', Julia! Is it as bad as that? Mother, 'little Laura' is here, sitting in front of you. Don't you know me? MRS. R. Do you remember, Jane, one day when we'd all started for a walk, Laura had forgotten to bring her gloves, and I sent her back for them? And on the way she met little Dorothy Jones, and she took her gloves off her, and came back with them just as if they were her own. LAURA. What a good memory you have, Mother! I remember it too. She was an odious little thing, that Dorothy--always so whiney-piney. JULIA. More tea, Laura? (_Laura pushes her cup at her without remark, for she has been kept waiting; then, in loud tones, to suit the one whom she presumes to be rather deaf_:) LAURA. Mother! Where are you living now? MRS. R. I'm living, my dear. LAURA. I said 'where?' JULIA. We live where it suits us, Laura. LAURA. Julia, I wasn't addressing myself to you. Mother, where _are_ you living?... Why, _where_ has she gone to? (_For now we perceive that this gentle Old Lady so devious in her conversation has a power of self-possession, of which, very retiringly, she avails herself._) JULIA (_improving the occasion, as she hands back the cup, with that touch of superiority so exasperating to a near relative_). Now you see! If you press her too much, she goes.... You'll have to accommodate yourself, Laura. LAURA (_imposing her own explanation_). I think you gave me _green_ tea, Julia ... or have had it yourself. JULIA (_knowing better_). The dear Mother seldom stays long, except when she finds me alone. (_Having insinuated this barb into the flesh of her 'dear sister,' she takes up her crochet with an air of great contentment. Mrs. James, meanwhile, to make herself more at home, now that tea is finished, undoes her bonnet-strings with a tug, and lets them hang. She is not in the best of tempers.)_ LAURA. I don't believe she recognised me. Why did she keep on calling me 'Jane'? JULIA. She took you for poor Aunt Jane, I fancy. LAURA (_infuriated at being taken for anyone 'poor'_). Why should she do that, pray? JULIA. Well, there always was a likeness, you know; and you are older than you were, Laura. LAURA (_crushingly_). Does 'poor Aunt Jane' wear widow's weeds? (_This reminds her not only of her own condition, but of other things as well. She sits up and takes a stiller bigger bite into her new world_.) Julia!... Where's William? JULIA. I haven't inquired. LAURA (_self-importance and a sense of duty consuming her_.) I wish to see him. JULIA. Better not, as it didn't occur to you before. LAURA. Am I not to see my own husband, pray? JULIA. He didn't ever live _here_, you know. LAURA. He can come, I suppose. He has got legs like the rest of us. JULIA. Yes, but one can't force people: at least, not here. You should remember that--before he married you--he had other ties. (_Mrs. James preserves her self-possession, but there is battle in her eye._) LAURA. He was married to me longer than he was to Isabel. JULIA. They had children. LAURA. I could have had children if I chose. I didn't choose.... Julia, how am I to see him? JULIA (_Washing her hands of it_). You must manage for yourself, Laura. LAURA. I'm puzzled! Here are we in the next world just as we expected, and where are all the--? I mean, oughtn't we to be seeing a great many more things than we do? JULIA. What sort of things? LAURA. Well,... have you seen Moses and the Prophets? JULIA. I haven't looked for them, Laura. On Sundays, I still go to hear Mr. Moore. LAURA. That's you all over! You never would go o the celebrated preachers. But I mean to. (_Pious curiosity awakens._) What happens here, on Sundays? JULIA (_smiling_). Oh, just the same. LAURA. No _High_ Church ways, I hope? If they go in for that here, I shall go out! JULIA (_patiently explanatory_). You will go out if you wish to go out. You can choose your church. As I tell you, I always go to hear Mr. Moore; you can go and hear Canon Farrar. LAURA. Dean Farrar, I _suppose_ you mean. JULIA. He was not Dean in my day. LAURA. He ought to have been a Bishop--_Arch_bishop, _I_ think-- so learned, and such a magnificent preacher. But I still wonder why we don't see Moses and the Prophets. JULIA. Well, Laura, it's the world as we knew it-that for the present. No doubt other things will come in time, gradually. But I don't know: I don't ask questions. LAURA (_doubtfully_). I suppose it _is_ Heaven, in a way, though? JULIA. Dispensation has its own ways, Laura; and we have ours. LAURA (_who is not going to be theologically dictated to by anyone lower than Dean Farrar_). Julia, I shall start washing the old china again. JULIA. As you like; nothing ever gets soiled here. LAURA. It's all very puzzling. The world seems cut in half. Things don't seem _real_. JULIA. _More_ real, I should say. We have them--as we wish them to be. LAURA. Then why can't we have our Mother, like other things? JULIA. Ah, with persons it is different. We all belong to ourselves now. That one has to accept. LAURA (_stubbornly_). Does William belong to _him_self? JULIA. I suppose. LAURA. It isn't Scriptural! JULIA. It's better. LAURA. Julia, don't be blasphemous! JULIA. To consult William's wishes, I meant. LAURA. But I want him. I've a right to him. If he didn't mean to belong to me, he ought not to have married me. JULIA. People make mistakes sometimes. LAURA. Then they should stick to them. It's not honourable. Julia, I mean to have William! JULIA (_resignedly_). You and he must arrange that between you. LAURA (_making a dash for it_). William! William, I say! William! JULIA. Oh, Laura, you'll wake the dead! (_She gasps, but it is too late: the hated word is out._) LAURA (_as one who will be obeyed_). William! (_The door does not open; but there appears through it the indistinct figure of an elderly gentleman with a weak chin and a shifting eye. He stands irresolute and apprehensive; clearly his presence there is perfunctory. Wearing his hat and carrying a hand-bag, he seems merely to have looked in while passing._) JULIA. Apparently you are to have your wish. (_She waves an introductory hand; Mrs. James turns, and regards the unsatisfactory apparition with suspicion._) LAURA. William, is that you? WILLIAM (_nervously_). Yes, my dear; it's me. LAURA. Can't you be more distinct than that? WILLIAM. Why do you want me? LAURA. Have you forgotten I'm your wife? WILLIAM. I thought you were my widow, my dear. LAURA. William, don't prevaricate. I am your wife, and you know it. WILLIAM. Does a wife wear widow's weeds? A widow is such a distant relation: no wonder I look indistinct. LAURA. How did I know whether I was going to find you here? WILLIAM. Where else? But you look very nice as you are, my dear. Black suits you. (_But Mrs. James is not to be turned off by compliments._) LAURA. William, who are you living with? WILLIAM. With myself, my dear. LAURA. Anyone else? WILLIAM. Off and on I have friends staying. LAURA. Are you living with Isabel? WILLIAM. She comes in occasionally to see how I'm getting on. LAURA. And how are you 'getting on'--without me? WILLIAM. Oh, I manage--somehow. LAURA. Are you living a proper life, William? WILLIAM. Well, I'm _here_, my dear; what more do you want to know? LAURA. There's a great deal I want to know. But I wish you'd come in and shut the door, instead of standing out there in the passage. JULIA. The door _is_ shut, Laura. LAURA. Then I don't call it a door. WILLIAM (_trying to make things pleasant_). When is a door not a door? When it's a parent. LAURA. William, I want to talk seriously. Do you know that when you died you left a lot of debts I didn't know about? WILLIAM. I didn't know about them either, my dear. But if you had, it wouldn't have made any difference. LAURA. Yes, it would! I gave you a very expensive funeral. WILLIAM. That was to please yourself, my dear; it didn't concern me. LAURA. Have you no self-respect? I've been at my own funeral to-day, let me tell you! WILLIAM. Have you, my dear? Rather trying, wasn't that? LAURA. Yes, it was. They've gone and put me beside you; and now I begin to wish they hadn't! WILLIAM. Go and haunt them for it! (_At this Julia deigns a slight chuckle._) LAURA (_abruptly getting back to her own_). I had to go into a smaller house, William. And people knew it was because you'd left me badly off. WILLIAM. That reflected on me, my dear, not on you. LAURA. It reflected on me for ever having married you. WILLIAM. I've often heard you blame yourself. Well, now you're free. LAURA. I'm _not_ free. WILLIAM. You can be if you like. Hadn't you better? LAURA (_sentimentally_). Don't you see I'm still in mourning for you, William? WILLIAM. I appreciate the compliment, my dear. Don't spoil it, LAURA. Don't be heartless! WILLIAM. I'm not: far from it. (_He looks at his watch)_ I'm afraid I must go now. LAURA. Why must you go? WILLIAM. They are expecting me--to dinner. LAURA. Who's 'they'? WILLIAM. The children and their mother. They've invited me to stay the night. (_Mrs. James does her best to conceal the shock this gives her. She delivers her ultimatum with judicial firmness_!) LAURA. William, I wish you to come and live here with me. (_William vanishes. Mrs. James in a fervour of virtuous indignation hastens to the door, opens it, and calls 'William!' but there is no answer_!) (_Julia, meanwhile, has rung the bell. Mrs. James stills stands glowering in the doorway when she hears footsteps, and moves majestically aside for the returned penitent to enter; but alas! it is only Hannah, obedient to the summons of the bell. Mrs. James faces round and fires a shot at her_.) LAURA. Hannah, you _are_ an ugly woman. JULIA (_faint with horror_). Laura! HANNAH (_imperturbably)._ Well, Ma'am, I'm as God made me. JULIA. Yes, please, take the tea-things. (_Sotto voce, as Hannah approaches_.) I'm sorry, Hannah! HANNAH. It doesn't matter, Ma'am. (_She picks up the tray expeditiously and carries it off_) (_Mrs. James eyes the departing tray, and is again reminded of something_) LAURA. Julia, where is the silver tea-pot? JULIA. Which, Laura? LAURA. Why, that beautiful one of our Mother's. JULIA. When we shared our dear Mother's things between us, didn't Martha have it? LAURA. Yes, she did. But she tells me she doesn't know what's become of it. When I ask, what did she do with it in the first place? she loses her temper. But once she told me she left it here with _you_. (_The fierce eye and the accusing tone make no impression on that cushioned fortress of gentility. With suave dignity Miss Robinson makes chaste denial._) JULIA. No. LAURA (_insistent)._ Yes; in a box. JULIA. In a box? Oh, she may have left anything in a box. LAURA. It was that box she always travelled about with and never opened. Well, I looked in it once (never mind how), and the tea-pot wasn't there. JULIA (_gently, making allowance_). Well, I _didn't_ look in it, Laura. (_Like a water-lily folding its petals she adjusts a small shawl about her shoulders, and sinks composedly into her chair_.) LAURA. The more fool you!... But all the other things she had of our Mother's _were_ there: a perfect magpie's nest! And she, living in her boxes, and never settling anywhere. What did she want with them? JULIA. I can't say, Laura. LAURA. No--no more can I; no more can anyone! Martha has got the miser spirit. She's as grasping as a caterpillar. _I_ ought to have had that tea-pot. JULIA. Why? LAURA. Because I had a house of my own, and people coming to tea. Martha never had anyone to tea with her in her life--except in lodgings. JULIA. We all like to live in our own way. Martha liked going about. LAURA. Yes. She promised _me_, after William--I suppose I had better say 'evaporated' as you won't let me say 'died'--she promised always to stay with me for three months in the year. She never did. Two, and some little bits, were the most. And I want to know where was that tea-pot all the time? JULIA (_a little jocosely_). Not in the box, apparently. LAURA (_returning to her accusation_). I thought you had it. JULIA. You were mistaken. Had I had it here, you would have found it. LAURA. Did Martha never tell _you_ what she did with it? JULIA. I never asked, Laura. LAURA. Julia, if you say that again I shall scream. JULIA. Won't you take your things off? LAURA. Presently. When I feel more at home. (_Returning to the charge_) But most of our Mother's things are here. JULIA. Your share and mine. LAURA. How did you get mine here? JULIA. You brought them. At least, they _came_, a little before you did. Then I knew you were on your way. LAURA (_impressed)._ Lor'! So that's how things happen? (_She goes and begins to take a look round, and Julia takes up her crochet again. As she does so her eye is arrested by a little old-fashioned hour-glass standing upon the table from which the tea-tray has been taken, the sands of which are still running_.) JULIA (_softly, almost to herself_). Oh, but how strange! That was Martha's. Is Martha coming too? (_She picks up the glass, looks at it, and sets it down again_) LAURA (_who is examining the china on a side-table)._ Why, I declare, Julia! Here is your Dresden that was broken--without a crack in it! JULIA. No, Laura, it was yours that was broken. LAURA. It was _not_ mine; it was yours...Don't you remember _I_ broke it? JULIA. When you broke it you said it was mine. Until you broke it, you said it was yours. LAURA. Very well, then: as you wish. It isn't broken now, and it's mine. JULIA. That's satisfactory. I get my own back again. It's the better one. (ENTER _Hannah with a telegram on a salver._) HANNAH (_in a low voice of mystery_). A telegram, Ma'am. (_Julia opens it. The contents evidently startle her, but she retains her presence of mind_) JULIA. No answer. (EXIT _Hannah_) JULIA. Laura, Martha is coming! LAURA. Here? Well, I wonder how she has managed that! (_Her sister hands her the telegram, which she reads.)_ 'Accident. Quite safe. Arriving by the 6.30.' Why, it's after that now! JULIA (_sentimentally)._ Oh, Laura, only think! So now we shall be all together again. LAURA. Yes, I suppose we shall. JULIA. It will be quite like old days. LAURA (_warningly, as she sits down again and prepares for narrative_). Not _quite_, Julia. (_She leans forward, and speaks with measured emphasis_) Martha's temper has got very queer! She never had a very good temper, as you know: and it's grown on her. (_A pause. Julia remains silent_) I could tell you some things; but--(_Seeing herself unencouraged)_ oh, you'll find out soon enough! (_Then, to stand right with herself_) Julia, _am_ I difficult to get on with? JULIA. Oh well, we all have our little ways, Laura. LAURA. But Martha: she's so rude! I can't introduce her to people! If anyone comes, she just runs away. JULIA (_changing the subject_). D'you remember, Laura, that charming young girl we met at Mrs. Somervale's, the summer Uncle Fletcher stayed with us? LAURA (_snubbingly_). I can't say I do. JULIA. I met her the other day: married, and with three children--and just as pretty and young-looking as ever. (_All this is said with the most ravishing air, but Laura is not to be diverted_.) LAURA. Ah! I daresay. When Martha behaves like that, I hold my tongue and say nothing. But what people must think, I don't know. Julia, when you first came here, did you find old friends and acquaintances? Did anybody recognise you? JULIA. A few called on me: nobody I didn't wish to see. LAURA. Is that odious man who used to be our next-door neighbour--the one who played on the 'cello--here still? JULIA. Mr. Harper? I see him occasionally. I don't find him odious. LAURA. _Don't you_? JULIA. It was his wife who was the--She isn't here: and I don't think he wants her. LAURA. Where is she? JULIA. I didn't ask, Laura. (_Mrs. James gives a jerk of exasperation, but at that moment the bell rings and a low knock is heard_.) JULIA (_ecstatically)._ Here she is! LAURA. Julia, I wonder how it is Martha survived us. She's much the oldest. JULIA (_pleasantly palpitating_). Does it matter? Does it matter? (_The door opens and in comes Martha. She has neither the distinction of look nor the force of character which belongs to her two sisters. Age has given a depression to the plain kindliness of her face, and there is a harassed look about her eyes. She peeps into the room a little anxiously, then enters, carrying a large flat box covered in purple paper which, in her further progress across the room she lays upon the table. She talks in short jerks and has a quick, hurried way of doing things, as if she liked to get through and have done with them. It is the same when she submits herself to the embrace of her relations_) LAURA. Oh, so you've come at last. Quite time, too! MARTHA. Yes, here I am. JULIA. My dear Martha, welcome to your old home! (_Embracing her_) How are you? MARTHA. I'm cold. Well, Laura. (_Between these two the embrace is less cordial, but it takes place_) LAURA. How did you come? MARTHA. I don't know. JULIA (_seeing harassment in her sister's eye_). Arrived safely, at any rate. MARTHA. I think I was in a railway accident, but I can't be sure. I only heard the crash and people shouting. I didn't wait to see. I just put my fingers in my ears, and ran away. LAURA. Why do you think it was a railway accident? MARTHA. Because I was in a railway carriage. I was coming to your funeral. If you'd told me you were ill I'd have come before. I was bringing you a wreath. And then, as I tell you, there was a crash and a shout; and that's all I know about it. LAURA. Lor', Martha! I suppose they'll have an inquest on you. MARTHA (_stung)._ I think they'd better mind their own business, and you mind yours! JULIA. Laura! Here we don't talk about such things. They don't concern us. Would you like tea, Martha, or will you wait for supper? MARTHA (_who has shaken her head at the offer of tea, and nodded a preference for supper_). You know how I've always dreaded death. JULIA. Oh, don't, my dear Martha! It's past. MARTHA. Yes; but it's upset me. The relief, that's what I can't get over: the relief! JULIA. Presently you will be more used to it. (_She helps her off with her cloak_.) MARTHA. There were people sitting to right and to left of me and opposite; and suddenly a sort of crash of darkness seemed to come all over me, and I saw nothing more. I didn't feel anything: only a sort of a jar here. (_She indicates the back of her neck. Julia finds these anatomical details painful, and holds her hands deprecatingly; but Laura has no such qualms. She is now undoing the parcel which, she considers, is hers_.) LAURA. I daresay it was only somebody's box from the luggage-rack. I've known that happen. I don't suppose for a minute that it was a railway accident. (_She unfurls the tissue paper of the box and takes out the wreath_) JULIA. Why talk about it? LAURA. Anyway, nothing has happened to these. 'With fondest love from Martha.' H'm. Pretty! JULIA. Martha, would you like to go upstairs with your things? And you, Laura? MARTHA. I will presently, when I've got warm. LAURA. Not yet. Martha, why was I put into that odious shaped coffin? More like a canoe than anything. I said it was to be straight, MARTHA. I'd nothing to do with it, Laura. I wasn't there. You know I wasn't. LAURA. If you'd come when I asked you, you could have seen to it. MARTHA. You didn't tell me you were dying. LAURA. Do people tell each other when they are dying? They don't _know_. I told you I wasn't well. MARTHA. You always told me that, just when I'd settled down somewhere else.... Of course I'd have come if I'd known! (_testily)._ JULIA. Oh, surely we needn't go into these matters now! Isn't it better to accept things? LAURA. I like to have my wishes attended to. What was going to be done about the furniture? (_This to Martha_.) You know, I suppose, that I left it to the two of you--you and Edwin? MARTHA. We were going to give it to Bella, to set up house with. LAURA. _That's_ not what I intended. I meant you to keep on the house and live there. Why couldn't you? MARTHA (_with growing annoyance_). Well, _that's_ settled now! LAURA. It wasn't for Arabella. Arabella was never a favourite of mine. Why should Arabella have my furniture? MARTHA. Well, you'd better send word, and have it stored up for you till doomsday! Edwin doesn't want it; he's got enough of his own. LAURA (_in a sleek, injured voice_). Julia, I'm going upstairs to take my things off. JULIA. Very well, Laura. (_And Laura makes her injured exit_.) So you've been with Edwin, and his family? MARTHA. Yes. I'm never well there; but I wanted the change. JULIA. You mean, you had been staying with Laura? MARTHA. I always go and stay with her, as long as I can--three months, I'm supposed to. But this year--well, I couldn't manage with it. JULIA. Is she so much more difficult than she used to be? MARTHA. Of course, I don't know what she's like here. JULIA. Oh, she has been very much herself--_poor_ Laura! MARTHA. I know! Julia, I know! And I try to make allowances. All her life she's had her own way with somebody. Poor William! Of course I know he had his faults. But he used to come and say to me: 'Martha, I _can't_ please her.' Well, poor man, he's at peace now, let's hope! Oh, Julia, I've just thought: whatever will poor William do? He's here, I suppose, somewhere? JULIA. Oh yes, He's here, Martha. MARTHA. She'll rout him out, depend on it. JULIA. She has routed him out. MARTHA (_awe-struck)._ Has she? JULIA (_shaking her head wisely_). William won't live with her; he knows better. MARTHA. Who will live with her, then? She's bound to get hold of somebody. JULIA. Apparently she means to live here. MARTHA. Then it's going to be me! I know it's going to be me! When we lived here before, it used to be poor Mamma. JULIA. The dear Mother is quite capable of looking after herself, you'll find. You needn't belong to Laura if you don't like, Martha. I never let her take possession of _me_. MARTHA. She seems never to want to. I don't know how you manage it. JULIA. Oh, we've had our little tussles. But here you will find it much easier. You can vanish. MARTHA. What do you mean? JULIA. I mean--vanish. It takes the place of wings. One does it almost without knowing. MARTHA. How do you do it? JULIA. You just wish yourself elsewhere; and you come back when you like. MARTHA. Have _you_ ever done it? JULIA (_with a world of meaning_). Not yet. MARTHA. She won't like it. One doesn't belong to one's self, when she's about--nor does anything. I've had to hide my own things from her sometimes. JULIA. I shouldn't wonder. MARTHA. Do you remember the silver tea-pot? JULIA. I've been reminded of it. MARTHA. It was mine, wasn't it? JULIA. Oh, of course. MARTHA. Laura never would admit it was mine. She wanted it; so I'd no right to it. JULIA. I had a little idea that was it. MARTHA. For years she was determined to have it: and I was determined she shouldn't have it. And she didn't have it! JULIA. Who did have it? MARTHA. Henrietta _was_ to. I sent it her as a wedding-present, and told her Laura was never to know. And, as she was in Australia, that seemed safe. Well, the ship it went out in was wrecked--all because of that tea-pot, I believe! So now it's at the bottom of the sea! JULIA. Destiny! MARTHA. She searched my boxes to try and find it: stole my keys! I missed them, but I didn't dare say anything. I used to wrap it in my night-gown and hide it in the bed during the day, and sleep with it under my pillow at night. And I was so thankful when Henrietta got married; so as to be rid of it! JULIA. Hush! (RE-ENTER _Mrs. James, her bonnet still on, with the strings dangling, and her cloak on her arm_.) LAURA. Julia I've been looking at your room in there. JULIA (_coldly)._ Have you, Laura? LAURA. It used to be our Mother's room. JULIA. I don't need to be reminded of that: it is why I chose it. (_Rising gracefully from her chair, she goes to attend to the fire_.) LAURA. Don't you think it would be much better for you to give it up, and let our Mother come back and live with us? JULIA. She has never expressed the wish. LAURA. Of course not, with you in it. JULIA. She was not in it when I came. LAURA. How could you expect it, in a house all by herself? JULIA. I gave her the chance: I began by occupying my own room. LAURA (_self-caressingly). I_ wasn't here then. That didn't occur to you, I suppose? You seem to forget you weren't the only one. JULIA. Kind of you to remind me. LAURA. Saucy. JULIA. Martha, will you excuse me? (_Polite to the last, she vanishes gracefully away from the vicinity of the coal-box. The place where she has been stooping knows her no more_.) LAURA (_rushing round the intervening table to investigate_). Julia! (_Martha is quite as much surprised as Mrs. James, but less indignant_.) MARTHA. Well! Did you ever? LAURA (_facing about after vain search_). Does she think that is the proper way to behave to _me?_ Julia! MARTHA. It's no good, Laura. You know Julia, as well as I do. If she makes up her mind to a thing-- LAURA. Yes. She's been waiting here to exercise her patience on me, and now she's happy! Well, she'll have to learn that this house doesn't belong to _her_ any longer. She has got to accommodate herself to living with others.... I wonder how she'd like me to go and sit in that pet chair of hers? JULIA (_softly reappearing in the chair which the 'dear Mother' usually occupies_). You can go and sit in it if you wish, Laura. LAURA (_ignoring her return_). Martha, do you remember that odious man who used to live next door, who played the 'cello on Sundays? MARTHA. Oh yes, I remember. They used to hang out washing in the garden, didn't they? LAURA (_very scandalously_). Julia is friends with him! They call on each other. His wife doesn't live with him any longer. (_Julia rises and goes slowly and majestically out of the room_.) LAURA (_after relishing what she conceives to be her rout of the enemy_). Martha, what do you think of Julia? MARTHA. Oh, she's--What do you want me to think? LAURA. High and mighty as ever, isn't she? She's been here by herself so long she thinks the whole place is hers. MARTHA. I daresay we shall settle down well enough presently. Which room are you sleeping in? LAURA. Of course, I have my old one. Where do you want to go? MARTHA. The green room will suit me. LAURA. And Julia means to keep our Mother's room: I can see that. No wonder she won't come and stay, MARTHA. Have you seen her? LAURA. She just 'looked in,' as Julia calls it. I could see she'd hoped to find me alone. Julia always thought _she_ was the favourite. I knew better. MARTHA. How was she? LAURA. Just her old self; but as if she missed something. It wasn't a _happy_ face, until I spoke to her: then it all brightened up.... Oh, thank you for the wreath, Martha. Where did you get it? MARTHA. Emily made it. LAURA. That fool! Then she made her own too, I suppose? MARTHA. Yes. That went the day before, so you got it in time. LAURA. I thought it didn't look up to much. (_She is now contemplating Emily's second effort with a critical eye_.) Now a little maiden-hair fern would have made a world of difference. MARTHA. I don't hold with flowers myself. I think it's wasteful. But, of course, one has to do it. LAURA (_with pained regret_). I'm sorry, Martha; I return it--with many thanks. MARTHA. What's the good of that? I can't give it back to Emily, now! LAURA (_with quiet grief_). I don't wish to be a cause of waste. MARTHA. Well, take it to pieces, then; and put them in water--or wear it round your head! LAURA. Ten beautiful wreaths my friends sent me. They are all lying on my grave now! A pity that love is so wasteful! Well, I suppose I must go now and change into my cap. (_Goes to the door, where she encounters Julia_.) Why, Julia, you nearly knocked me down! JULIA (_ironically)._ I beg your pardon, Laura; it comes of using the same door. Hannah has lighted a fire in your room. LAURA. That's sensible at any rate. (EXIT _Mrs. James_) JULIA. Well? And how do you find Laura? MARTHA. Julia, I don't know whether I can stand her. JULIA. She hasn't got quite--used to herself yet. MARTHA (_explosively)._ Put that away somewhere! (_She gives an angry shove to the wreath_) JULIA. Put it away! Why? MARTHA (_furiously)._ Emily made it: and it didn't cost anything; and it hasn't got any maiden-hair fern in it; and it's too big to wear with her cap. So it's good for nothing! Put it on the fire! She doesn't want to see it again. JULIA (_comprehending the situation, restores the wreath to its box_). Why did you bring it here, Martha? MARTHA (_miserably)._ I don't know. I just clung on to it. I suppose it was on my mind to look after it, and see it wasn't damaged. So I found I'd brought it with me.... I believe, now I think of it, I've brought some sandwiches, too. (_She routs in a small hand-bag.)_ Yes, I have. Well, I can have them for supper.... Emily made those too. JULIA. Then I think you'd better let Hannah have them--for the sake of peace. MARTHA (_woefully)._ I thought I _was_ going to have peace here. JULIA. It will be all right, Martha--presently. MARTHA. Well, I don't want to be uncharitable; but I do wish--I must say it--I do wish Laura had been cremated. (_This is the nearest she can do for wishing her sister in the place to which she thinks she belongs. But the uncremated Mrs. James now re-enters in widow's cap_.) LAURA. Julia, have you ever seen Papa, since you came here? JULIA (_frigidly)._ No, I have not. LAURA. Has our Mother seen him? JULIA. I haven't--(_About to say the forbidden thing, she checks herself_.) Mamma has _not_ seen him: nor does she know his whereabouts. LAURA. Does nobody know? JULIA. Nobody that I know of. LAURA. Well, but he must be somewhere. Is there no way of finding him? JULIA. Perhaps you can devise one. I suppose, if we chose, we could go to him; but I'm not sure--as he doesn't come to us. LAURA. Lor', Julia! Suppose he should be---- JULIA (_deprecatingly_). Oh, Laura! LAURA. But, Julia, it's very awkward, not to know where one's own father is. Don't people ever ask? JULIA. Never, I'm thankful to say. LAURA. Why not? JULIA. Perhaps _they_ know better. LAURA (_after a pause_). I'm afraid he didn't lead a good life. MARTHA. Oh, why can't you let the thing be? If you don't remember him, I do. I was fond of him. He was always very kind to us as children; and if he did run away with the governess it was a good riddance--so far as she was concerned. We hated her. LAURA. I wonder whether they are together still. You haven't inquired after _her_, I suppose? JULIA (_luxuriating in her weariness_). I--have--_not_, Laura! LAURA. Don't you think it's our solemn duty to inquire? I shall ask our Mother. JULIA. I hope you will do nothing of the sort. LAURA. But we ought to know: otherwise we don't know how to think of him, whether with mercy and pardon for his sins, or with reprobation. MARTHA (_angrily_). Why need you think? Why can't you leave him alone? LAURA. An immortal soul, Martha. It's no good leaving him alone: that won't alter facts. JULIA. I don't think this is quite a nice subject for discussion. LAURA. Nice? Was it ever intended to be nice? Eternal punishment wasn't provided as a consolation prize for anybody, so far as I know. MARTHA. I think it's very horrible--for us to be sitting here--by the fire, and--(_But theology is not Martha's strong point_). Oh! why can't you leave it? LAURA. Because it's got to be faced; and I mean to face it. Now, Martha, don't try to get out of it. We have got to find our Father. JULIA. I think, before doing anything, we ought to consult Mamma. LAURA. Very well; call her and consult her! You were against it just now. JULIA. I am against it still. It's all so unnecessary. MARTHA. Lor', there _is_ Mamma! (_Old Mrs. Robinson is once more in her place. Martha makes a move toward her_.) JULIA. Don't, Martha. She doesn't like to be--- MRS. R. I've heard what you've been talking about. No, I haven't seen him. I've tried to get him to come to me, but he didn't seem to want. Martha, my dear, how are you? MARTHA. Oh, I'm--much as usual. And you, Mother? MRS. R. Well, what about your Father? Who wants him? LAURA. I want him, Mother. MRS. R. What for? LAURA. First we want to know what sort of a life he is leading. Then we want to ask him about his will. JULIA. Oh, Laura! MARTHA. _I_ don't. I don't care if he made a dozen. LAURA. So I thought if we all _called_ him. _You_ heard when I called, didn't you? Oh no, that was William. MRS. R. Who's William? LAURA. Didn't you know I was married? MRS. R. No. Did he die? LAURA. Well, now, couldn't we call him? MRS. R. I daresay. He won't like it. LAURA. He must. He belongs to us. MRS. R. Yes, I suppose--as I wouldn't divorce him, though he wanted me to. I said marriages were made in Heaven. A VOICE. Luckily, they don't last there. (_Greatly startled, they look around, and perceive presently in the mirror over the mantelpiece the apparition of a figure which they seem dimly to recognise. A tall, florid gentleman of the Dundreary type, with long side-whiskers, and dressed in the fashion of sixty years ago, has taken up his position to one side of the ormolu clock; standing, eye-glass in eye, with folded arms resting on the mantel-slab and a stylish hat in one hand, be gazes upon the assembled family with quizzical benevolence_.) MRS. R. (_placidly_). What, is that you, Thomas? THOMAS (_with the fashionable lisp of the fifties, always substituting 'th' for 's'_). How do you do, Susan? (_There follows a pause, broken courageously by Mrs. James_.) LAURA. Are _you_ my Father? THOMAS. I don't know. Who are _you_? Who are all of you? LAURA. Perhaps I had better explain. This is our dear Mother: her you recognise. You are her husband; we are your daughters. This is Martha, this is Julia, and I'm Laura. THOMAS. Is this true, Susan? Are these our progeny? MRS. R. Yes--that is--yes, Thomas. THOMAS. I should not have known it. They all look so much older. LAURA. Than when you left us? Naturally! THOMAS. Than _me_> I meant. But you all seem flourishing. LAURA. Because we lived longer. Papa, when did you die? JULIA. Oh! Laura! THOMAS. I don't know, child. LAURA. Don't know? How don't you know? THOMAS. Because in prisons, and other lunatic asylums, one isn't allowed to know anything. MRS. R. A lunatic asylum! Oh, Thomas, what brought you there? THOMAS. A damned life, Susan--with you, and others. JULIA. Oh, Laura, why did you do this? MARTHA. If this goes on, I shall leave the room. LAURA. Where are those _others_ now? THOMAS. Three of them I see before me. You, Laura, used to scream horribly. When you were teething, I was sleepless. Your Mother insisted on having you in the room with us. No wonder I went elsewhere. MARTHA. I'm going! THOMAS. Don't, Martha! You were the quietest of the lot. When you were two years old I even began to like you. You were the exception. LAURA. Haven't you any affection for your old home? THOMAS. None. It was a prison. You were the gaolers and the turnkeys. To keep my feet in the domestic way you made me wool-work slippers, and I had to wear them. You gave me neckties, which I wouldn't wear. You gave me affection of a demanding kind, which I didn't want. You gave me a moral atmosphere which I detested. And at last I could bear it no more, and I escaped. LAURA (_deaf to instruction_). Papa, we wish you and our dear Mother to come back and live with us. THOMAS. Live with my grandmother! How could I live with any of you? LAURA. Where _are_ you living? THOMAS. Ask no questions, and you will be told no lies. LAURA. Where is _she_? THOMAS. Which she? LAURA. The governess. THOMAS. Which governess? LAURA. The one you went away with. THOMAS. D'you want her back again? You can have her. She'll teach you a thing or two. She did _me_. LAURA. Then--you have repented, Papa? THOMAS. God! why did I come here? MRS. R. Yes; why did you come? It was weak of you. THOMAS. Because I never could resist women. LAURA. Were you really mad when you died, Papa? THOMAS. Yes, and am still: stark, staring, raving, mad, like all the rest of you. LAURA. I am not aware that _I_ am mad. THOMAS. Then you are a bad case. Not to know it, is the worst sign of all. It's in the family: you can't help being. Everything you say and do proves it.... You were mad to come here. You are mad to remain here. You were mad to want to see me. I was mad to let you see me. I was mad at the mere sight of you; and I'm mad to be off again! Goodbye, Susan. If you send for me again, I shan't come! (_He puts on his hat with a flourish_!) LAURA. Where are you going, Father? THOMAS. To Hell, child! Your Hell, my Heaven! (_He spreads his arms and rises up through the looking-glass; you see his violet frock-coaty his check trousers, his white spats, and patent-leather boots ascending into and passing from view. He twiddles his feet at them and vanishes_.) JULIA. And now I hope you are satisfied, Laura? MARTHA. Where's Mamma gone? JULIA. So you've driven her away, too. Well, that finishes it. (_Apparently it does. Robbed of her parental prey, Mrs. James reverts to the next dearest possession she is concerned about_.) LAURA. Martha, where is the silver tea-pot? MARTHA. I don't know, Laura. LAURA. You said Julia had it. MARTHA. I didn't say anything of the sort! You said--you supposed Julia had it; and I said--suppose she had! And I left it at that. LAURA. Julia says she hasn't got it, so you _must_ have it. MARTHA. I haven't! LAURA. Then where is it? MARTHA. I don't know any more than Julia knows. LAURA. Then one of you is not telling the truth. ... (_Very judicially she begins to examine the two culprits.)_ Julia, when did you last see it? JULIA. On the day, Laura, when we shared things between us. It became Martha's: and I never saw it again. LAURA. Martha, when did you last see it? MARTHA. I have not seen it--for I don't know how long. LAURA. That is no answer to my question. MARTHA (_vindictively)._ Well, if you want to know, it's at the bottom of the sea. LAURA (_deliberately)._ Don't talk--nonsense. MARTHA. Unless a shark has eaten it. LAURA. When I ask a reasonable question, Martha, I expect a reasonable answer. MARTHA. I've given you a reasonable answer! And I wish the Judgment Day would come, and the sea give up its dead, and then--(_At the end of her resources, the poor lady begins to gather herself up, so as once for all to have done with it_.) Now, I am going downstairs to talk to Hannah. LAURA. You will do nothing of the kind, Martha. MARTHA. I'm not going to be bullied--not by you or anyone. LAURA. I must request you to wait and hear what I've got to say. MARTHA. I don't want to hear it. LAURA. Julia, are we not to discuss this matter, pray? (_Julia, who has her eye on Martha, and is quite enjoying this tussle of the two, says nothing_) MARTHA. You and Julia can discuss it. I am going downstairs. (_Mrs. James crosses the room, locks the door, and, standing mistress of all she surveys, inquires with grim humour_.) LAURA. And where are you going to be, Julia? JULIA. I am where I am, Laura. I'm not going out of the window, or up the chimney, if that's what you mean. (_She continues gracefully to do her crochet._) LAURA. Now, Martha, if you please. MARTHA (_goaded into victory_). I'm sorry, Julia. You'd better explain. I'm going downstairs. (_Suiting the action to the word, she commits herself doggedly to the experiment, descending bluntly and without grace through the carpet into the room below. Mrs. James stands stupent._) LAURA. Martha!... Am I to be defied in this way? JULIA. You brought it on yourself, Laura. LAURA. You told her to do it! JULIA. She would have soon found out for herself. (_Collectedly, she folds up her work and rises_.) And now, I think, I will go to my room and wash my hands for supper. (_As she makes her stately move, her ear is attracted by a curious metallic sound repeated at intervals. Turning about, she perceives, indeed they both perceive, in the centre of the small table, a handsome silver tea-pot which opens and shuts its lid at them, as if trying to speak_.) JULIA. Oh, look, Laura! Martha's tea-pot has arrived. LAURA. She told a lie, then. JULIA. No, it was the truth. She wished for it. The sea has given up its dead. LAURA. Then now I _have_ got it at last! (_But, as she goes to seize the disputed possession, Martha rises through the floor, grabs the tea-pot, and descends to the nether regions once more_.) LAURA (_glaring at her sister with haggard eye_). Julia, where _are_ we? JULIA. I don't know what you mean, Laura. (_She reaches out a polite hand_) The key? (_Mrs. James delivers up the key as one glad to be rid of it_.) LAURA. What is this place we've come to? JULIA (_persuasively)._ Our home. LAURA. I think we are in Hell! JULIA (_going to the door, which she unlocks with soft triumph)._ We are all where we wish to be, Laura. (_A gong sounds_.) That's supper. (_The gong continues its metallic bumbling_) (_Julia departs, leaving Mrs. James in undisputed possession of the situation she has made for herself_.) CURTAIN Part Three Dethronements IMAGINARY PORTRAITS OF POLITICAL CHARACTERS, DONE IN DIALOGUE Preface The written dialogue, as interpretative of character, is but a form of portraiture, no more personally identified with its subject than drawing or painting; nor can it claim to have more verisimilitude until it finds embodiment on the stage. Why then, in this country at any rate, is its application to living persons only considered legitimate when associated with caricature? So sponsored, in the pages of _Punch_ and the composition of Mr. Max Beerbohm, it has become an accepted convention too habitual for remark. Yet caricature and verbal parody may be as critical both of personality and character as dialogue more seriously designed, and may have as important an influence not merely upon a public opinion, but upon its moral judgment as well. The defection of _Punch_ was felt by Gladstone to be a serious set-back to the fortunes of his Home Rule policy; and Tenniel's cartoon of "the Grand old Janus," saying "Quite right!" to the police who were bludgeoning an English mob, and "Quite wrong!" to the police who were bludgeoning an Irish one, was a personal jibe which hit him hard. The customary device, where contemporaries are concerned, of disembowelling the victim's name, and leaving it a skeleton of consonants, is a formal concession which in effect concedes nothing. Nor is there any reason why it should; for the only valid objection to the medium of dialogue is in cases where its form might mislead the reader into mistaking fiction for fact, and the author's invention for the _ipsissima verba_ of the characters he portrays. I hope that this book will attract no readers so unintelligent. Having chosen dialogue for these studies of historical events because I find in it a natural and direct means to the interpretation of character, my main scruple is satisfied when I have made it plain that they have no more authenticity because they happen to be written in dramatic form, than they would have were they written as political essays. These are imaginary conversations which never actually took place; and though I think they have a nearer relation to the minds of the supposed speakers than have King's speeches to the person who utters them, they must merely be taken as a personal reading of characters and events, tributes to men for all of whom I have, in one way or another, a very great respect and admiration; and not least for the one whom, with a reticence that is symbolical of the part he played in the downfall of "The Man of Business," I have here left nameless. The King-maker Note Readers of this dialogue may need to be reminded, for clearer understanding, of the following sequence of events. On November 15th, 1890, a _decree nisi_ was pronounced in the undefended divorce suit O'Shea _v_. O'Shea and Parnell. On November 24th, Gladstone, in a letter to John Morley, stated that Parnell's retention of the Irish leadership would be fatal to his own continued advocacy of the Irish cause. In December, the majority of the Irish Party threw over Parnell in order to placate the "Nonconformist conscience," and retain the co-operation of the Liberal Party under Gladstone's leadership. During the months following, Parnell and his adherents suffered a series of defeats at by-elections in Ireland. In June 1891, immediately on the _decree nisi_ being made absolute, Parnell married Katharine O'Shea. On October 6th he died. Dramatis Personae. CHARLES STEWART PARNELL (_Dethroned "King" of Ireland_) KATHARINE PARNELL (_His wife: divorced wife of Captain O'Shea_) A MAN (_Ex-valet to Captain O'Shea_) A SERVANT The King-maker _Brighton. October_ 1891. _In a comfortably furnished sitting-room, with windows looking upon the sea-parade, a Woman of distinguished beauty sits reading beside the fire, so intently occupied that she pays no heed to the entry of the Servant, who unobtrusively lights the gas, draws down the blinds, and closes the curtains. Then taking up a tea-tray, served for two, she retires, and the reader is left alone. But not for long. The slam of the street-door causes an attention which the coming and going of the Servant has failed to arouse; and now, as the door opens, the brightened interest of her face tells that, without seeing, she knows who is there. Quietly, almost furtively, she lets fall the paper she has been reading, and turns to her husband eyes of serene welcome, meeting confidently the sharp interrogation of his glance_. PARNELL. What are you doing? KATHARINE. I was reading. PARNELL. Yes? What? KATHARINE. Those papers you just brought in. PARNELL. And I told you not to. KATHARINE (_smiling_). I was wilful and disobeyed. PARNELL (_picking up the paper, and looking at it with contemptuous disgust_). Why did you? KATHARINE. Isn't "wilful" a sufficient answer, my dear? (_And with a covert look of amusement she watches him tear and throw the paper into the fire_.) Why do you try to make me a coward? You aren't one yourself. PARNELL. That gutter-stuff! (_And the second paper joins its fellow in the flames_.) KATHARINE. Now wasn't that just a bit unnecessary? After all, they are helping to make history. That is public opinion--the voice of the people, you know. PARNELL. Not _our_ people! KATHARINE. Oh? Have you brought back any better news--from there? PARNELL. Nothing special. The result of the election was out. KATHARINE. You didn't wire it. How much were we to the bad? PARNELL. A few hundred. What does more or less matter? It's--it's the priests who are winning now. KATHARINE. With divided congregations as the result. PARNELL. Yes. But I'd rather they won than the politicians. They are honest, at any rate. Poor fools! KATHARINE. So it's the real country we are seeing now? PARNELL. Yes. That's the material I've had to work with! KATHARINE. Wonderful--considering. PARNELL. And now--now one gets to the root! But I always knew it. KATHARINE. So you are not disappointed? PARNELL. No; only defeated. Yet I did think once that I was going to win. KATHARINE. So you will. PARNELL. When I'm dead, no doubt ... some day. You can't fight for a winning cause, and not know that. KATHARINE. But you are not going to die yet, dearest. PARNELL (_with a deep sigh of dejection_). Oh! Wifie, I'm so tired, so tired! KATHARINE. Well, who has a better right? Be tired, my dear! Give yourself up to it: let everything else go, and just rest! You _are_ tired out. That's what I've been telling you. PARNELL. Too much to do yet. Even dying would take more time than I can spare just now. KATHARINE. But you must spare time to live, my dear--if you really wish to. PARNELL. Wish? I never wished it more--for now I _am_ living. I'm awake. Doubts are over. KATHARINE. King ... look at me! Don't take your eyes away, till I've done.... One of those papers said (what others have been saying) that it was I ... I ... need I go on? PARNELL (_with grim tenderness_). Till you've done: you said ... KATHARINE. I--that have ruined you. PARNELL. That's just what they would say, of course. It's so easy: and pleases--so many. KATHARINE. All the same--by mere accident--mayn't it be true? It _has_ happened, you know, sometimes, that love and politics haven't quite gone together. PARNELL. Love and politics never do. Do you think I've loved any of my party-followers: that any of them have loved me? KATHARINE. Doesn't--O'Kelly? PARNELL. He's gone now--with the rest. KATHARINE. Didn't Mr. Biggar? PARNELL. Dead.... No. KATHARINE. Still, you love--Ireland. PARNELL. Not as she is to-day--so narrow and jealous, so stupid, so blind! Has she anything alive in her now worth saving? That Ireland has got to die; and, though it doesn't sound like it, this is the death-rattle beginning. Ireland is going to fail, and deserves to fail. But another Ireland won't fail. She's learning her lesson--or _will_ learn it, in the grave. Something like this was bound to come; but if it were to come again twenty years on, it wouldn't count. She'd know better. KATHARINE. Twenty years! We shall be an old couple by then. PARNELL. In the life of a nation twenty years is nothing. No. Ireland was shaped for failure: she has it in her. It had got to come out. Subjection, oppression, starvation, haven't taught her enough: she must face betrayal too, of the most mischievous kind--the betrayal of well-meaning fools. After that, paralysis, loss of confidence, loss of will, loss of faith--in false leaders. Then she'll begin to learn. KATHARINE. Do you mean that everything _has_ failed now? PARNELL. Yes; if _I_ fail. I'm not thinking of myself as indispensable: it's the principle. That's what I've been trying to make them understand. But they won't, they won't! Independence, defiance-they don't see it as a principle, only as an expedient. They may make it a cry, they may feel it as their right; but when to insist on it looks like losing a point in the game--then they give up the principle, to become parasites! That's what is happening now. It's the slave in the blood coming out--the crisis of the disease. That's why I'm fighting it: and will, to the death! And when--when we are dead--some day: she'll come to her senses again--and see! Then--this will have helped. KATHARINE. But will it? PARNELL. Why? Don't you believe that Ireland will be free some day? KATHARINE. I did when she chose you for her leader. PARNELL (_bitterly_). A dead leader, one whom she can't hurt, may do better for her. KATHARINE. Don't say "dead"! PARNELL. I shan't be alive in twenty years, my dear. And it may take all that. KATHARINE. Without you it will take more. PARNELL. It won't be "without me." That's what I mean. They may beat me to-day; but I shall still count. Think of all Ireland's failures! Grattan's Parliament counts; "Ninety-eight" counts; Fitzgerald counts; O'Connell counts; her famines, her emigrations, her rebellions--all count. KATHARINE. Does Butt count? PARNELL. He wasn't a failure: he didn't try to do anything. If Ireland needs more failures, to make a case for her conviction, shall I grudge mine? Yes, all her failures count: they get into the blood! Why, even the silly statues in her streets mean more than statues can mean here. Prosperity forgets; adversity remembers. Even hatred has its use: it grips, and drives men on. KATHARINE. Did you need--hatred, to do that for you? PARNELL. Yes: till I got love!... Reason, conviction aren't enough. Morley said a good thing the other day. The English, he said, meant well by Ireland: but they didn't mean it much. KATHARINE. I suppose that's true of some? PARNELL. Quite true: and what is the most that it amounts to? Compromise. Morley's an authority on compromise. And yet I like him: I get on with him. But he's too thick with Gladstone to be honest over this. Curious _his_ having to back the conventions, eh? KATHARINE. Why does he? PARNELL. Because the political salvation of his party and its leader comes before Ireland. He means well by her: but he doesn't mean it so much as all that. Still he's the only one of them who doesn't pretend to look on me as a black sheep. He too has to work with his material. That's politics. The Nonconformist conscience means votes--so it decides him: just as the priests decide me.... They would decide him in any case, I mean. And so-so it goes on.... "Look here upon this picture, and on this": Ireland trying to please England; England trying, now and then, to please Ireland! I don't know which is the more ludicrous; but I know that both equally must fail. And they've got to see it!--and some day they will. It won't be "Home Rule" then.... (_So for a while he sits and thinks, his hand in hers. Then he resumes._) My ruin? What would my ruin matter anyway? Put it, that the making public of our claim--our right to each other--is to be allowed by any possibility to affect the cause of a nation--the justice of that cause: doesn't that fact, if true, show that the whole basis of the political principles they have so boasted, and on which we have so blindly relied, was utterly and fantastically false and rotten? Haven't we, providentially, given the world the proof that it needed of its own lie? KATHARINE. We didn't give it, my dear. PARNELL. Well, their proof has satisfied them, anyhow: as they are acting on it. Oh! When I see what poor, weak things nations really are--so inadequately equipped for the shaping of their own destinies--I wonder whether in truth the history we read is not the wrong history--mere side history, to which a false significance has been given, because so much blood and treasure have been expended on it, which just a little expenditure of common sense might have spared.... Think of all the silly accidents and blunders, in Ireland's great chapter of accidents, which have counted for so much--even in these last few years!... The Phoenix Park business--an assassination, for which perhaps only a dozen men were responsible--and at once, for that one act, more suppression and hatred and coercion are directed against a whole nation: Crimes Acts, packed juries, judges without juries, arrests without charge, imprisonments without trial. So logical, isn't it? What a means for putting a foreign Government right in the eyes of the people who deny its moral authority!... And then--Pigott, that shallow fraud, driven to suicide by those who were at first so eager to believe him: and the exposure of his silly forgery turns elections, makes Home Rule popular! Coming by such means, would it be worth it?... Gladstone, honourably hoodwinking himself all those years, accepting you as our secret go-between--and you making no pretence, my dear! Oh, I suppose it was the right and gentlemanly thing for him to pretend not to know. It was also, it seems, good politics. Chamberlain knew too--must have known; for Chamberlain's no fool; and yet to his friend, the deceived husband, said nothing! It wasn't politics; not then. Now--now it's the great stroke, and Home Rule goes down under it.... Is that history, or is it "Alice in Wonderland"?... If you are my ruin now, you were also my ruin then, when you were helping me to think that I could win justice for a nation from politicians like these: win it by any means except by beating them, bringing them to their knees, making them red with the blood of a people always in revolt, till their reputation stinks to the whole world! And when they do at last climb down and accept the inevitable, then their main thought will be only how to save their own face--and make it look a little less like the defeat they know it to be! KATHARINE. My dear, you are so tired. Do rest! PARNELL. I _am_ resting: for now--thanks to you--I have got at the truth! Political history is a thing made up of accidents; but not so the fate of men or of nations whose will is set to be free. No accident there! That you were tied to a man you wouldn't live with, who wouldn't live with you--was an accident. But our love was no accident; it was waiting for us before we knew anything. You and I had each a star which shone at the other's birth. KATHARINE. Your star was mine, dearest. I hadn't one of my own. PARNELL. Well, if nations wish to be fooled, let them go to the devil their own way, not laying the blame of their own folly on others! But having got _you_--would I ever have let you go for any power under Heaven? Why (as soon as you were free) did I marry you? I knew that, politically, it was a blunder: that over there it would go against us-- prove the case. Half Ireland cared nothing for the verdict of an English jury. But when we married, they had to believe it then.... Well, I wanted them to believe it. I know my love would have waited, had I asked her. And it wasn't--it wasn't honour, my dear; it was much more pride: for I am a proud man, that I own: and not less since I have won you. KATHARINE. If you hadn't been proud, dearest, you would never have got my love. PARNELL. Oh, yes, I should. Those who love, don't love for qualities good or bad. They love them in the person they love--that's all. You have qualities which I didn't care about till I found them in you. To love is to see life--new! KATHARINE. And whole. Some day--alone by ourselves--we will! PARNELL. Don't we already? KATHARINE. Yes, if only--these other things didn't interfere. But I promised; so they must. PARNELL. My dear, when they have quite broken me--they will in time--then I'll come. KATHARINE. You promise to go right away? PARNELL. I promise, sweetheart. (_Moving toward each other they are about to embrace, when the door opens, and the Servant enters carrying a card upon a tray_.) SERVANT. If you please, sir. (_Parnell takes the card; there is a pause while he looks at the name_) PARNELL. Will you say I am engaged. (_The Servant goes. Parnell hands the card to his wife_.) I don't know the man. Do you? KATHARINE. No. And yet I seem to remember. Yes; Willie had a man-servant of that name. (_The Servant returns, bearing a folded note upon her tray_) SERVANT. If you please, sir, I was to give you this. PARNELL (_having read the note_). Is the man still there? SERVANT. Yes, sir. (_There is a pause_.) PARNELL. Show him in. (_As the Servant goes he hands the note to Katharine, and watches while she reads it_.) So--you remember him? KATHARINE. Only the name.... I may have seen him, now and then. (_And then enters a smooth-shaven man, sprucely dressed, with the irreproachable manners of a well-trained servant. First, with a murmured apology, he bows to the lady; then, having respectfully waited till the silence becomes marked, says_:) MAN. Good evening, sir. PARNELL (_glancing again at the note_). You are a valet? MAN. Yes, sir. PARNELL. Are you wanting a place? MAN. No, sir. I have a place. PARNELL. Well? MAN. That gentleman, sir--my last employer, dismissed me without a character. (_His reference is to the note which Parnell still holds open in his hand_.) PARNELL. Well? MAN. That's all, sir. PARNELL. Then what have you come here for? MAN. To give you this, sir. (_He draws out and presents a letter, rather soiled by keeping, which has already been opened. There is a pause, while Parnell looks first at the address, then runs his eye over the contents_) PARNELL. May I show it to--this lady? MAN. Oh, yes, sir. PARNELL. Whom, I take it, you recognise? MAN. Yes, sir. (_And meeting her glance, he bows once more_) (_Parnell hands over the letter, and while Katharine reads there is a pause_.) PARNELL. Did you bring me this expecting money for it? MAN. No, sir. PARNELL. I see it has a date. You could have let me have it before? MAN. Yes, sir. PARNELL. More than--six months ago? MAN. More than a year ago, sir. PARNELL. Quite so. And you did not? MAN (_eyeing him steadfastly_). No, sir. I was still comfortable in his service then, sir. PARNELL (_ironically, after a pause of scrutiny eye to eye_). I am singularly obliged to you.... How did you come by it, may I ask? MAN. Well, sir, he'd been dining out, sir. Left it in his pocket--hadn't posted it. PARNELL. I see.... Had your dismissal anything to do with this? MAN. Oh, no, sir. That only happened quite recently. PARNELL. And then--he dismissed you without a character, you say? Do you think you deserved one? MAN. From him, sir?--yes, sir. PARNELL (_coldly amused_). That is a good answer. Have you been put to any expense coming here? MAN. Just my return fare, sir. PARNELL. And were you expecting me to--? MAN. No, sir; I could have sent it in the post, if I'd wished. PARNELL (_surprised_). Do you mean, then, that I may keep this letter? MAN. Yes, sir. PARNELL. I may do what I like with it? MAN. Just what you like, sir. PARNELL. Thank you. (_After a pause of meditation he very deliberately tears up the letter and puts it into the fire. Then, with rather icy politeness:)_ I am much obliged to you; and I wish you a good evening. (_A little crestfallen, but with quiet self possession, the man accepts the termination of the interview_.) MAN. Good evening, sir. (_He moves to the door_.) PARNELL. Stop! (_The man turns as the other goes towards him, and they meet face to face_.) You haven't given yourself a very good character, coming here, my man; but you might have done worse. Anyway, you've washed your hands of it now. Don't do things like that again. MAN. No, sir. (_And as he stands hesitating, Parnell opens the door_.) Thank you, sir. (_The man goes. Parnell closes the door after him, comes meditatively across, and sits down. There is a long pause_) KATHARINE. What are you--thinking? PARNELL. A year ago! ... If he had come to me with that a year ago--what should I have done? KATHARINE. You would have done just the same. PARNELL. Torn it up? And put it in the fire?--I'm not so sure. KATHARINE. But I am. Hadn't he the same right as I had, to live his own life? PARNELL. My dear, I said "a year ago." That means before the case came on. That would have stopped it--for good.... If I had had it--I might have been tempted. (_Watching him, she sees him smile_.) KATHARINE (_rather tremulously_). Are you glad--that you didn't have it? PARNELL. And use it? Yes: I am--glad! KATHARINE (_throwing herself into his arms_). Oh, my dear! Why, that means everything. You're glad! You're glad! PARNELL (_clasping her_). Oh, my own love, my own dear sweet! KATHARINE. You regret--nothing? PARNELL. Nothing. Haven't I made you sure of that--yet? KATHARINE. Oh, my King!--my King! (_And just then the paper in the grate kindling into flame, he points to it_.) PARNELL. Look! there goes--our proof. KATHARINE. It doesn't matter. PARNELL. It never did. KATHARINE. That's what I mean. PARNELL. But, politically, it might have made a world of difference. KATHARINE. Yes--to the world; not to us. We wanted to be as we are, didn't we? PARNELL. As we are, and as we were--how long is it?--eleven years ago. There's been no change since. When I go back to my star, I shall have found what I came for. That's what matters most. Souls either find or lose themselves--live or die. I lived: I shouldn't have done, on this earth, but for you--but for you. (_There is a pause. He sits meditating_.) KATHARINE. And of what--now? PARNELL. The next generation--possibly the next but one: you and I gone, and Ireland free. In this last year we may have done more for that--than we could ever have planned. We've given them a bone to bite on: and there's meat on it--real meat. And because of that, they call you my ruin, eh? I look rather like one, I suppose, just now. But as I came home to-night, all my mind was filled with you; and I knew that to me you were worth far more than all the rest. And then suddenly I thought--what am I worth to you? KATHARINE. This--that if now you told me to go--because it was for your good--I'd go--glad--yes glad that you'd made me do for you, at last, something that was hard to do--for the first time, dearest, for the first time! PARNELL (_deeply moved_). That so? Not an accident, then, eh? KATHARINE (_embracing him_). Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear! PARNELL. How true to life love makes everything!--so clear and straight-- looking back now. Through you I've learned this truth at any rate--that there are two things about which a man must never compromise--first his own soul, the right to be himself--no matter what others may think or do. KATHARINE. And the other? PARNELL. His instinct, of trust or distrust, in the character of others. I hadn't any real doubt, but I compromised with instinct to gain my end: did things I didn't believe were any good--accepted the word of men I didn't trust. Home Rule itself was a compromise that I made myself accept. But I never really believed in it. For you can't limit the liberty of a nation, if it's really alive. Then came the smash--that woke me. And that I was awake at last our love came to be the proof...Something different has got to be now. Ireland will have to become more real--more herself, more of a rebel than ever she has been yet. If, thirty years hence, my failure shall have helped to bring that about--an Ireland really free--then I've won.... (_The words come quietly, confidently; but it is the voice of an exhausted man, whose physical resources are nearly at an end. For a long time he sits quite still, holding his wife's hand, saying nothing, for he has nothing more to say. A high screen behind the couch on which they rest cuts off the gaslight; only the firelight plays fitfully upon the two faces. Suddenly the brightness falls away, and over that foreshadowing of death, now only three days distant, the scene closes_.) The Man of Business Dramatis Personae JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN (_Ex-Minister_) JESSE COLLINGS (_His Friend_) A DISTINGUISHED VISITOR A NURSE The Man of Business SCENE: _Highbury. August_ 1913. _Between double-doors, opening from living-room to conservatory, sits the shadow of the once great and powerful Minister, State Secretary for the Colonies. To the dark, sombre tones of the heavily furnished chamber the gorgeous colours of the orchids, hanging in trails and festoons under their luminous dome of glass, offer a vivid contrast. Yet even greater is that which they present to the drawn and haggard features of the catastrophically aged man whose public career is now over. In wheeled chair, with lower limbs wrapped in a shawl and supported by a foot-rest, he sits bent and almost motionless; and when he moves head or hand, it is head or hand only, and the motion is slow, painful, and hesitating, as though mind functioned on body with difficulty, uncertain of its ground. Nevertheless, when the door opens, and the small squat figure of a very old and dear friend advances towards him, his face lights instantly. With tender reverence and affection the newcomer takes hold of his hand, lifts, presses it, lays it back again. And when he has seated himself, the Shadow speaks_. CHAMBERLAIN. Well, Collings? Well? JESSE COLLINGS. Well, my dear Chamberlain, how are you? I'm a little late, I'm afraid. CHAMBERLAIN. I hadn't noticed. Time doesn't matter to me now. JESSE COLLINGS. No; but I like to be punctual. It's my nature. CHAMBERLAIN. Habit...Habit and nature are different things, Collings. I've been finding that out. (_At this, for a diversion, Collings, readjusting his pince-nez, tilts his head bird-like, and takes a genial look at his friend_) JESSE COLLINGS. Joe, you are looking better to-day. CHAMBERLAIN. Well, even looks are not to be despised, I suppose, when one has nothing else left. JESSE COLLINGS. Come, come! CHAMBERLAIN. Yes? JESSE COLLINGS. Nothing else left, indeed! Don't--don't be so _down_, Chamberlain. CHAMBERLAIN. Dear old friend!... Just now you called me "Joe." You don't often do that. Why did you? JESSE COLLINGS. A reversion to old habits, I suppose. One does as one gets older. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes. JESSE COLLINGS (_genially making conversation, which he sees to be advisable_). I was reading only the other day that, as we get on in years and begin to forget other things, our childhood comes back to us. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes? JESSE COLLINGS. Now I wonder if that's true? CHAMBERLAIN. I wonder. JESSE COLLINGS. Mine hasn't begun to come back to me. CHAMBERLAIN. You aren't old yet. JESSE COLLINGS. I'm over eighty. CHAMBERLAIN. Good for another twenty years. And once you were my senior. We weren't quite boys together, Collings; but we've been good friends. JESSE COLLINGS. Thank God for that!--Joe. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, I do. More now than I used to. JESSE COLLINGS. All the same, you haven't so much cause to thank Him as we have. CHAMBERLAIN. No? (_The listless monotone makes the little old man fear that he is not succeeding_.) JESSE COLLINGS. Is my talk tiring you? CHAMBERLAIN. Not at all.... Please go on! JESSE COLLINGS. I only want to say what I said just now: Don't be down, dear friend. Your record will stand the test better than that of others. Your work is still going on; it hasn't finished just because you are--laid up. CHAMBERLAIN. "Laid up" is a kind way of putting it, Collins. JESSE COLLINGS. Why, I needn't even have said that; when here--it's _sitting_ up I find you. CHAMBERLAIN. Sitting _out_. JESSE COLLINGS. Well, "sitting out," if you like, for the time being. But do you imagine that this phrase or that phrase (true for the moment) states the case, counts, is worth troubling about? CHAMBERLAIN. Do I imagine? No, I don't. I don't imagine anything. I was never a man of imagination. JESSE COLLINGS. You are, when you say that! CHAMBERLAIN. No, Collings. When I've done anything, it has been because I've had it in my hands to do.... My hands are empty now. Some men manage to think with their heads only; others do it--with their stomachs you might almost say. I've never been able to think properly unless I had hold of things--had them here in my hands.... Look at them, now! (_With a slow, faint gesture he indicates their helplessness; then continues:_) I was the man of business,... and now, I'm out of business; so I can't think. JESSE COLLINGS. But that business, as you call it, Chamberlain, which you made so many of us understand for the first time--I was a "Little Englander" myself, once--that's still going on. CHAMBERLAIN (_bitterly_). Yes, it's a fine business! JESSE COLLINGS (_startled)._ Don't you still believe in it? CHAMBERLAIN. As a business? Yes. But it's going to fail all the same. There's nobody to run it now. JESSE COLLINGS. We mean to run it, Chamberlain! You'll see! CHAMBERLAIN. I know you do, Collings. You are loyalty itself. JESSE COLLINGS. There are others too. I'm not the only one. CHAMBERLAIN. You are the best of them. JESSE COLLINGS. No, I won't admit that. CHAMBERLAIN. Name? JESSE COLLINGS. The best? Probably some one we don't yet even know. The best are still to come. Time's with us. CHAMBERLAIN. Is it? JESSE COLLINGS. Don't you think so yourself? CHAMBERLAIN. Not now. I did once. JESSE COLLINGS. You always said so. CHAMBERLAIN. I said it as long as I believed it: till the stars in their courses turned against me. That broke me, Collings. If I could have gone on having faith in myself, I shouldn't be--as I am now. JESSE COLLINGS. But what--what made you lose it? CHAMBERLAIN. Can't you guess? (_Collings shakes his head, remains valiantly incredulous; and there is a pause_.) I saw somebody else--whose cards weren't so good--playing with a better hand. It was the hand beat me. My head's all right still, though it sleeps. But I've lost my hand. Look at it! (_Again the gesture illustrative of defeat_.) Threw it away. You know who I mean? JESSE COLLINGS (_cautiously, _rather reluctantly_). I suppose I do. CHAMBERLAIN (_watching to see the effect of his news_). He's coming to-day: to see me. COLLINGS (_surprised_). Coming here? CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, it's all been nicely arranged--just a call in passing. To-morrow's papers will describe it as "a pathetic meeting." Well, when a man has to meet his executioner on friendly terms, I suppose it is "pathetic" for one of them. (_All this is very disconcerting to poor Collings. He helps himself to a half-sentence, and stops._) JESSE COLLINGS. Did he himself----? CHAMBERLAIN. Propose it? Oh, yes--in the most charming way possible. Isn't it amazing how a man with charm can do things that nobody else dare? I never managed to charm anybody. JESSE COLLINGS. You made friends--and kept them. CHAMBERLAIN. So does he. He has been successful all round: art, politics, letters, society--he has friends in all. I've only been successful in business. JESSE COLLINGS. My dear friend, aren't you forgetting yourself? You came _out_ of business. CHAMBERLAIN. No, I only changed to business on a larger scale--carried it on under a bigger name. That's how I found myself. I had to make things into a business in order to make a success of them. That was my method, Collings: glorify it as much as you like. And up to a point it was good business, I don't deny. That's how we ran local politics, invented the Caucus: Corporation Street is the result. That's how we managed to run Unionism: made a hard and fast contract of it, and made them stick to it. That's how I ran the Colonies--and the Boer War. That's how I was going to run the Empire on a Preferential Tariff. That came just too late. I'd made a mistake. JESSE COLLINGS. What mistake? CHAMBERLAIN. Collings, the Boer War wasn't good business. It might have been; but it lasted too long. Any modern war that isn't over in six months now is a blunder, you'll find. They were able to hold out too long. That did for me. There have been bees in my bonnet ever since--all because of it. Boers first; then Bannerman; then--Balfour. Just once my business instinct betrayed me, and I was done! JESSE COLLINGS. But--wasn't the war necessary? CHAMBERLAIN. To put the "business" on a sound footing? Yes, I thought so; it looked like it. No, it wasn't! But before I quite knew, there'd come a point where we couldn't go back; and so we just had to go on--and on. D'you know what was the cleverest thing said or done during that war?... You'd never guess ... but it's true. Campbell-Bannerman's "methods of barbarism" speech. We downed him for it at the time, but it caught on--it stuck. And it was on the strength of it (with C.-B. as their hope for the future) that the Boers were persuaded to make peace: saved our face for us. They might have gone on, till we got sick of it, and the world too. JESSE COLLINGS. I don't--I can't think you are right, Chamberlain. You are forgetting things. CHAMBERLAIN. No--I've had difficulty about thinking so myself; but, it has come to me. (_And so he sits and meditates over the point in his career where as a business man he first jailed. Presently he resumes_:) When two men, whose qualifications I used rather to despise, beat me at business, Collings--it was a facer! JESSE COLLINGS. Bannerman; and--the other? CHAMBERLAIN. Comes to see me to-day. But it won't be a business meeting. He'll not say anything about it--if he can help. JESSE COLLINGS. And you? CHAMBERLAIN. Perhaps I shall succumb to his charm. I've done so before now. JESSE COLLINGS. Have you and he--had words ever? CHAMBERLAIN. Differences of opinion, of course. "Words"? How should we? He was always so wonderfully accommodating, so polite, so apologetic even. Nobody ever had a finer contempt for his party than he--not even old Dizzy, or Salisbury, or Churchill. So he could always say the handsome thing to one--behind its back--even when he was making burnt-offerings to its prejudices. JESSE COLLINGS. And when you left him? CHAMBERLAIN. When I left him he did the thing beautifully. So genuinely sorry to lose me; so sure of having me with him again, before long. How could I have gone out and worked against him after that? But it's what--as a business politician--I ought to have done. JESSE COLLINGS. If you had--should we have won, straight away? CHAMBERLAIN. We should have won the party, and the party-machine too. For the rest it wouldn't have mattered waiting a year or two. Yes, we should have won. But here's this, Collings: we should have won then; we shan't win now. Times are changing: the time for it is over. Something else is coming along--what, I don't know. My old fox-scent has gone: wind's against me. The Colonies are growing up too fast. They won't separate, but they mean to stand on their own feet all the same: in their own way--not mine. We ought to have got them when they were a bit younger: we could have done it then. Once it flattered them to be called "Dominions "; now they are going to be "Sovereign States." And he--he doesn't mind. He is never for big constructive ideas--only for contrivances: takes things as they come, makes the best of them--philosophically--and gets round them; and sometimes does it brilliantly. JESSE COLLINGS. What will he talk about? CHAMBERLAIN. Anything that comes into his head: the weather, the garden, the greenhouses, the theatres. He'll tell me, perhaps, of a book or two that I ought to read, that he hasn't had time for. He'll say, as you said, that I'm looking better than he expected. He'll say something handsome about Austen--quite genuinely meaning it. Then he'll say he's afraid of tiring me; then he'll go.... Have you noticed how he shakes hands? He hasn't much of a hand--not a real hand--but he does it, like everything else, charmingly. JESSE COLLINGS (_a little crestfallen_). I thought you really liked him. CHAMBERLAIN. So I do. Because he has beaten me, is that any reason for hating him? If it were--after a lifetime of polls and politics, one would have to be at hate with half the world. No, from his point of view he had to beat me, and he has done it. What I stick at is that he has proved the better business man! As I used head and hand--and heart (_and_ heart, Collings!)-- JESSE COLLINGS. Yes, yes, I know you did. CHAMBERLAIN. Some people thought I hadn't a heart: "hard as nails" they called me.... Well, as I used those, so he used his defeats, his doubts, his indecision, his charm--and left his heart out. That was the real business-stroke. That did for me.... I liked him: he knew it. Whether he ever liked me, to this day, I don't know--for certain. If he did, it made no difference. That's what I call business. JESSE COLLINGS (_warmly_). But you've always been honourable. CHAMBERLAIN. So has he. Don't be sentimental, Collings! But some men manage in public life to give you a certain view of their character: so that you count on it. And then, on occasion, they play another--and get wonderful results. If I'd had that gift, I should have used it and done better. He has used it, and he has done better. I don't whine about it. But I'd rather, Collings (I suppose I'm prejudiced), I'd rather he hadn't asked himself here--just now: not just now. (_There is a pause, and Collings feels that he must say something; but finding nothing of any value to say, he merely commentates with a query_.) JESSE COLLINGS. What has "just now" to do with it? CHAMBERLAIN. "Just now," dear Collings, only means the next few months or so--possibly a year. That's all. I had rather he'd waited, and then just sent a wreath with the right sort of inscription on it. He could have done that charmingly too. And I haven't got wreaths here for _him_, for I don't think that even a posy of these would really interest him. (_And with a weary gesture he points to the orchids, as though they were things of which, not impossibly, "posies" might be made_.) JESSE COLLINGS (_a little perplexed by this introduction of wreaths and flowers into political affairs_). What does really interest him? He's so interesting himself. CHAMBERLAIN. You've hit it, Collings. It's himself. Not selfishly. He stands for so many things that he values--that he thinks good for the world--necessary for the stability of the social order. He is their embodiment: he is the most emblematic figure in the modern world that I know--in this country, at any rate--representing so much that is good in the great traditions which have got to go. And to stave off that day he will do almost anything. He would even--if he thought it would enable him the better to prick some of his bubbles--he would even take office under Lloyd George. (_At this point, unobtrusively, a Nurse enters and stands waiting_.) JESSE COLLINGS. I don't think we shall live to see that! CHAMBERLAIN. I shall not; you may. JESSE COLLINGS (_impulsively_). Chamberlain, I don't want to live after you! CHAMBERLAIN (_cajolingly_). Oh, yes, you do! Anyway--I want you to. You will send me a wreath that will be worth having. (_Whereat his quaint little companion leans forward, and, putting his two hands pleadingly on the swathed knees, wants to speak but cannot. Slowly the sick man lets down his own and covers them. And so, hand resting on hand, he continues speaking:_) Say what you like about the business man--the man who failed: he has known how to make friends--good ones. And you, Jesse Collings, have been one of the best: I couldn't have had a better. There's someone been waiting behind you to give you a hint that you are tiring me--staying too long. But you haven't: you never have. Perhaps, in the future, I shan't see enough of you; perhaps, from now on, my doctor will have to measure even my friends for me: three a day before meals. But I shall get life in bits still--as long as you are allowed to come. Yes, Nurse, you make take him away now! (_Jesse Collings rises, and stands by his friend with moist eyes_.) JESSE COLLINGS. Good-bye, my dear Joe, and--God bless you. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes ... good-bye! (_Hands press and part, and Jesse Callings tip-toes meekly out, apologising for the length of his stay by the softness of his going. Chamberlain's head drops, his face becomes more drawn, his hands more rigid and helpless. Without a word, his Nurse arranges his pillows, preparing him for the sleep to which his unresisting body gradually succumbs._) * * * * * (_Two hours later he is awake again, and the Nurse is removing a tray from which he has just taken some nourishment. He lifts his head and looks at her. At this sign that he is about to speak, she pauses. Presently the words come._) CHAMBERLAIN. Is he in there, waiting to see me? NURSE. Yes, sir. CHAMBERLAIN. Ask him to come in. NURSE. You want to see him alone, sir? (_There is a pause._) CHAMBERLAIN. I think only one at a time is enough--better for me: don't you? NURSE. It would be less tiring for you, sir. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes. Ask him to come in. (_So that being settled, she goes, and he sits waiting. The afternoon sunlight is making the orchids look more resplendently themselves than ever. So still, so vivid, so alive, they hang their snake-like heads in long pendulous clusters; and among them all there is not a single one which shows the slightest sign of falling-off or decay. Presently the door is softly opened, and the Nurse, entering only to retire again, ushers in the Distinguished Visitor, whose brow, venerable with intellect, and grey with the approach of age, crowns a figure still almost youthful in its elasticity and grace, and perfect in the deliberate ease and deportment of its entry into a situation which many would find difficult. As he approaches the wheeled chair, the kindness, modesty, and distinction of his bearing prepare the way before him, and his silence has already said the nicest of nice things, in the nicest possible way, before he actually speaks. This he does not do till he has already taken and held the hand which the other has tried to offer_.) DISTINGUISHED VISITOR. My dear Chamberlain, how very good of you to let me come? CHAMBERLAIN. Not too much out of your way, I hope? DIST. V. On the contrary, I could wish it were more, if that might help to express my pleasure in seeing you again. CHAMBERLAIN. Well, what there is of me, you see. You are looking well. DIST. V. And you--much better than I expected. CHAMBERLAIN. Did you expect anything? DIST. V. I was told that you had bad days occasionally, and were unable to see anybody. I hope I am fortunate, and that this is one of your good ones? CHAMBERLAIN. Well, as they've let you see me, I suppose so. I don't find much difference between my good and bad days. (Won't you sit down?) I'm still in the possession of my faculties; I sleep well, and I don't have pain. DIST. V. (_seating himself_). And my staying with you for a little is not going to tire you? CHAMBERLAIN. It's far more likely to tire you, I'm afraid. DIST. V. No, indeed not! Apart from anything else it is a welcome respite on the journey. Motoring bores me terribly. CHAMBERLAIN. Then you had really meant coming this way, in any case? DIST. V. I had been long intending to; and when, last week, Hewell proposed itself, all fitted together perfectly. CHAMBERLAIN. Are they having a house-party? DIST. v. I think not: I trust not. No, I believe a hint was dropped to them that it wasn't to be--that I was feeling far too stale for any such mental relaxation. CHAMBERLAIN. Are you? You don't look like it. DIST. V. In politics one tries not to look like anything; but how at the end of the session can one be otherwise? CHAMBERLAIN. Is all going on there--as usual? DIST. V. Yes...yes. I don't find being in opposition makes as much difference as I expected, as regards work. One misses the permanent official who always did it for one. Wonderful creatures--who first invented them? Pitt, or was it Pepys? Oh, no, he was one of them. A product, perhaps, of the seventeenth century. CHAMBERLAIN. In Tudor times Prime Ministers were permanent, weren't they? DIST. V. Their heads weren't. Executions took the place of elections in those days. And there's something to be said for it. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes. There was more dignity about it; it gave a testimonial of character; the other doesn't. DIST. V. Still, electoral defeat is very refreshing. Rejection by one's own constituents is sometimes a blessing in disguise: it saves one from undue familiarity.... That has never happened to you, has it? CHAMBERLAIN. It depends what one means by--constituents. In the strict sense--no. (_And now there is a pause, for something has been said that is not merely conversation. Very charmingly, and with a wonderful niceness of tone, the Distinguished Visitor accepts the opening that has been given him.)_ DIST. V. Chamberlain, I have been wanting to come and see you for a long time. CHAMBERLAIN. Thank you. So I--guessed. DIST. V. I wrote to you--a letter which you did not answer. Perhaps it did not seem to require an answer. But I hoped for one. So, after not hearing, I made up my mind to come and see you. CHAMBERLAIN. That was very kind of you. DIST. V. No, it wasn't; it was natural. We've worked together--so long. And I wanted to assure myself that there was, personally--that there is now--no cloud between us; no ill-feeling about anything. If I thought that remotely possible, I should regret it more than I can say. Speaking for myself---- CHAMBERLAIN. If you had not thought it possible--should you have come? DIST. V. I cannot conceive how that would have made any difference. CHAMBERLAIN. Still, if you had not thought it possible, you would hardly have asked the question. DIST. V. Well, now I have asked it. Speech is an overrated means of communication--especially between friends; but it has to serve sometimes. And you, at least, Chamberlain, have never used it as--Talleyrand, was it not?--recommended that it should be used--for concealment. CHAMBERLAIN. So you think that--in words at any rate--I've been honest? DIST. V. I should say pre-eminently. CHAMBERLAIN. And--loyal? DIST. V. I have never had differences--political divergences--with any man more loyal than you, Chamberlain. CHAMBERLAIN. Thank you. I value that--from you. So the question's answered. On my side there is no cloud, as you tell me I have nothing with which to reproach myself. DIST. V. Thank you for the reassurance. In that case the heavens are clear. CHAMBERLAIN. I hope they are properly grateful. Such a testimonial--from two men looking in opposite directions--is an embracing one. DIST. V. Opposite? Oh, I had hoped--though we may not see eye to eye in everything--that still, in the main, we were in general agreement. CHAMBERLAIN. Possibly. I daresay "a half-sheet of note-paper" might still cover our "general agreement," so long as we only talked about it. That served us for--two years, did it not? But I wasn't meaning--as to our political opinions. I meant that you are still looking to the future; I can only look back. DIST. V. That, for you, must be a retrospect of deep satisfaction. It has made much history. CHAMBERLAIN. Catastrophes make history--sometimes. DIST. V. You helped to avert them. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, for a time. But another may be coming, and I shan't be here then. And if I were, I should be no use. DIST. V. Oh, don't say that! Nor can I agree, either. No use? Your good word is a power we still depend on. No, Chamberlain, we cannot do without you. CHAMBERLAIN. You did--when you accepted my resignation. DIST. V. For a fixed and an agreed purpose. In a way that only bound us more closely. CHAMBERLAIN. I thought so then. But it has turned out differently. DIST. V. Has it? I should not have said so. Am I not to count on you still? CHAMBERLAIN. As a diminishing force? Yes; I shan't disappoint you. DIST. V. Oh! (_Deprecatingly, as of something that need not have been said_.) But not that at all! CHAMBERLAIN (_rubbing it in_). Necessarily: one who, as I said, can only look backward. Forward, I am nothing. Believe me, I have measured myself at last. This is no miscalculation--like the other. DIST. V. The other? CHAMBERLAIN. My resignation. DIST. V. Was that one? CHAMBERLAIN. It certainly had not the effect I intended. DIST. V. Surely you were not then intending to force me against my own judgment? CHAMBERLAIN. No; but I thought you, and the rest, would follow. DIST. V. I think we did: I think we still do. But sometimes, with followers, following takes time. CHAMBERLAIN. It will take more than my time. That is where I miscalculated. DIST. V. But, my dear Chamberlain--if one may be personal--you are maintaining your strength, are you not? The doctors--are hopeful? CHAMBERLAIN. The regulation paragraphs are supplied to the papers, if that's what you mean. DIST. V. But I had this from members of your own family. CHAMBERLAIN. Quite so; it is they who supply them. DIST. V. Then, if the source is so authoritative, surely it must be true. CHAMBERLAIN. Are newspaper paragraphs in such cases--ever true? DIST. V. Perhaps I am no judge. As you know, I seldom read them. CHAMBERLAIN. Aren't the probabilities that they will always overstate the case--as far as possible? DIST. V. That is a course which, as an old politician,--speaking generally--I must own has its advantages. So often, when things are uncertain, one has to act as if one were sure. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, you've done that--sometimes. Sometimes you haven't. I shouldn't call you an old politician, though. Being old is the thing you've always managed to avoid. And yet, you've been in at a good many political deaths first and last. DIST. V. That, in itself, is an ageing experience. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes? ... I wonder. DIST. V. Oh, but surely! CHAMBERLAIN. _I_ wasn't sure; but I take your word for it. DIST. V. In politics, somehow, the deaths seem always to exceed the births: those who go have become more intimate: one has got to know them. Yes, the departures do certainly overshadow the arrivals. CHAMBERLAIN. Yet sometimes they must have come to you as a relief. DIST. V. My dear Chamberlain, don't say that! It isn't true. CHAMBERLAIN. Oh! I wasn't thinking of myself just then. DIST. V. You were thinking, then, of somebody? CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, I was. I was thinking of George Wyndham. What a beautiful fellow he was! so clever, so handsome, so charming: a man cut out for success, by the very look of him. And then, all at once, down and out: the old pack had got him! How they hunted him! "Devolution!" Wouldn't they be glad to get that now? DIST. V. At the time it was impossible. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, you accepted that, I know. ... It broke his heart. ... Did you go and see him--when he was dying? DIST. V. I used to go and see him when I could--yes, frequently; we had been great friends. Not immediately--a month or two before, was the last time, I think. CHAMBERLAIN. And so with him, too, you could say that you remained friends to the last! You have had a wonderful career: friends, enemies, they all loved you. Gladstone (who hadn't as a rule much love for his political opponents) made an exception in your case. DIST. V. Yes, I owed a great deal to his generous friendship. It gave me confidence. CHAMBERLAIN. Harcourt, too, always spoke of you with affection. DIST. V. Oh, yes; we had a brotherly feeling about Rosebery, you know. CHAMBERLAIN (_ignoring his diversion_). Randolph hadn't though. He was bitter. DIST. V. Randolph was a performer who just once exceeded his promise, and then could never get back to it. That was his tragedy. Strange how, when he lost his following, his brilliancy all went with it. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, it was strange, in one so independent of others. He had a great faculty, at one time, for not caring, for being (or seeming) ruthless. It's a gift that a politician must envy. It hasn't been my way to lose my heart in politics: it's not safe. But--you charmed me. (_There is an implication here that the quiet tone has not obscured. And so the direct question comes_:) DIST. V. Chamberlain, I must ask. What is there between us? CHAMBERLAIN. Nothing--nothing now at all--or very little. DIST. V. No, no; you are too sincere to pretend to misunderstand me like that. CHAMBERLAIN. In politics can one afford to be quite--sincere? Openly, I mean? DIST. V. You have been--far more than others I could name. CHAMBERLAIN. That is a friendly judgment. Others wouldn't say so. If a man stays in politics till he ceases to be important, while others remain important, there's bound to be a change of relations. DIST. V. In our case I don't admit that it has happened. CHAMBERLAIN. Don't you? You were our partyleader. I broke away; so you had to break me. From your point of view you were right. I thought I knew the game better than you. I made a mistake. DIST. V. Do you mean, then, that you intended to break _me_? CHAMBERLAIN. Oh, no. But I meant to--persuade you. DIST. V. My view is that you did--very thoroughly. Surely I went a long way--conceded a great deal. CHAMBERLAIN. "Half a sheet of note-paper" was the measure of it. Yes, that speech was a great success, and you remained our leader. But your halving of that sheet was the beginning of--my defeat, your victory. DIST. V. I don't recognise either. At this moment we are both defeated, in a sense: out of office, that is to say. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, but you will come back. I shan't. DIST. V. But--in all its essentials--what you stand for will. CHAMBERLAIN. As a hang-fire, perhaps, while parties temporise and readjust themselves to a new balance. But never the same thing again. The time for it has gone. I missed it. DIST. V. You mustn't be depressed, Chamberlain. Great policies, new orientations, need careful nursing--testing too. Conditions are changing very rapidly. CHAMBERLAIN. Mine are getting worse. I have two nurses now--night and day: and I obey orders. DIST. V. You do well to remind me. You shouldn't have let me tire you. (_And so saying he rises_.) CHAMBERLAIN. You don't. You used to, now and then, when we didn't agree. You had the deliberate mind, your own fixed rate of progression: one couldn't hurry you. And your semitones, and semicircles, and semi-quavers used sometimes to worry me, I own. They don't now: having become a monotone myself, I acquiesce. _I'm_ the slow one, now: you've set me my pace.... Here I sit, stock still. DIST. V. (_lightly diverting the conversation from its impending embarrassment_). With your old associates still round you, I see! (_And he touches a trail of blossom admiringly, as he continues_:) They, at least, in their reflected glory, look flourishing; for they, too, have had a share in your career, have they not? CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, they helped me to get into _Punch_, I suppose, if not into Parliament. Yet, I never thought of it, till it happened--'twas a mere accident. Would you like to take one with you? DIST. V. I don't usually so efface myself, but I will with pleasure. This one is quite exquisite. May I? Thanks (_and the glory of it goes to his buttonhole_). I notice, too, that it has a scent. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, that is a new kind, hard to rear. There are very few of it in England yet, and nowhere growing so well as they do here. DIST. V. That is so like you, Chamberlain--you are the born expert; everything you touch--it's in your blood. Whatever you have done, you have done successfully. CHAMBERLAIN. So I have your word for it. I was saying to Collins this morning that as a type of the really successful man you had beaten me. DIST. V. I--a type of success? My dear Chamberlain! In my wildest dreams, I aim only at safety; and if my hesitations have sometimes distressed you, they have been far more distressing to myself. You yourself, in a moment of friendly candour, once described me (so I was told) as the champion stick-in-the-mud. CHAMBERLAIN. So I did, and it's true. But I said "champion." If you hadn't been such a champion at it, the mud would have swallowed you up alive. Instead of that, you have made it a tower of defence against your enemies. That's why I regard you not only as so successful, but so British. DIST. V. May I, at least, claim that even for self-defence I have not slung it at my opponents? CHAMBERLAIN. No. Why waste it? It's your use, not your misuse of it that I so admire. If you hadn't been such a wonderful politician, you might have been a great statesman. DIST. V. Doesn't that rather indicate failure? CHAMBERLAIN. No. Sometimes the political world has no use for statesmen-- except to down them. Sometimes it prefers politicians, and perhaps rightly. Every age makes its own peculiar requirements; and those who find out when the political line is the better one to follow, are the successful ones. You and I have been--politicians; let's be honest and own it. And now my particular politics are over. Circumstances have emptied me out. That's different from mere failure. Great statesmen have been failures; we've seen them go down, you and I--too big, too far-seeing for their day. But they went down _full_, with all the weight of their great convictions and principles still to their credit. I'm empty. Time has played me out. That's the difference. DIST. V. I am confident that history will give a different verdict. CHAMBERLAIN. Will it? When exactly does history begin to get written? Is a man's reputation for statesmanship safe, even after a hundred years? What about Pitt? Can one be so sure of him now? His European policy may have been a blunder; his great work in Ireland may yet have to be reversed. DIST. V. In reversed circumstances, that may become logical. But what has held good for a hundred year, I should incline to regard as statesmanship. CHAMBERLAIN. "Held good"? Fetters a man can't break "hold good "; but they make a prisoner of him all the same. Policies have done that to nations before now. But would you, on that score, say of them that they have held good? DIST. V. But let me understand, my dear Chamberlain, what exactly in Pitt's policy you now question? CHAMBERLAIN. Nothing: I can't see far enough ahead to question anything. I only say, when does history begin to get written? We don't know. DIST. V. What more can one do than direct it for the generation in which one lives? That, it seems to me, is our main responsibility. CHAMBERLAIN. Well, that's what you and I have done. How? Mainly by pulling down bigger men than ourselves. Randolph, Parnell, Gladstone--we got the better of them, didn't we? Have you never wondered why men of genius get sent into the world--only to be defeated? Gladstone was a bigger man than the whole lot of us; but we pulled him down--and I enjoyed doing it. Parnell, for all his limitations, was a great man. Well, we got him down too. And I confess that gave me satisfaction. You helped to pull Randolph down; but you didn't enjoy doing it. That's where you and I were different. DIST. V. I helped? CHAMBERLAIN. Yes; it had to be done. And you were sorry for him while you did it--just as you were sorry for Wyndham. DIST. V. But I did nothing! CHAMBERLAIN. Quite so. He came down here to fight us in the Central division, and the Conservatives were keen for it. It was touch and go: Unionists were not in such close alliance then; he might have succeeded. You did nothing; wouldn't back him. (Quite right, from my point of view.) Randolph went down: never the same man again. DIST. V. But, my dear Chamberlain, we had our agreed compact. CHAMBERLAIN. An official understanding, certainly. But that didn't prevent me from going to the Round-Table conference. That also was touch and go; it might have succeeded. Where would our compact have been, then? DIST. V. The Round-Table was merely an interrogation covering a forlorn hope. It failed because you remained loyal to your convictions. CHAMBERLAIN. It failed because one day two of us lost our tempers--one bragged, the other bullied. That was the real reason. If Gladstone had given me a large enough hand over his first Bill, d'you suppose I shouldn't have been a Home Ruler? I was to begin with, remember. DIST. V. Standing for a very different Bill, I imagine. CHAMBERLAIN. Which you would still have opposed. But I should have won. DIST. V. Certainly, if we had lost you, it would have made a difference. CHAMBERLAIN. I was younger then: I'd more push in me. But you would have let me go, all the same. Yes, I've always admired your courage when the odds were against you...So, when the time for it came, you pulled me down too. It had to be done. ...And here I am. DIST. V. My dear Chamberlain, you distress me deeply! CHAMBERLAIN. Of course I do. D'you think I haven't distressed myself too? Do I look like a man who hasn't been through anything? DIST. V. Then--there is a cloud between us, after all. CHAMBERLAIN. No. I see you clearly; I see myself clearly. There's no cloud about it; it's all sharp, and clear, and hard--hard as nails. And I've been able to put it into words--that now you understand. Poor Randolph! Do you remember how his tongue stumbled, and tripped him, the last time he spoke in the House? And I saw you looking on, pitying him. You'd got a kind side to you, for all your efficiency. Men like you for that--that charm...It's been a great asset to you. Parnell, how he tried all his life to make a speech and couldn't. But what he said didn't matter--there was the man! What a force he might have been--was! What a Samson, when he pulled the whole Irish Party down--got them all on top of him to pull with him. What d'you think he was doing then? Trying to give his Irish nation a soul! It looked like pride, pique, mere wanton destruction; but it was a great idea. And if ever they rise to it--if ever the whole Irish nation puts its back to the wall as Parnell wanted it to do then--shakes off dependence, alliance, conciliation, compromise, it may beat us yet! They were afraid of defeat. That's why we won. A cause or a nation that fears no defeat--nor any number of them--that's what wins in the long run. But does any such nation--any such cause exist? I'm not sure...I'm not really sure of anything now, only this: that it's better not to live too long after one has failed. To go on living then--is the worst failure of all. (_As be thus talks himself out, his auditor's solicitous concern has continually increased; and now when, for the first time, the voice breaks with exhaustion and emotion, the other, half-rising from his seat, interposes with gentle but insistent urgency.)_ DIST. V. My dear Chamberlain, you are overtaxing your strength; you are doing yourself harm. You ought not to go on. Stop, I do beg of you! CHAMBERLAIN. Stop? Why stop? What does it matter now? (_But even as he speaks, mind and will cease to contest the point where physical energy fails. His manner changes, his voice becomes dull and listless of tone_) Oh, yes...yes. You are quite right. It's time. I'm under orders now. Would you mind--the bell? (_Then, as the other is about to rise, he perceives that the Nurse has already entered, and now stands, unobtrusive but firm, awaiting the moment to reassert her sway_.) Oh, it's not necessary. There's the Nurse come again, to remind me that I mustn't tire myself in tiring you. (_And so, under the presiding eye of professional attendance, the Visitor rises and advances to take his leave._) Thank you--for coming. Thank you--for hearing me so patiently...You always did that, even though it made no difference...I wonder--shall I ever see you again? DIST. V. You shall. I promise. CHAMBERLAIN. I wonder. DIST. V. I assure you, I shall make a point of it. Believe me, I am very grateful for this opportunity you have given me; and even more am I grateful for all your long loyalty in the past. Through all differences, through all difficulties, I have felt that you were indeed a friend. So, till we meet again, my dear Chamberlain, good-bye! (_The two hands meet and part, while the Nurse moves forward to resume her professional duties. The Distinguished Visitor begins to retire_.) CHAMBERLAIN. Good-bye...You can find your way? DIST. V. (_turning gracefully as be goes_). Perfectly! (_And treating the door with the same perfection of courtesy as be treats all with whom he comes in contact, be goes to take his leave of other members of the family. The door closes; the Nurse is punching the pillows; Chamberlain speaks_:) CHAMBERLAIN. So that's the end, eh?... Charming fellow! (_And so saying, be settles back to the inattention of life to which he has become accustomed_.) The Instrument Dramatis Personae WOODROW WILSON (_Ex-President of the United States of America_) MR. TUMULTY (_His Secretary_) A GRACIOUS PRESENCE AN ATTENDANT The Instrument SCENE; _Washington. March 4th,_ 1921. _Through, the large windows of this rather stiffly composed sitting-room Washington conveys an ample and not unimpressive view of its official character. The distant architecture, rising out of trees, is almost beautiful, and would be quite, if only it could manage to look a little less self-satisfied and prosperous. Outside is a jubilant spring day; inside something which much more resembles the wintering of autumn. For though this is an entry over which the door has just opened and closed, it is in fact an exit, final and complete, from the stage of world-politics, made by one who in his day occupied a commanding position of authority and power. That day is now over. In the distance an occasional blare of brass and the beat of drums tells that processions are still moving through the streets of the capital, celebrating the inauguration of the new President. It is the kind of noise which America knows how to make; a sound of triumph insistent and strained, having in it no beauty and no joy. The Ex-President moves slowly across the room, bearing heavily to one side upon his stick, to the other upon the proudly protecting arm of his friend, Mr. Secretary Tumulty. Into the first comfortable chair that offers he lets himself down by slow and painful degrees, lay's his stick carefully aside, then begins very deliberately to pull off his gloves. When that is done, only then allowing himself complete relaxation, he sinks back in his chair, and in a voice of resigned weariness speaks_. EX-PRES. So ... that's over! TUMULTY. It hasn't tired you too much, I hope? EX-PRES. Too much for what, my dear Tumulty? I've time to be tired now. What else, except to be tired, is there left for me to do? TUMULTY. Obey doctor's orders. EX-PRES. He let me go. TUMULTY (_shrewdly_). You would have gone in any case. EX-PRES. Yes. (_Tumulty adjusts the cushions at his back_.) Thank you. TUMULTY (_seating himself_). Well, Governor, now you've seen him in place, what do you think of him? EX-PRES. Oh, I find him--quite--what I expected him to be. I think he means well. TUMULTY. A new President always does. EX-PRES. (_slowly pondering his words_). Yes ... that's true ... "means well." TUMULTY (_tactfully providing diversion_). The big crowd outside was very friendly, I thought. EX-PRES. Yes ... couldn't have been friendlier....It let me alone. TUMULTY. Well, of course, they'd come mainly to see the new President. EX-PRES. Of course. So had I. Yes, I believe Harding's a good man. He was very kind, very considerate. I feel grateful. TUMULTY (_with rich emotion_). That's how a good many of us are feeling to you, Governor: to-day very specially. It's what I've come back to say. EX-PRES. That's very good of you. We've had--differences of opinion; but you've always been loyal. TUMULTY. I think, President--Forgive me; the word slipped out. EX-PRES. No matter. TUMULTY. I think there's been more loyalty--at heart--than you know. Behind all our differences, in the party (as, with such big issues, couldn't be avoided)--well; they didn't cut so deep as they seemed to. They were all proud of you, even though we couldn't always agree. Of course there've been exceptions. EX-PRES. I don't want to judge the exceptions now (as perhaps I have done in the past) more hardly than I judge myself ... Tumulty, I've failed. TUMULTY (_extenuatingly_.) In a way--yes: for a time, no doubt. EX-PRES. Absolutely. TUMULTY. I don't agree. EX-PRES. Because you don't know. TUMULTY. Governor, I know a good deal. EX-PRES. Oh, yes; you've been a right hand to me--all through. Others weren't. So I had to leave them alone, and--be alone. When I made that choice, it seemed not to matter: my case was so strong--and I had such faith in it! It was that did for me! TUMULTY. Chief, I'm not out to argue with you--to make you more tired than you are already. But if I don't say anything, please don't think I'm agreeing with you. EX-PRES. I'm accustomed to people not agreeing with me, Tumulty.... Yes: too much faith--not in what I stood for, but in myself: perhaps--though there I'm not so sure--perhaps too little in others. To some I gave too much: and the mischief was done before I knew. TUMULTY. You don't need to name him, President. EX-PRES. I don't need to name anyone now. Sometimes a man may know his own points of weakness too well--guard against them to excess, be overcautious because of them; and then, trying to correct himself, just for once he's not cautious enough. But where I failed was in getting the loyalty and cooperation of those who didn't agree with me so thoroughly as you did. And I ought to have done it; for that is a part of government. Your good executive is the man who gets all fish into his net. I failed: I caught some good men, but I let others go. There was fine material to my hand which I didn't recognise, or didn't use so well as I should have done. I hadn't the faculty of letting others think for me: when I tried, it went badly; they didn't respond. So--I did all myself. TUMULTY (_airing himself a little_). You always listened to _me_, Governor. EX-PRES. Yes, Tumulty, yes. And you weren't offended when I--didn't pay any attention. TUMULTY. When you _had_ paid attention, you mean. EX-PRES. Perhaps I do. My way of paying attention has struck others differently. They think I'm one who doesn't listen--who doesn't want to listen. It's a terrible thing, Tumulty, when one sees and knows the truth so absolutely, but cannot convince others. That's been my fate: to be so sure that I was right (I'm as sure of that now as ever) and yet to fail. Here--there--it has been always the same. I went over to Paris thinking to save the Peace: there came a point when I thought it was saved; it would have been had the Senate backed me--it could have been done then. But when I put the case to which already we stood pledged, I convinced nobody. They did not want justice to be done. TUMULTY. But you had a great following, Governor. You had a wonderful reception when you got to Paris. EX-PRES. Yes: in London too. It seemed then as if people were only waiting to be led. But I'm talking of the politicians now. There was no room for conviction there; each must stick to his brief. That's what wrecked us. Not one--not one could I get to own that the right thing was the wise thing to do: that to be just and fear not was the real policy which would have saved Europe--and the world.... Look at it now! Step by step, their failure is coming home to them; but still it is only as failure that they see it--mere human inability to surmount insuperable difficulties: the greed, the folly, the injustice, the blindness, the cruelty of it they don't see. And the people don't teach it them. They can't. No nation--no victorious nation--has gotten it at heart to say, "We, too, have sinned." Lest such a thing should ever be said or thought, one of the terms of peace was to hand over all the blame; so, when the enemy signed the receipt of it, the rest were acquitted. And in that solemn farce the Allies found satisfaction! What a picture for posterity! And when they point and laugh, I shall be there with the rest. It's our self-righteousness has undone us, Tumulty; it's that which has made us blind and hard--and dishonest: for there has been dishonesty too. Because we were exacting reparations for a great wrong, we didn't mind being unjust to the wrongdoer. And so, in Paris, we spent months, arguing, prevaricating, manoeuvring, so as to pretend that none had had any share in bringing the evil about. When I spoke for considerate justice, there was no living force behind me in that council of the Nations. They wanted their revenge, and now they've got it: and look what it is costing them! (_And then the door opens, and an Attendant enters, carrying a, covered cup upon a tray. Upon this intrusion the Ex-President turns a little grimly; but before he can speak, Tumulty interposes_.) TUMULTY. You'll forgive this little interruption, Governor: I got domestic orders to see that you took it.... You will? (_The dictatorial expression softens: with a look of mild resignation the Ex-President touches the table for the tray to be set down. And when the Attendant has gone, he continues_:) EX-PRES. No, they wouldn't believe me when I said that to be revengeful would cost more than to be forgiving. And still they won't believe that the trouble they are now in comes--not from the destructiveness of the War, but from their own destruction of the Peace. I had the truth in me; but I failed. I was a voice crying into the void--a President without a people to back me: a dictator--of words! And they knew that my time was short, and that I had no power of appeal--because the heart of my people was not with me! If they had any doubt before, the vote of the Senate told them. TUMULTY. You said "the people," Governor? EX-PRES. The people's choice, Tumulty. The vote _for_ the Senate, and the vote _of_ the Senate: where's the difference? TUMULTY. Still, I don't think you know how many were with you right through: and I'm not speaking only of our own people. Over there it was your stand gave hope to the best of them, so long as hope was possible. But they were all so busy holding their breath, maybe they didn't make noise enough. Anyway--seems you didn't hear 'em. EX-PRES. You can't reproach me with it, Tumulty---- TUMULTY (_expostulant_). I'm not doing that, Governor! EX-PRES. ----more than I reproach myself. If that were true, then it was my business to know it. But what I ought to have known I realised too late. When I heard those shouting crowds--yes, then, for a while, I thought it did mean--victory. But in the Conference at Versailles--Paris-- I was in another world: the shouting died out, and I was alone.... I hadn't expected to be alone--in there, I mean. I had reckoned--was it wrong?--on honour counting among those in high places of authority for more than it did. We went in pledged up to the hilt: not in detail, not in legal terms, not as politicians, perhaps; but as men of honour--speaking each for the honour of our own nation. And that wasn't enough; for whom people stand pledged twice over--first in secret, then publicly--it's difficult to make them face where honour lies. TUMULTY. You mean the secret treaties, Governor. That's been a puzzle to many of us: what you knew about them, I mean. EX-PRES. Tumulty, I willed not to know them. Rumour of them reached me, of course. Had I then given them a Hearing, I might have been charged with complicity, the silence which gave consent. Many were anxious that I should know of them--at a time when opposition would have been very difficult--premature, outside my province. And so--by not knowing--I was free: and when I stated the basis of the Peace terms, I stated them (and I was secure then in my power to do so) in terms which should in honour have made those secret treaties no longer tenable. There was my first great error--I acknowledge it, Tumulty: that I believed in honour. TUMULTY (_reluctantly)._ Yes ... I see that. But it's the sort of thing one can only see after it has happened. You must have got a pretty deep-down insight into character, Governor, when you came to the top of things over there, to the top people, I mean. EX PRES. (_after a pause reflectively_). Yes. it was very interesting, when one got accustomed to it: highly selected humanity, representative of things--it was afraid of. There daily sat four of us--if one counts heads only; but we were, in fact, six, or seven, or eight characters. And the characters sprang up and choked us. Patriots, statesmen? oh yes! but also "careerists." Men whose future depends on the popular vote can't always be themselves--at least, it seemed not; for we should then have ceased to be "representative," and it was as representatives that we had come. And so one would sit and listen, and watch--one person, and two characters. Lloyd George, when his imagination was not swamped in self-satisfaction, was quite evangelical to listen to-- sometimes. But there he was representative--not of principles, nor of those visionary sparks which he struck so easily and threw off like matches, but of a successful election cry for "hanging the Kaiser" and "making Germany pay." And having got his majority, he and his majority had become one. But for that, he might--he just might ... yet who can tell? That tied him. I was alone. TUMULTY (_coming nobly to the rescue_). Then take this from me, Governor: for a man all alone you did wonders. EX-PRES. I did my best; but I failed. My first mistake was when I believed in honour; my second, when I let them shut the doors. Yes, to that he got me to agree. Clever, clever; that was his first win. TUMULTY. Who, Governor? EX-PRES. (_with a dry laugh_). The man who told me he was on my side. The reason?--a kindly means of saving faces for those whom he and I were going to "persuade"--of making the "climb-down" easier for them! That seemed a helpful, charitable sort of reason, didn't it? One it would have been hard to refuse. I didn't; so the doors were shut to cover defeat and disappointment over the secret treaties. Then they had me: three against one! And their weight told--quite apart from mere argument; for each had behind him the popular voice (and when one lost it--you may remember-- another came, and took his place). But against me the popular voice had shut its mouth: I, too, was an electioneer--a defeated one. Of my lease of power then, less than a year remained. After the Senate elections I was nothing. In Paris they knew it: and I could see in their eyes that they were glad. Yes, _he_ was glad, too. (_As he speaks, his head sinks in depression. There is a pause._) TUMULTY (_in his best sick-bed manner_). Governor, don't you think that you'd better rest now? EX-PRES. (_ignoring the remark_). And so the old secret diplomacy, balancing for power, with war as the only sure end of it, came back to life; and I--pledged to its secrecies with the rest--I had to stay dumb. I was a drowning man, then, Tumulty--clutching at straws, till I became an adept at it. There, perhaps, as you say, I did do "wonders"--of a kind: all I could, anyway. That was my plight, while there in Paris we held high court, and banqueted, and drank healths from dead men's skulls. Did nobody guess--outside--what was going on? I gave one signal that I thought was plain enough, when I sent for the _George Washington_ to bring me home again. But, though I listened for it then, there seemed no response. People were so busy, you say, holding their breath; and _that_ I couldn't hear. TUMULTY (_zealous, in a pause, to show his interest_). Well, Governor, well? EX-PRES. And then, rather than let me so go and spoil the general effect (the one power still left to me!), they began to make concessions-- concessions which, I see now, didn't amount to much; and so they persuaded me, and I stayed on, and signed my failure with the rest. TUMULTY (_for a diversion pointing to the covered cup_). Pardon me, Governor, you must obey orders, you know. They are not mine. EX-PRES. (_taking up the cup with a dry smile_). Executive authority has taught me that obeying orders is much simpler than giving them: you know when you've got them done. (_Removing the cover, he drains the cup and sets it down again_.) There! now let your conscience be at rest. (_After a pause he resumes_:) Tumulty, when I faced failure, when I knew that I had failed----Yes; don't trouble to contradict me. I know, dear friend, I know that you don't agree; and, God bless you! I also know why.----When I knew _that_, after the whole thing was over, and I was out again and free, do you suppose I wasn't tempted to go out and cry the truth (as some were expecting and wishing for it to be cried) in the ears of the whole world?--let all know that I _had_ failed, and so--that way at least--separate myself from the Evil Thing which there sat smiling at itself in its Hall of Mirrors--seeing no frustrate ghosts, no death's heads at that feast, as I saw them?... I came out a haunted man--all the more because those I was amongst didn't believe in ghosts--not then. People who have been overwhelmingly victorious in a great war find that difficult. But they will--some day. TUMULTY. Well, Governor, and supposing you had yielded to this "Temptation," as you call it, what's the proposition? EX-PRES. This ... I had one power--one weapon, still left to me unimpaired: to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God! And the proposition is just this: whether to be stark honest, even against the apparent interests of the very cause you are out to plead, is not in the long run the surest way--if it be of God-- to help it make good: whether defeat, with the whole truth told, isn't better than defeat hidden away and disowned, in the hope that something may yet come of it. You may get a truer judgment that way in the end; though at the time it may seem otherwise. Yes, I _was_ tempted to cry it aloud--to make a clean breast of it--to say, "We, the Governments of the People, the Democracies, the Free Nations of the world, have failed-- have lost the peace which we could have won, because we would not give up the things which we loved so much better--profit, revenge, our own too good opinion of ourselves, our own self-righteous judgment of others."... I was tempted to it; and yet it has been charged against me that I would not admit failure because I wanted to save my face. TUMULTY. You have never been much scared by what people _said_, Governor. That didn't count, I reckon. EX-PRES. No, Tumulty; but this did--that where all seemed dark, I still saw light. Down there, among the wreckage, something was left--an instrument of which I thought I saw the full future possibility more clearly than others. I believe I do still. And my main thought then was--how best to secure that one thing to which, half blindly, they had agreed. To win that, I was willing to give up my soul. TUMULTY. It's the Covenant, you mean, Governor? EX-PRES. Yes, the Covenant! That at least was won--seemed won--whatever else was lost. Some of them were willing to let me have it only because they themselves believed it would prove useless--just to save my face for all I had to give up in exchange. And so I--let them "save my face" for me; let them think that it was so--just to give this one thing its chance. And so, for that, and for that alone, I bound myself to the Treaty--stood pledged to do my utmost to see it through: a different thing, that, from telling the truth. Was I wrong, Tumulty--was I wrong? TUMULTY. No, no, Governor! You did everything a man could--under the circumstances. EX-PRES. I have said that often to myself: and I hope, sometimes, that it may be true. But a man who gives up anything of the truth, as he sees it, for reasons however good--can he ever be sure of himself again?... It's a new thing for me to ask another man if I have done wrong. But that's the way I feel: I don't myself know. And once, once, I was so sure--that I was right, and that I should win! (_The situation has now become one which the friendly Tumulty would like to control, but cannot. As a "soul-stirring revelation of character" he finds it, no doubt, immensely interesting; but to be thus made Father Confessor of the man whom he has followed with humble and dog-like devotion, knocks the bottom out of his world altogether. Moreover, he has received "domestic orders," and is not properly obeying them; and so, dominated by the stronger will, he glances apprehensively, now and again, toward the door, hoping that it may open and bring relief, but himself sits and does nothing. Meanwhile, insistent and remorseless at self-examination, the Ex-President continues to wear himself out_.) When a man comes really to himself, Tumulty--sees clearly within--does it help him toward seeing also what lies outside, beyond, and ahead--make him more sure that, as regards others, he has done right? I don't know--I would give my life to know--if what I did, when all else had failed, was best. The political forces, prejudices, antagonisms, the powers of evil around me, have been so dubiously deceiving and dark, that I do not know now whether to have been uncompromisingly true to principle would have done any good. Perhaps after to-day I shall know better; perhaps only now have I become qualified to judge--a free man at last. Only in the secrecy of my own heart--now finally removed from all the interests, ambitions, fears, which gather about a man's public career--I do most earnestly and humbly pray that in this one thing I did right--not to discredit myself too utterly in the world's eyes, so that _that_, at least, might live. TUMULTY (_doing his best_). It _will_ live, Governor! EX-PRES. It _may_. But in what hands have I had to leave it? To men who have no faith in it, to men who dislike it, to men who will try persistently, sedulously, day in, day out, to turn it back to their own selfish ends. There, in those hands, its fate will lie--perhaps for a generation to come. And it is only by faith in the common people, not in their politicians, that I dare look forward and hope that the instrument-- blunt and one-sided though it be now--may yet become mighty and two-edged and sharp, a sword in the hand of a giant--of one whose balances are those of justice, not of power. But _I_ shan't see it, Tumulty; it won't be in my day. If America had come in, I should! That was the keystone of my policy: that gone, my policy has failed. That was my faith--is still; for faith can live on when policies lie dead. Think what it might have been! America, with that weapon to her hand, could have shaped the world's future, made it a democracy of free nations--image and superscription no longer Caesar's--but Man's. That--that was what I saw! TUMULTY. Perhaps they saw it too, Governor. If they did, it might help to explain matters. EX-PRES. The Covenant was the instrument--and would have sufficed. So organised, America's voice in all future contentions would have been too strong, and just, and decisive to be gainsayed. Then life would have been in it, then it would have prospered and become mighty. It would have meant--within a generation from now--world-peace. Of that I had a sure sense: it would have come. To make that possible, what I had to yield to present jealousies, discords, blindness, was of no account--only look far enough! For there, in the future, was the instrument for correcting them-- the people's vote for the first time internationally applied. And I had in me such faith that America, secure of her place in the world's councils, would have wrought to make justice international, and peace no longer a dream! Was I wrong, Tumulty, was I wrong? TUMULTY (_expanding himself_). No man who believes in America as much as I do will ever say you were wrong, Governor. EX-PRES. But when America stood out--when the Senate refused to ratify-- then I _was_ wrong. For then, what I had backed--all that remained then--was a thing of shreds and patches. Nobody can think worse of the Treaty than I do with America out of it, with the Covenant left the one-sided and precarious thing it now is. Had we only been in it--the rest wouldn't have mattered. Call it a dung-heap, if you like; yet out of it would have sprung life. It may still; but _I_ shan't see it, Tumulty; and that vision, which was then so clear, has become a doubt. Was I wrong--was I wrong to pretend that I had won anything worth winning? Would it not have been better to say "I have failed"? TUMULTY. Forgive me, Governor: you are looking at things from a tired-out mind. That's not fair, you know. EX-PRES. But if you knew, oh, if you knew against what odds I fought even to get that! They knew that they had got me down; and the only card left me at last was their own reluctance to let a discredited President go back to his own people and show them his empty hands, and tell them that he had failed. So a bargain was struck, and this one thing was given me, that peradventure it might have life--if I, for my part, would come back here and plead the ratification of the Treaty which they--and I--had made. Could I have done that with any effect, had I said that in almost everything I had failed? TUMULTY. Chief, I think you did right. But I still feel I'm up a back street. How could things have come to fail as much as they did? After all, it was a just war. EX-PRES. Tumulty, I have been asking myself whether there can be such a thing as a "just war." There can be--please God!--there must be sometimes a just _cause_ for war. When one sees great injustice done, sees it backed by the power of a blindly militarised nation, marching confidently to victory, then, if justice has any place in the affairs of men, there is sometimes just cause for war. But can there be--a just war? I mean--when the will to war takes hold of a people--does it remain the same people? Does war in its hands remain an instrument that can be justly used? Can it be waged justly? Can it be won justly? Can it, having been won, make to a just peace? No! Something happens: there comes a change; war in a people's mind drives justice out.... Can soldiers fight without "seeing red"--can a nation? Not when nations have to fight on the tremendous scale of modern war. Then they are like those monstrous mechanisms of long-range destructiveness, which we so falsely call "weapons of precision," but which are in fact so horribly unprecise that, once let loose, we cannot know what lives of harmlessness, of innocence, of virtue, they are going to destroy. You find your range, you fix your elevation, you touch a button: you hear your gun go off. And over there, among the unarmed--the weak, the defenceless, the infirm--it has done--what? Singled out for destruction what life or lives; ten, twenty, a hundred?--you do not know. So with nations, when once they have gone to war; their imprecision becomes--horrible; though the cause of your war may be just. (_Tumulty gives a profound nod, paying his chief the compliment of letting it be seen that he is causing him to think deeply_.) That's what happened here. Do you remember, did you realise, Tumulty, what a power my voice was in the world--till we went in?--that, because I had the power to keep them back from war (for there my constitutional prerogative was absolute), even my opponents had to give weight to my words. They were angry, impatient, but they had to obey. And, because they could not help themselves, they accepted point by point my building up of the justice of our cause. They didn't care for justice; but I spoke for the Nation then; and, with justice as my one end, I drove home my point. And then--we went in. After that, justice became vengeance. When our men went over the trenches, fighting with short arms, "_Lusitania!_" was their cry: and they took few prisoners--you know that, Tumulty. (_Over that point the Ex-President pauses, though Tumulty sees no special reason why he should pause._) The _Lusitania_ had been sunk, and still we had not gone to war, and no crowds came to cry it madly outside the White House as they might have done--if that was how they felt then. The _Lusitania_ lies at the bottom of the sea. There are proposals for salving her; but I think that there she will remain. The salving might tell too much. TUMULTY. You mean that talk about fuse caps being on board might have been true? Would it matter now? EX-PRES. Yes. It was a horrible thing in any case--disproportionate, like most other acts of war--and it did immeasurable harm to those who thought to benefit. But this--I still only guess--might do too much good--bring things a little nearer to proportion again, which the Treaty did not try to do.... What I've been realising these last two years is a terrible thing. You go to war, you get up to it from your knees--God driving you to it--unable, yes, unable to do else. Your will is to do right, your cause is just, you are a united nation, a people convinced, glad, selfless, with hearts heroic and clean. And then war takes hold of it, and it all changes under your eyes; you see the heart of your people becoming fouled, getting hard, self-righteous, revengeful. Your cause remains, in theory, what it was at the beginning; but it all goes to the Devil. And the Devil makes on it a pile that he can make no otherwise--because of the virtue that is in it, the love, the beauty, the heroism, the giving-up of so much that man's heart desires. That's where he scores! Look at all that valiance, that beauty of life gone out to perish for a cause it knows to be right; think of the generosity of that giving by the young men; think of the faithful courage of the women who steel themselves to let them go; think of the increase of spirit and selflessness which everywhere rises to meet the claim. All over the land which goes to war that is happening (and in the enemy's land it is the same), making war a sacred and a holy thing. And having got it so sanctified, then the Devil can do with it almost what he likes. That's what he has done, Tumulty. If angels led horses by the bridle at the Marne (as a pious legend tells), at Versailles the Devil had his muzzled oxen treading out the corn. And of those--I was one! Yes; war muzzles you. You cannot tell the truth; if you did, it wouldn't be believed. And so, finally, comes peace; and over that, too, the Devil runs up his flag--cross-bones and a skull. TUMULTY (_struggling in the narrow path between wrong and right_). But what else, Governor, is your remedy? We had to go to war; we were left with no choice in the matter. EX-PRES. No, we _had_ no choice. And what others had any choice?-- what people, I mean? But that is what everyone--once we were at war-- refused to remember. And so we cried "_Lusitania!_" against thousands of men who had no choice in the matter at all. Remedy? There's only one. Somehow we must get men to believe that Christ wasn't a mad idealist when He preached His Sermon on the Mount; that what He showed for the world's salvation then was not a sign only, but the very Instrument itself. We've got to make men see that there's something in human nature waiting to respond to a new law. There are two things breeding in the world--love and hatred; breeding the one against the other. And there's fear making hatred breed fast, and there's fear making love breed slow. Even as things now are, it has managed--it has just managed to keep pace; but only just. If men were not afraid--Love would win. That, I've come to see, is the simple remedy; but it's going to be the hardest thing to teach--because all the world is so much afraid. (_And then, the worn, haggard man, having thus talked himself out, there enters by the benign intervention of Providence a Gracious Presence, more confident than he in her own ruling power. She moves quietly toward them, and her voice, when she speaks, is corrective of a situation she does not approve_!) THE PRESENCE. Mr. Tumulty ... my dear. (_Resting her hands on the back of the Ex-President's chair, she surveys them benevolently but critically. Then her attention is directed to the covered cup standing on its tray_!) Have you taken your---- EX-PRES. My medicine? Yes. Your orders came through, and have been obeyed. THE PRESENCE. It wasn't medicine. I made it myself. EX-PRES. Then I beg its pardon--and yours. THE PRESENCE. Will you please to remember that your holiday began at twelve o'clock to-day? I'm not going to allow any overtime now. EX-PRES. That settles it, then, Tumulty. And that means you are to go. I had just been saying, my dear, how much simpler it was to obey orders than to give and to get them obeyed. THE PRESENCE. Getting them obeyed is quite simple. It is merely a matter of how you give them. EX-PRES. You see, Tumulty--it's all a matter of "how." THE PRESENCE. There's someone waiting to speak to you on the 'phone: wants to know how you are. I thought I would come and see first. EX-PRES. Who is it? THE PRESENCE (_indicating the receiver_). He's there. (_The Ex-President reaches out his hand, and Tumulty from an adjoining table gives him the instrument. As he listens, they stand watching him._) EX-PRES. Oh, yes.... That's very kind of him.... Please will you tell the President, with my best thanks, that I am greatly enjoying my holiday.... Thank you.... Good-bye. (_He gives the instrument back to the waiting Tumulty._) TUMULTY (_with swelling-bosom_). Governor, that was a great answer! EX-PRES. Easily said, Tumulty. But is it true? (_But Tumulty's breast is such a platform for the generous emotions that he does not really care whether it is true or not. And therein, between himself and his hero, lies the difference. Grasping his fallen leader forcefully by the hand and murmuring his adieux in a voice of nobly controlled emotion, he obeys the waiting eye of the Gracious Presence, and goes. And as she sees him serenely to the door, the Ex-President looks ruefully at his painfully oversqueezed hand, and begins rubbing it softly. Even the touch of a friend sometimes hurts._) (_The door closes: the two are alone. She who-must-be-obeyed stands looking at him with a benevolent eye_.) 16965 ---- [Frontispiece: QUEEN VICTORIA] QUEEN VICTORIA _BY_ E. GORDON BROWNE, M.A. _WITH TWELVE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS_ LONDON GEORGE G. HARRAP & COMPANY 2 & 3 PORTSMOUTH STREET KINGSWAY W.C. MCMXV _Turnbull & Spears, Printers, Edinburgh, Great Britain_ _Contents_ CHAPTER I. A LOOK BACK II. CHILDHOOD DAYS III. EARLY YEARS IV. HUSBAND AND WIFE V. FAMILY LIFE VI. STRIFE VII. THE CHILDREN OF ENGLAND VIII. MINISTERING WOMEN IX. BALMORAL X. THE GREAT EXHIBITION XI. ALBERT THE GOOD XII. FRIENDS AND ADVISERS XIII. QUEEN AND EMPIRE XIV. STRESS AND STRAIN XV. VICTORIA THE GREAT _Illustrations_ QUEEN VICTORIA THE QUEEN'S FIRST COUNCIL AT KENSINGTON PALACE KENSINGTON PALACE THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF KENT THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE QUEEN'S ACCESSION PRINCE ALBERT BUCKINGHAM PALACE FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE QUEEN VICTORIA IN THE HIGHLANDS THE ALBERT MEMORIAL SIR ROBERT PEEL, LORD MELBOURNE, AND BENJAMIN DISRAELI THE SECRET OF ENGLAND'S GREATNESS THE VICTORIA AND ALBERT MUSEUM CHAPTER I: _A Look Back_ In the old legend of Rip Van Winkle with which the American writer Washington Irving has made us so familiar, the ne'er-do-weel Rip wanders off into the Kaatskill Mountains with his dog and gun in order to escape from his wife's scolding tongue. Here he meets the spectre crew of Captain Hudson, and, after partaking of their hospitality, falls into a deep sleep which lasts for twenty years. The latter part of the story describes the changes which he finds on his return to his native village: nearly all the old, familiar faces are gone; manners, dress, and speech are all changed. He feels like a stranger in a strange land. Now, it is a good thing sometimes to take a look back, to try to count over the changes for good or for evil which have taken place in this country of ours; to try to understand clearly why the reign of a great Queen should have left its mark upon our history in such a way that men speak of the Victorian Age as one of the greatest ages that have ever been. If an Elizabethan had been asked whether he considered the Queen of England a great woman or not, he would undoubtedly have answered "Yes," and given very good reasons for his answer. It was not for nothing that the English almost worshipped their Queen in "those spacious times of great Elizabeth." Edmund Spenser, one of the world's great poets, hymned her as "fayre Elisa" and "the flowre of Virgins": Helpe me to blaze Her worthy praise; Which, in her sexe doth all excell! Throughout her long reign, courtiers, statesmen, soldiers, and people all united in serving her gladly and to the best of their powers. Yet she could at times prove herself to be hard, cruel, and vindictive; she was mean, even miserly, when money was wanted for men or ships; she was excessively vain, loved dress and finery, and was often proud almost beyond bearing. Notwithstanding all her faults, she was the best beloved of all English monarchs because of her never-failing courage and strength of mind, and she made the Crown respected, feared, and loved as no other ruler had done before her, and none other, save Queen Victoria, has reigned as she did in her people's hearts. She lived for her country, and her country's love and admiration were her reward. During her reign the seas were swept clear of foreign foes, and her country took its place in the front rank of Great Powers. Hers was the Golden Age of Literature, of Adventure and Learning, an age of great men and women, a New England. If an Elizabethan Rip Van Winkle had fallen asleep and awakened again at the opening of Victoria's reign, more than 200 years later, what would he have found? England still a mighty Power, it is true, scarcely yet recovered from the long war against Napoleon, with Nelson and Wellington enthroned as the national heroes. But the times were bad in many ways, for it was "a time of ugliness: ugly religion, ugly law, ugly relations between rich and poor, ugly clothes, ugly furniture." The England of that day, it must be remembered, was the England described so faithfully in Charles Dickens' early works. It was far from being the England we know now. In 1836 appeared the first number of Mr Pickwick's travels. _The Pickwick Papers_ is not a great work of humour merely, for in its pages we see England and the early Victorians--a strange country to us--in which they lived. It is an England of old inns and stagecoaches, where "manners and roads were very rough"; where men were still cast into prison for debt and lived and died there; where the execution of a criminal still took place in public; where little children of tender years were condemned to work in the depths of coal-pits, and amid the clang and roar of machinery. It was a hard, cruel age. No longer did the people look up to and reverence their monarch as their leader. England had yet to pass through a long and bitter period of 'strife and stress,' of war between rich and poor, of many and bewildering changes. The introduction of coal, steam, and mechanism was rapidly changing the character of the whole country. The revenue had grown from about 19,000,000 pounds in 1792 to 105,000,000 pounds in 1815, and there seemed to be no limit to the national wealth and resources. But these very changes which enriched some few were the cause of misery and poverty to struggling thousands. Machinery had ruined the spinning-wheel industry and reduced the price of cloth; the price of corn had risen, and, after the close of the great war, other nations were free once again to compete against our country in the markets where we so long had possessed the monopoly of trade. [Illustration: The Queen's first Council at Kensington Palace Photo W.A. Mansell & Co.] The period which followed the year 1815 was one of incessant struggle for reform, and chiefly the reform of a Parliament which no longer represented the people's wishes. Considerably more than half the members were not elected at all, but were recommended by patrons. The average price of a seat in Parliament was 5000 pounds for a so-called 'rotten borough.' Scotland returned forty-five members and Cornwall forty-four members to Parliament! The reformers also demanded the abolition of the 'taxes on knowledge,' by which was meant the stamp duty of fourpence on every copy of a newspaper, a duty of threepence on every pound of paper, and a heavy tax upon advertisements. The new Poor Laws aroused bitter discontent. Instead of receiving payment of money for relief of poverty, as had formerly been the case, the poor and needy were now sent to the 'Union' workhouse. A series of bad harvests was the cause of great migrations to the factory towns, and the already large ranks of the unemployed grew greater day by day. The poverty and wretchedness of the working class is painted vividly for us by Carlyle when he speaks of "half a million handloom weavers, working 15 hours a day, in perpetual inability to procure thereby enough of the coarsest food; Scotch farm-labourers, who 'in districts the half of whose husbandry is that of cows, taste no milk, can procure no milk' . . . the working-classes can no longer go on without government, without being _actually_ guided and governed." Such was Victoria's England when she ascended the throne, a young girl, nineteen years of age. CHAPTER II: _Childhood Days On the western side of Kensington Gardens stands the old Palace, built originally in the solid Dutch style for King William and Mary. The great architect, Sir Christopher Wren, made notable additions to it, and it was still further extended in 1721 for George the First. Within its walls passed away both William and his Queen, Queen Anne and her husband, and George the Second. After this time it ceased to be a royal residence. The charm of Kensington Gardens, with its beautiful walks and secluded sylvan nooks--the happy hunting-ground of London children and the home of 'Peter Pan'--has inspired many writers to sing its praises: In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; And at its end, to stay the eye, Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine trees stand! Birds here make song, each bird has his, Across the girding city's hum. How green under the boughs it is! How thick the tremulous sheep cries come! Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless, active life is here! What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. MATTHEW ARNOLD Beaconsfield spoke of its "sublime sylvan solitude superior to the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior only in extent to the chestnut forests of Anatolia." Kensington Palace was the birthplace of Queen Victoria, and in the garden walks she used to play, little knowing that she would one day be Queen of England. Her doll's house and toys are still preserved in the rooms which she inhabited as a little girl. [Illustration: KENSINGTON PALACE] Four years had passed since the battle of Waterloo when the Princess Victoria was born, and England was settling down to a time of peace after long years of warfare. In 1830 George the Fourth died, and was succeeded by his brother, the Duke of Clarence, as William the Fourth, the 'sailor king.' Though not in any respect a great monarch, he proved himself to be a good king and one who was always wishful to do the best that lay in his power for the country's good. He was exceedingly hospitable, and gave dinners to thousands of his friends and acquaintances during the year, particularly inviting all his old messmates of the Navy. He had two daughters by his marriage, and as these both died young it was evident that the Princess Victoria might some day succeed to the throne. Her father, the Duke of Kent, married the Dowager Princess of Leiningen, who was the sister of Prince Leopold, afterward King of the Belgians. As a young man the Duke had seen much service, for when he was only seventeen years of age he entered the Hanoverian army, where the discipline was severe and rigid. He afterward served in the West Indies and Canada, and on his return to England he was made a peer with the title of Duke of Kent. He was afterward General and Commander-in-Chief in Canada and Governor of Gibraltar. At the latter place his love of order and discipline naturally made him unpopular, and, owing to strong feeling on the part of the troops, it was considered wise to recall the Duke in 1803. In 1816 he settled in Brussels, and soon afterward met his future wife in Germany. Princess Victoire Marie Louise was the youngest daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Coburg and widow of Prince Charles of Leiningen, who on his death had left her as the regent of his principality. They were married at Coburg in May 1818. Some months afterward they came over to England, and on May 24, 1819, their daughter Alexandrina Victoria was born. [Illustration: The Duke of Kent Sir Wm. Beechey Photo W.A. Mansell & Co.] [Illustration: The Duchess of Kent and Princess Victoria Sir Wm. Beechey Photo W.A. Mansell & Co.] The Duke still kept up his simple, soldierly habits, for throughout his life he had always believed in regularly ordering one's day. He rose betimes and took a cup of coffee at six o'clock. Each servant of the household was allotted his or her regular duties, and was obliged at least once a day to appear before the Duke. There was a separate bell for each servant, and punctuality in attendance was insisted upon. The christening was attended by members of the Royal Family, and a dinner was held to celebrate the happy event. The Duke and Duchess removed soon afterward to Devonshire, and they were both much pleased with the beautiful surroundings of their new home. The Duke wrote at this time of his daughter: "My little girl thrives under the influence of a Devonshire climate, and is, I am delighted to say, strong and healthy; too healthy, I fear, in the opinion of some members of my family, by whom she is regarded as an intruder. How largely she contributes to my happiness at this moment it is needless for me to say to you." The Duke had been determined from the first that his child should be born in England, for he wished her to be English both in upbringing and in feeling. His wife, who is described by those who knew her as being a singularly attractive woman, full of deep feeling and sympathy, fully shared his views on this point. In January 1820, when only fifty-three years of age, the Duke died quite suddenly from inflammation of the lungs, following upon a neglected cold. He was a man of deep religious feeling, and once in talking to a friend about his little daughter's future career he said earnestly: "Don't pray simply that hers may be a brilliant career, and exempt from those trials and struggles which have pursued her father, but pray that God's blessing may rest on her, that it may overshadow her, and that in all her coming years she may be guided and guarded by God." The widowed mother now returned to London, where the Duchess of Clarence, afterward Queen Adelaide, interested herself greatly in little Victoria. The Duchess now devoted herself entirely to the care of her child, and never did any little girl have a more loving and devoted mother. As much time as possible was spent in the open air, and Victoria went for rides about Kensington on a donkey, which was led by an old soldier, a great friend and favourite. She always had her breakfast and supper with her mother, and at nine o'clock retired to her bed, which was placed close to her mother's. Until the time of her accession she led as simple and regular a life as thousands of other little girls. Many stories are told of her early years to illustrate the thoroughness of her home training. Even as a small child she was absolutely truthful, and her chief fault--that of wilfulness--was due to some extent to her high spirits and abundant energy. She was especially fond of dolls, and possessed a very large number, most of which were dressed as historical personages. She had practically no playmates of her own age, and in later life she often spoke of these early years as being rather dull. A description of her at this period runs: "She was a beautiful child, with the cherubic form of features, clustered round by glossy, fair ringlets. Her complexion was remarkably transparent, with a soft and often heightening tinge of the sweet blush rose upon her cheeks that imparted a peculiar brilliancy to her clear blue eyes. Whenever she met any strangers in her usual paths she always seemed by the quickness of her glance to inquire who and what they were." There was, as was natural, much correspondence between England and Saxe-Coburg, the home of the Duchess, for the second son of the Duke of Coburg, Charles Albert Augustus Emmanuel, was already spoken of as being destined to be Victoria's husband in the future. Prince Albert had been born at Rosenau on August 19, 1819, and was thus slightly younger than his cousin. He is spoken of as being a very handsome boy, "like a little angel with his fair curls," and was for a time much spoilt until his father interfered and superintended the children's education himself. Ernest, the elder son, gives us a charming picture of his father: "We children beheld in him, and justly, our ideal of courtesy, and although he never said a harsh word to us, we bore towards him, through all our love and confidence, a reverence bordering on fear. He never lectured, seldom blamed; praised unwillingly; and yet the effect of his individuality was so powerful that we accomplished more than if we had been praised or blamed. When he was once asked by a relative whether we were industrious and well behaved, he answered: 'My children cannot be naughty, and as they know well that they must learn in order to be worthy men, so I do not trouble myself about it.'" The Duke liked both his sons to listen to the conversation of their elders and to take an interest in art and literature. Outdoor exercise, riding, fishing, hunting, and driving formed part of their education; they were taught from the first to endure cold and discomfort without complaint or murmur. The religious teaching they received had a deep and lasting influence upon the two boys, both at that time and in later years. But they had a thoroughly happy boyhood and did not suffer from a lack of companions. After their confirmation their father took them on a visit to several Courts in Germany, and also to Vienna--a journey which was intended to open their minds to the great world of which they had learnt so much and seen so little; and it was about this time that King Leopold, the brother of the Duke of Coburg, thought it wise to make a careful inquiry into the life and character of the young Prince. CHAPTER III: _Early Years_ God save thee, weeping Queen! Thou shalt be well beloved! The tyrant's sceptre cannot move, As those pure tears have moved! E.B. BROWNING When she was five years old the Princess Victoria began to have lessons, chiefly with a governess, Miss von Lehzen--"my dearly beloved angelic Lehzen," as she called her. These two remained devotedly attached to one another until the latter's death in 1870. The young Princess was especially fond of music and drawing, and it was clear that if she had been able to devote more time to study she would in later years have excelled in both subjects. Her education was such as to fit her for her future position of Queen of England. The Princess did not, however, know that she was likely at any future time to be Queen. She read much, chiefly books dealing with history, and these were often chosen for her by her uncle, the King of the Belgians. The family life was regular and simple. Lessons, a walk or drive, very few and simple pleasures made up her day. Breakfast was at half-past eight, luncheon at half-past one, and dinner at seven. Tea was allowed only in later years as a great treat. The Queen herself said: "I was brought up very simply--never had a room to myself till I was nearly grown up--always slept in my mother's room till I came to the throne." Sir Walter Scott wrote of her at this period of her life: "This little lady is educated with much care, and watched so closely that no busy maid has a moment to whisper, 'You are heir of England.' I suspect if we could dissect the little heart, we should find some pigeon or other bird of the air had carried the matter." In 1830 her uncle, George the Fourth, died, and his brother, William the Fourth, came to the throne. The young Princess was now the next in succession. Her governess thought that her pupil should be told of this fact, and as the Duchess of Kent agreed, the table of genealogy was placed inside Victoria's history book, where by and by she found it. The story goes that she then said, "I see, I am nearer the throne than I thought," and giving her hand to her governess added: "I will be good. I understand now, why you urged me so much to learn, even Latin. My cousins Augusta and Mary never did, but you told me that Latin was the foundation of English grammar, and of all the elegant expressions, and I learned it as you wished. But I understand it all better now." In later years the Queen recollected crying very much when she heard of it, but could not recall exactly what had happened. It is interesting to note what those who knew little Victoria at this time say about her. She was, we are told, exceedingly affectionate, very full of high spirits, fond of life in the open air, and already possessed a strong sense of duty and religion. She had been taught by her devoted uncle Leopold, with whom she corresponded regularly, how necessary it was for her to understand thoroughly the duties which fall to the share of a ruler. During the years which followed she went more into society and paid visits to the most interesting places in the kingdom. Everywhere she went she was received with the greatest enthusiasm. In 1830 the Duke of Coburg, with his two sons, Ernest and Albert, arrived at Kensington Palace on a visit, and thus the Princess met for the first time her future husband. Her uncle Leopold had long desired to carry out the cherished wish of his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Coburg, that the two cousins should be united in marriage. During William the Fourth's lifetime all mention of such a marriage had to be kept secret, as the King much disliked the Coburg family, and had more than once been very rude to the Duchess of Kent. Victoria wrote to her uncle saying how much she liked Albert in every way, and that he possessed every quality that could be desired to render her perfectly happy. She was very anxious that her uncle should take her cousin under his special protection. On May 24, 1837, Victoria attained her majority. She received numbers of magnificent presents, congratulations from public bodies, and in the evening a State Ball was given at St James's Palace. On Tuesday, June 20 of that year, at twelve minutes past two, King William the Fourth died. The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chamberlain set out at once for Kensington to convey the sad news. They arrived at five in the morning, and were told that the Princess was asleep. They replied that they were on important business of State to the Queen, and even her sleep must give way to that. Our illustration depicts the scene which then ensued. [Illustration: The Announcement of the Queen's Accession by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chancellor H.T. Wells, R.A. Photo W.A. Mansell & Co.] Even during the first days of her reign, the Queen's dignity, calm, and knowledge of State affairs astonished her ministers, and were complete proof of the careful training she had received during her girlhood days. Greville, Clerk to the Council, wrote: "She presided with as much ease as if she had been doing nothing else all her life. . . . The gracefulness of her manner and the good expression of her countenance give her on the whole a very agreeable appearance, and with her youth inspire an excessive interest in all who approach her, and which I can't help feeling myself." In July the Queen and her mother left their home to take up their residence in Buckingham Palace, formerly known as the Queen's House. The present palace occupies the site of Buckingham House, which was erected by John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, in 1703. It was bought by George the Third for his wife in 1761, remodelled by George the Fourth, and completed by William the Fourth, who, however, had never lived there. Four days later the Queen went in State to dissolve Parliament, and soon afterward removed to Windsor Castle, where she was joined for a time by her uncle and his wife. Prince Albert wrote her a warm letter of congratulation. "You are now," he said, "Queen of the mightiest land in Europe. In your hands lie the happiness of millions. May Heaven assist and strengthen you with its strength in that high but difficult task! I hope that your reign may be long, happy, and glorious, and that your efforts may be rewarded by the thankfulness and love of your subjects." On Thursday, June 28, 1838, the coronation ceremony took place in Westminster Abbey. Afterward the Queen made a royal progress and was greeted by immense crowds of her people with the utmost loyalty and enthusiasm. In her journal she described it as the proudest day of her life. Mrs Jamieson, an onlooker, wrote of her as follows: "When she returned, looking pale and tremulous, crowned and holding her sceptre in a manner and attitude which said, 'I have it, and none shall wrest it from me,' even Carlyle, who was standing near me, uttered with emotion, 'A blessing on her head!'" As a small instance of the Queen's consideration for others, one of her first thoughts after the ceremony was for the school-children. She wrote to her minister, Lord Melbourne, asking if it was not usual to give a week's additional holiday to the schools on such an occasion as this. Lord Melbourne was from the moment of her accession the Queen's chief adviser, and from the many letters which passed between them it is extremely interesting to see with what affection the young and inexperienced girl regarded him. "He is not only a clever statesman and an honest man," she wrote to her uncle, Leopold, "but a good and a kind-hearted man, whose aim is to do his duty for his country and not for a _party_." Lord Melbourne was almost a second father to her, and there is no doubt that it was largely due to his excellent and homely advice that the Queen was able during the early years of her reign to develop in such an astonishing manner and yet at the same time to retain such a sweet and womanly character. Of her regularity of life and careful attention to detail we learn from Greville's diary. She rose soon after eight o'clock, and after breakfast was occupied with business the whole morning. During this time Lord Melbourne visited her regularly. At two o'clock she rode out, attended by her suite, and amused herself afterward for the rest of the afternoon with music, singing, or romps with children. Dinner was served at eight o'clock to the whole household, and the Queen usually retired soon after eleven. "She orders and regulates every detail herself; she knows where everybody is lodged in the Castle, settles about the riding or driving, and enters into every particular with minute attention." She never signed a single document of any importance until she had thoroughly mastered its contents. In October, 1839, her cousins Ernest and Albert paid her a visit, bringing with them a letter from their uncle Leopold, in which he recommended them to her care. They were at once upon intimate terms, and the Queen confided to her uncle that "Albert was very fascinating." Four days after their arrival she informed Lord Melbourne that she had made up her mind as to the question of marriage. He received the news in a very kindly manner and said: "I think it will be very well received, for I hear that there is an anxiety now that it should be, and I am very glad of it. You will be much more comfortable, for a woman cannot stand alone for any time, in whatever position she may be." The Queen described her betrothal as follows: "At half-past twelve I sent for Albert. He came to the closet, where I was alone, and after a few minutes I said to him that I thought he would be aware why I wished him to come, and that it would make me happy if he would consent to what I wished, namely, to marry me. There was no hesitation on his part, but the offer was received with the greatest demonstrations of kindness and affection. . . . I told him I was quite unworthy of him. . . . He said he would be very happy to spend his life with me." She wrote to her uncle: "I _love_ him _more_ than I can say, and I shall do everything in my power to render the sacrifice he has made (for a sacrifice in my opinion it is) as small as I can." In the following November the news was made public, but it was not received with any great enthusiasm, as a German alliance was unpopular. There were other suitors for the Queen's hand, and the majority would have preferred one of her English cousins to have been chosen. On February 10, 1840, the marriage was solemnized at the Chapel Royal, St James's. The Queen was described by those who saw her as looking extremely happy, and to her uncle she wrote of her delight at seeing the huge crowds which lined the streets to see the procession pass. "God grant that I may be the happy person, the _most_ happy person, to make this dearest, blessed being happy and contented! What is in my power to make him happy, I will do." CHAPTER IV: _Husband and Wife_ After four short days the Queen and her husband returned to London, and from this time onward the Prince acted as his wife's secretary, attending to every little detail of the mass of correspondence and State documents which grew larger with every succeeding year. All the letters received by the Queen during the course of a long and busy life-time were carefully preserved, and at her death they amounted to no fewer than five or six hundred large bound volumes. They include letters from crowned heads of Europe, from her ministers of State, from her children, and from her friends and relations. All these the Queen read and answered. She was thus at all times fully aware of everything that was happening both at home and abroad, and in her great Empire, an Empire which was destined to grow greater and greater in power and extent during her reign. Day by day, year in, year out, without a single break, this immense correspondence arrived. Ministers resigned and ministers were appointed, but there was neither halt nor rest. Truly 'the burden of Empire' is heavy for those who bear it. The young Prince determined from the first to master both national and European politics, for it must always be remembered that as he was a foreigner everything in this country was for some time strange to him. In addition to being his wife's right hand he took a leading part in all movements which might help to improve the education and conditions of life of the people. His fine training and sympathetic nature enabled him, little by little, to be the means of helping on important reforms. In addition to this, both he and his wife found time to work at drawing and music, which they studied together under the best masters. Throughout the Queen's correspondence one reads of his devotion to her both as husband and helpmate. The times were hard; discontent with poverty and bad trade kept the nation ill at ease, and, as is always the case, there were many who did their best to stir up riot. As a consequence, possibly, of this unrest, attempts were made on the Queen's life, once in 1840 and twice in 1841. The relief and joy felt by the whole nation at their young Queen's lucky escapes from death by an assassin's hand are expressed in the following lines by an anonymous author:-- God saved the Queen--all thoughts apart This crowning joy fills every mind! She sits within the nation's heart, An angel shrined. The assassin's hand the steel enclosed, He poised his ruthless hand on high-- But God in mercy interposed His shadow for her panoply. Then let ten thousand lyres be swept, Let paeans ring o'er sea and land-- The Almighty hath our Sovereign kept Within the hollow of His hand! In July 1840, it was considered necessary to appoint a Regent in case of the Queen's death. A Bill for this purpose was brought in and passed, naming the Prince as Regent. This pleased the Queen, for it was a clear proof of the golden opinions the Prince had won everywhere since his marriage, and it was passed, as she herself said, entirely on account of his noble character. At an earlier period it is certain, as Lord Melbourne assured her, that Parliament would not have passed such a Bill. The Queen was soon to lose her chief adviser and friend, for in June 1841 Parliament dissolved and the Whigs were not returned to power. Lord Melbourne could, however, resign with an easy mind, for he himself recognized how valuable a counsellor the Queen now possessed in her husband. After handing his resignation to the Queen, he wrote to her: "Lord Melbourne has formed the highest opinion of His Royal Highness's judgment, temper, and discretion, and he cannot but feel a great consolation and security in the reflection that he leaves Your Majesty in a situation in which Your Majesty has the inestimable advantage of such advice and assistance." The Queen was exceedingly proud of these words of praise, coming as they did unasked from a minister of such long experience. It was in the same year that the Prince was appointed Head of the Royal Commission which had been formed to encourage the study of the Fine Arts throughout the kingdom. This was work of a kind which he especially loved, and he was now in a position to influence the movement which led to the Great Exhibition of 1851. [Illustration: Prince Albert F.X. Winterhalter Photo Emery Walker Ltd.] But all was not plain sailing for the Prince, who was still regarded, if not with dislike, at any rate with some mistrust, as being a foreigner. For a long time yet he felt himself a stranger, the Queen's husband and nothing more. Still, "all cometh to him who knoweth how to wait," and he set himself bravely to his uphill task. To use his own words, "I endeavour to be as much use to Victoria as I can,"--this was the keynote of his whole life. The Prince took sides with neither of the political parties, and first of all by careful economy he lessened the enormous household expenses and proved that it was possible for royalty to live without always being in debt. He established model farms at Osborne and Windsor, introduced different and better breeds of cattle, and even made a profit on the undertaking. He persuaded his wife to give up the late hours which were still usual, and gradually, by kindness and sympathy, won the household staff over to his way of thinking. The Prince's life was an extremely full one. Soon after six o'clock was his time for rising. Until nine he read and answered letters. He then looked through all the principal newspapers and gave the Queen a summary of the most important news. He found time also to work and play with his children during his short intervals of leisure. Consultations with ministers, reading and writing dispatches followed, and then a short time was devoted to open-air exercise. After lunch he often accompanied the Queen on a drive. More reading and writing took up his time until dinner, after which there was either a social evening or a visit to a theatre. He was "complete master in his house, and the active centre of an Empire whose power extends to every quarter of the globe. . . . No British Cabinet minister has ever worked so hard during the session of Parliament, and that is saying a good deal, as the Prince Consort did for 21 years. . . . The Prince had no holidays at all, he was always in harness."[1] [Footnote 1: Miss C.M. Yonge, _Life of H.R.H. the Prince Consort_.] Louis Philippe, the first French king who had ever visited this country, except King John, wrote of him: "Oh, he will do wonders; he is so wise; he is not in a hurry; he gains so much by being known. He will always give you good advice. Do not think I say so in flattery. No! No! It is from my heart. He will be like his uncle, equally wise and good. . . . He will be of the greatest use to you, and will keep well at your side if a time of vicissitude should come, such as I hope may never be--but, after all, no one can tell." CHAPTER V: _Family Life "Upon the good education of princes, and especially of those who are destined to govern, the welfare of the world in these days very greatly depends." The love of children was always a strong connecting link between the Queen and her people. No trouble was ever spared by her to obtain the best possible advice on the training of her own family. The nursery was as well governed as her kingdom. Acting upon the advice of Baron Stockmar, the Queen determined to have some one at the head on whom she could thoroughly rely, as her many occupations prevented her from devoting so much time to these duties as she could have wished. Lady Lyttelton, who had been a lady-in-waiting, was appointed governess to the Royal Family in 1842, and for eight years she held this post, winning the affection and respect of her young pupils and the gratitude of the Queen and her husband. From time to time the Queen wrote her views upon the subject. "The greatest maxim of all is," she declared, "that the children should be brought up as simply, and in as domestic a way as possible; that (not interfering with their lessons) they should be as much as possible with their parents, and learn to place their greatest confidence in them in all things." Training in religion, to be of real and lasting value, must be given by the mother herself, and in 1844 the Queen noted with regret that it was not always possible for her to be with the Princess Royal when the child was saying her prayers. "I am _quite_ clear," she said, "that she ought to be taught to have great reverence for God and for religion, but that she should have the feeling of devotion and love which our Heavenly Father encourages His earthly children to have for Him, and not one of fear and trembling; and that the thoughts of death and an after-life should not be represented in an alarming and forbidding view, and that she should be made to know _as yet_ no difference of creeds, and not think that she can only pray on her knees, or that those who do not kneel are less fervent and devout in their prayers." On November 21, 1840, the Queen's first child, Victoria Adelaide Mary Louisa, the Princess Royal, was born. The Prince's care of his wife "was like that of a mother, nor could there be a kinder, wiser, or more judicious nurse." Only for a moment was he disappointed that his first child was a daughter and not a son. The children were all brought up strictly and were never allowed to appear at Court until a comparatively late age. They were all taught to use their hands as well as their heads, and at Osborne, in the Swiss cottage, the boys worked at carpentering and gardening, while the girls were employed in learning cooking and housekeeping. Christmas was always celebrated in splendid fashion by the family, and the royal children were always encouraged to give as presents something which they had made with their own hands. Lessons in riding, driving, and swimming also formed part of their training, for the Queen was wise enough to realize that open-air exercise was very necessary for the health of her children. In 1846 the question arose as to who should educate the Prince of Wales (born 1841). A pamphlet on the subject had been published and created general interest. Baron Stockmar was again consulted, and gave it as his opinion that the Prince's education should be one "which will prepare him for approaching events"--that is, he was to be so educated that he would be in touch with the movements of the age and able to respond sympathetically to the wishes of the nation. The rapid growth of democracy throughout Europe made it absolutely necessary that his education should be of a different kind. The task of governing well was becoming more and more difficult, and reigning monarchs were criticized in an open fashion, such as had not hitherto been possible. After much thought the post was given to Mr Henry Birch (formerly a master at Eton College, and at that time rector of Prestwich, near Manchester), who had made a very favourable impression upon the Queen and her husband. Plain people as well as princes must be educated, and this fact was never lost sight of by the Queen and her husband. In 1857 the Prince called attention to the fact that there were at that time no fewer than 600,000 children between the ages of three and fifteen absent from school but known to be employed in some way; he pointed out also--and this seems in these days difficult to believe--that no less than _two million_ children were not attending school, and were, so far as could be ascertained, not employed in any way at all. [Illustration: BUCKINGHAM PALACE] The most interesting visitors whom the Queen entertained during her early married life were the Emperor Nicholas of Russia and Louis Napoleon of France. The Emperor Nicholas came to England, as he told the Queen, to see things with his own eyes, and to win, if he could, the confidence of English statesmen. "I esteem England highly; but as to what the French say of me, I care not." He was, however, undoubtedly jealous of this country's growing friendship with her old enemy, France, but any attempt to weaken this met with no encouragement. The Queen, in writing to her uncle Leopold, said, "He gives Albert and myself the impression of a man who is _not_ happy, and on whom the burden of his immense power and position weighs heavily and painfully. He seldom smiles, and when he does, the expression is _not_ a happy one. He is very easy to get on with." In a further letter she continued, "By living in the same house together quietly and unrestrainedly (and this Albert, and with great truth, says is the great advantage of these visits, that I not only _see_ these great people, but _know_ them), I got to know the Emperor and he to know me. . . . He is sincere, I am certain, _sincere_ even in his most despotic acts--from a sense that that _is_ the _only_ way to govern. . . . He _feels_ kindness deeply--and his love for his wife and children, and for all children, is _very_ great. He has a strong feeling for domestic life, saying to me, when our children were in the room: 'These are the sweet moments of our life.' One can see by the way he takes them up and plays with them that he is very fond of children." And again she wrote: "He also spoke of princes being nowadays obliged to strive to make themselves worthy of their position, so as to reconcile people to the fact of their being princes." The effect of this visit was to make France somewhat suspicious, and the Queen expressed her wish that it might not prevent the visit which had been promised by King Louis Philippe. There was at one time actually danger of war over trouble in the East, but King Leopold, whose kingdom was in the happy position of having its independence guaranteed by the Powers,[2] was able to bring his influence to bear, and the critical period passed over, to the great relief of the Queen. [Footnote 2: This, however, did not protect Belgium in 1914, when Germany did not hesitate to attack her.] In 1844 King Louis Philippe paid his promised visit, of which the Queen said, "He is the first King of France who comes on a visit to the Sovereign of this country. A very eventful epoch, indeed, and one which will surely bring good fruits." The King was immensely pleased with everything he saw, and with the friendly reception he received. He assured the Queen that France did not wish to go to war with England, and he told her how pleased he was that all their difficulties were now smoothed over. During his stay he was invested with the Order of the Garter--an Order, it is interesting to recollect, which had been created by Edward the Third after the Battle of Cressy, and whose earliest knights were the Black Prince and his companions. The Corporation of London went to Windsor in civic state to present the King with an address of congratulation. He declared in his answer that "France has nothing to ask of England, and England has nothing to ask of France, but cordial union." But in 1848 the Orleans dynasty was overthrown, France proclaimed a republic, and King Louis Philippe, his wife and family were forced to flee to England. Here in 1850, broken in health, the King died. In 1852 Louis Napoleon, who had been elected President for life, created himself Emperor, and in 1855, after the conclusion of the Crimean War and the death of the Emperor Nicholas, he visited England. A State Ball was held of which the Queen wrote: "How strange to think that I, the granddaughter of George III, should dance with the Emperor Napoleon, nephew of England's great enemy, now my nearest and most intimate ally, in the Waterloo room, and this ally only six years ago living in this country an exile, poor and unthought of! . . . I am glad to have known this extraordinary man, whom it is certainly impossible not to like when you live with him, and not even to a considerable extent to admire. I believe him to be capable of kindness, affection, friendship, and gratitude. I feel confidence in him as regards the future; I think he is frank, means well towards us, and, as Stockmar says, 'that we have insured his sincerity and good faith towards us for the rest of his life.'" The Queen and her husband paid frequent visits, and made many tours during their early married life. It was a great source of pleasure to both of them to feel that everywhere they went they were received with the greatest delight and enthusiasm. In 1847 they visited Cambridge University, of which Prince Albert was now Chancellor. "Every station and bridge, and resting-place, and spot of shade was peopled with eager faces watching for the Queen, and decorated with flowers; but the largest, and the brightest, and the gayest, and the most excited assemblage was at Cambridge station itself. . . . I think I never saw so many children before in one morning, and I felt so much moved at the spectacle of such a mass of life collected together and animated by one feeling, and that a joyous one, that I was at a loss to conceive how any woman's sides can bear the beating of so strong a throb as must attend the consciousness of being the object of all that excitement, the centre of attraction to all those eyes. But the Queen has royal strength of nerve."[3] [Footnote 3: The Duke of Argyll, _Queen Victoria_.] In 1849 they paid their first visit to Ireland, and received a royal welcome on landing in Cork. The Queen noticed particularly that "the beauty of the women is very remarkable, and struck us much; such beautiful dark eyes and hair, and such fine teeth; almost every third woman was pretty, and some remarkably so." The royal children were the objects of great admiration. "Oh! Queen, dear!" screamed a stout old lady, "make one of them Prince Patrick, and all Ireland will die for you." In Dublin, the capital of a country which had very recently been in revolt, the loyal welcome was, if possible, even more striking. The Queen writes: "It was a wonderful and striking spectacle, such masses of human beings, so enthusiastic, so excited, yet such perfect order maintained; then the numbers of troops, the different bands stationed at certain distances, the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, the bursts of welcome which rent the air--all made a never-to-be-forgotten scene." Lord Clarendon, writing of the results of the Irish tour, said, "The people are not only enchanted with the Queen and the gracious kindness of her manner and the confidence she has shown in them, but they are pleased with themselves for their own good feelings and behaviour, which they consider have removed the barrier that hitherto existed between the Sovereign and themselves, and that they now occupy a higher position in the eyes of the world." In 1850 they visited for the first time the Palace of Holyrood. This was a memorable occasion, for since Mary, Queen of Scots, had been imprisoned there, no queen had ever stayed within its walls. The Queen took the liveliest interest in the many objects of historical interest which were shown to her. "We saw the rooms where Queen Mary lived, her bed, the dressing-room into which the murderers entered who killed Rizzio, and the spot where he fell, where, as the old housekeeper said to me, 'If the lady would stand on that side,' I would see that the boards were discoloured by the blood. Every step is full of historical recollections, and our living here is quite an epoch in the annals of this old pile, which has seen so many deeds, more bad, I fear, than good." Both the Queen and her husband had an especial love for animals, and the Queen's suite, when she travelled, always included a number of dogs. Her favourites were Skye terriers and the so-called 'turnspits' which were introduced into this country by Prince Albert. One of the Queen's great delights at Windsor was to walk round the farms and inspect the cattle, which are still, owing largely to the careful methods of feeding and tending instituted by the Prince, among the finest in the world. Kindness to animals was a lesson she taught to all her children, and pictures and statuettes of all her old favourites were to be found in her homes. THE ROYAL FAMILY QUEEN VICTORIA _m_. PRINCE ALBERT of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha 1840 | | ------------------------------------------------ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | Victoria, Princess | Princess Alice | | | | | Princess Beatrice Royal (Empress | (Grand Duchess | | | | | (Princess Henry of Frederick of | of Hesse) | | | | | Battenberg) Germany) born 1840 | born 1843 | | | | | born 1857 | | | | | | -------------------- | | | | ----------- | | | | | | | ----------------------- | | | | | | | | | Prince Leopold | | --------- | | (Duke of Albany) | Prince Alfred, Duke | | | born 1853 | of Edinburgh (Duke | | | | of Saxe-Coburg and Princess Helena | -------- | Gotha) born 1844 (Princess Christian | | | of Schleswig- | | | Holstein) born 1846 | Prince Arthur | | (Duke of Connaught) | | born 1850 | | | Princess Louise -------------- (Duchess of Argyll) | born 1848 | Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, _m_. Princess Alexandra of Denmark born 1841 1863 (King Edward VII) | | ---------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | | | Albert Victor George Frederick, | | | Prince Alexander (Duke of Clarence) Prince of Wales, | | | born 1870 born 1864 born 1865 | | | (King George V), | | | _m_., 1893, Princess | | | Victoria Mary of Teck | | | | | | -------------------- | -------------- | | | | | | Princess Louise Princess Victoria Princess Maud (Duchess of Fife) born 1868 (Queen of Norway) born 1867 born 1869 CHAPTER VI: _Strife_ "Two men I honour, and no third. First, the toilworn Craftsman that with earth-made Implement laboriously conquers the Earth, and makes her man's. . . . A second man I honour, and still more highly: Him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the Bread of Life. . . . Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find both dignities united; and he that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest."[4] [Footnote 4: Carlyle, _Sartor Resartus_.] To understand the many and bewildering changes which followed one another in rapid succession during the early years of Victoria's reign it is necessary to read the literature, more especially the works of those writers who took a deep and lasting interest in the lives and work of the people. Democracy, the people, or the toiling class, was engaged in a fierce battle with those forces which it held to be its natural enemies. It was a battle of the Rich against the Poor, of the masters against the men, of Right against Might. England was a sick nation, at war with itself, and Chartism and the Chartists were some of the signs of the disease. The early Victorian age is the age of Thomas Carlyle, the stern, grim prophet, who, undaunted by poverty and ill-health, painted England in dark colours as a country hastening to its ruin. His message was old and yet new--for men had forgotten it, as they always have from age to age. This was an age of competition, of 'supply and demand'; brotherly love had been forgotten and 'cash payment' had taken its place. Carlyle denounced this system as "the shabbiest gospel that had been taught among men." He urged upon Government the fact that it was their _duty_ to educate and to uplift the masses, and upon the masters that they should look upon their workers as something more than money-making machines. The old system of Guilds, in which the apprentice was under the master's direct care, had gone and nothing had been put in its place. The value of Carlyle's teaching lies in the fact that he insisted upon the sanctity of work. "All true work is religion," he said, and the essence of every true religion is to be found in the words, "Know thy work and do it." The best test of the worth of every nation is to be found in their standard of life and work and their rejection of a life of idleness. "To make some nook of God's Creation a little fruitfuller, better, more worthy of God; to make some human hearts, a little wiser, manfuler, happier--more blessed, less accursed! It is work for a God. . . . Unstained by wasteful deformities, by wasted tears or heart's-blood of men, or any defacement of the Pit, noble, fruitful Labour, growing ever nobler, will come forth--the grand sole Miracle of Man, whereby Man has risen from the low places of this Earth, very literally, into divine Heavens. Ploughers, Spinners, Builders, Prophets, Poets, Kings: . . . all martyrs, and noble men, and gods are of one grand Host; immeasurable; marching ever forward since the beginnings of the World."[5] [Footnote 5: Carlyle, _Past and Present_.] Carlyle was, above all things, sincere; he looked into the heart of things, and hated half-beliefs. Men, he said, were accustoming themselves to say what they did not believe in their heart of hearts. The standard of English work had become lower; it was 'cheap and nasty,' and this in itself was a moral evil. Good must in time prevail over Evil; the Christian religion was the strongest thing in the world, and for this reason had conquered. He believed in wise compassion--that is to say, he kept his sympathy for those who truly deserved it, for the mass of struggling workers with few or none to voice their bitter wrongs. His teachings are a moral tonic for the age, and though for a long time they were unpopular and distasteful to the majority, yet he lived to see much accomplished for which he had so earnestly striven. Literature was beginning to take a new form. The novel of 'polite' society was giving place to the novel which pictured life in cruder and harsher colours. The life of the toiling North, of the cotton spinners and weavers was as yet unknown to most people. In 1848 appeared _Mary Barton_, a book dealing with the problems of working life in Manchester. Mrs Gaskell, its author, who is best known to most readers by her masterpiece _Cranford_, achieved an instant success and became acquainted with many literary celebrities, including Ruskin, Dickens, and Charlotte Bronte, whose Life she wrote. _Mary Barton_ was written from the point of view of labour, and _North and South_, which followed some years later, from that of capital. Her books are exact pictures of what she saw around her during her life in Manchester, and many incidents from her own life appear in their pages. _North and South_ shows us the struggle not only between master and men, as representing capital and labour, but also between ancient and modern civilizations. The South is agricultural, easy-going, idyllic; the North is stern, rude, and full of a consuming energy and passion for work. These are the two Englands of Mrs Gaskell's time. The ways of the manufacturing districts, which seem unpleasing to those who do not really know them, are described with a faithful yet kindly pen, and we see that each life has its trials and its temptations. In the South all is not sunshine, and the life of the labourer can be very hard--"a young person can stand it; but an old man gets racked with rheumatism, and bent and withered before his time; yet he must work on the same, or else go to the workhouse." In the North men are often at enmity with their masters, and fight them by means of the strike. "State o' trade! That's just a piece of masters' humbug. It's rate o' wages I was talking of. Th' masters keep th' state o' trade in their own hands, and just walk it forward like a black bug-a-boo, to frighten naughty children with into being good. I'll tell yo' it's their part--their cue, as some folks call it--to beat us down, to swell their fortunes; and it's ours to stand up and fight hard--not for ourselves alone, but for them round about us--for justice and fair play. We help to make their profits, and we ought to help spend 'em. It's not that we want their brass so much this time, as we've done many a time afore. We'n getten money laid by; and we're resolved to stand and fall together; not a man on us will go in for less wage than th' Union says is our due. So I say, 'Hooray for the strike.'" The story appeared in _Household Words_, a new magazine of which Charles Dickens was the editor. He expressed especial admiration for the fairness with which Mrs Gaskell had spoken of both sides. Nicholas Higgins, whose words are quoted above, is a type of the best Lancashire workman, who holds out for the good of the cause, even though it might mean ruin and poverty to himself--"That's what folk call fine and honourable in a soldier, and why not in a poor weaver-chap?" Dickens himself wrote _Hard Times_, dealing with the same subject. This appeared about the same time, and the two books should be read and compared, for, although _Hard Times_ is not equal in any way to _North and South_, it is interesting. As Ruskin said of Dickens' stories, "Allowing for the manner of telling them, the things he tells us are always true. . . . He is entirely right in his main drift and purpose in every book he has written; and all of them, but especially _Hard Times_, should be studied with close and earnest care by persons interested in social questions." During all these years the 'Chartists' had been vainly struggling to force Parliament to proceed with reform of their grievances. In 1848 a monster Petition was to be presented to both Houses by their leaders, but London was garrisoned by troops under the Duke of Wellington on the fateful day, and the Chartist army broke up, never to be reunited. Quarrels among themselves proved, in the end, fatal to their cause. A new party, the Christian Socialists, took their place; force gave way to union and co-operation. A new champion, Charles Kingsley, or 'Parson Lot,' stood forth as the Chartist leader. The hard winter and general distress of the year 1848 nearly provoked another rising, and in his novel entitled _Yeast_ Kingsley pictures the 'condition of England' question as it appeared to one who knew it from the seamy side. Especially did he blame the Church, which, he said, offered a religion for "Jacob, the smooth man," and was not suited for "poor Esau." This was indeed most true as regards the agricultural classes, where the want was felt of a real religion which should gain a hold upon a population which year by year was fast drifting loose from all ties of morality and Christianity. The peasantry, once the mainstay of England and now trodden down and neglected, cannot rise alone and without help from those above them. "What right have we to keep them down? . . . What right have we to say that they shall know no higher recreation than the hogs, because, forsooth, if we raised them they might refuse to work--_for us_? Are _we_ to fix how far their minds may be developed? Has not God fixed it for us, when He gave them the same passions, talents, tastes, as our own?" The farm labourer, unlike his brothers in the North, had no spirit left to strike. His sole enjoyment--such as it was--consisted in recalling "'the glorious times before the war . . . when there was more food than there were mouths, and more work than were hands.' "'I say, vather,' drawled out some one, 'they say there's a sight more money in England now than there was afore the war-time.' "'Ees, booy,' said the old man, 'but _it's got into too few hands_.'" The system of 'sweating' among the London tailors had grown to such an extent that Kingsley was determined, if possible, to put an end to it, and with this purpose in view he wrote _Cheap Clothes and Nasty_. The Government itself, he declares, does nothing to prevent sweating; the workmen declare that "Government contract work is the worst of all, and the starved-out and sweated-out tailor's last resource . . . there are more clergymen among the customers than any other class; and often we have to work at home upon the Sunday at their clothes in order to get a living." He followed this up with _Alton Locke_, dealing especially with the life and conditions of work of the journeymen tailors, and the Chartist riots. Both sides receive some hard knocks, for Kingsley was a born fighter, and his courage and fearlessness won him many friends, even among the most violent of the Chartists. The character of Alton Locke was probably drawn from life, and was intended to be William Lovett, at one time a leader in the Chartist ranks. After a long fight with poverty, when he frequently went without a meal in order to save the money necessary for his education, he rose to a position of some influence. He was one of the first to propose that museums and public galleries should be opened on Sundays, for he declared that most of the intemperance and vice was owing to the want of wholesome and rational recreation. He insisted that it was necessary to create a moral, sober, and thinking working-class in order to enable them to carry through the reforms for which they were struggling. Disgust with the violent methods of many of his associates caused him at last to withdraw from their ranks. Kingsley looked up to Carlyle as his master, to whom he owed more than to any other man. "Of the general effect," he said, "which his works had upon me, I shall say nothing: it was the same as they have had, thank God, on thousands of my class and every other." When, finally, violent methods proved of no avail and the Chartist party dissolved, the democratic movement took a fresh lease of life. As Carlyle had already pointed out, the question of the people was a 'knife and fork' question--that is to say, so long as taxes were levied upon the necessities of life, the poorer classes, who could least of all afford to pay, would become poorer. Sir Robert Peel was the first to remove this injustice, by substituting a tax upon income for the hundred and one taxes which had pressed so heavily upon the poor. Manufacturers were now able to buy their raw materials at a lower price, and need no longer pay such low wages to keep up their profits. In 1845 Peel went a step farther, and in order to relieve the famine in Ireland, he removed the duty on corn. Thus, since corn could now be imported free, bread became cheaper. The Corn Law Repealers had fought for years to bring this about. Their leader and poet, Ebenezer Elliott, declared that "what they wanted was bread in exchange for their cottons, woollens, and hardware, and no other thing can supply the want of that one thing, any more than water could supply the want of air in the Black Hole of Calcutta." Bad government Is the deadly will that takes What Labour ought to keep, It is the deadly power that makes Bread dear and Labour cheap. It was not until there had been many riots and much bloodshed that the Irish Famine forced Peel at last to give way. A third party of reformers were working for the same end. This was the 'Young England' party, whose leader was Disraeli, a rising young politician. By birth a Jew, he had joined the English Church and the ranks of the Tory party. His early works are chiefly sketches of social and political life and are not concerned with the 'question of the People.' He took as his motto the words Shakespeare puts into Ancient Pistol's mouth, Why, then the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open, thus showing at an early age that he had a firm belief in his own powers. From the beginning of his career he never hesitated in championing the cause of the People, and declared that "he was not afraid or ashamed to say that he wished more sympathy had been shown on both sides towards the Chartists." The people had begun to look upon the upper classes as their oppressors, who were living in comfort upon the profits wrung from their poorer brethren. Thomas Cooper in his Autobiography describes the reckless and irreligious spirit which continued poverty was creating among the half-starved weavers: "'Let us be patient a little longer, lads, surely God Almighty will help us.' 'Talk no more about thy Goddle Mighty,' was the sneering reply; 'there isn't one. If there _was_ one, He wouldn't let us suffer as we do.'" The Chartists were opposed to the Anti-Corn Law party, for they thought that the cry of 'cheap bread' meant simply 'low wages,' and was a trap set to catch them unawares. The Young England party believed in themselves as the leaders of a movement which should save England through its youth. They were, however, known in Parliament in their early days as "young gentlemen who wore white waistcoats and wrote spoony poetry." 'Young England' wished for a return of the feudal relations between the nobility and their vassals; the nobles and the Church, as in olden days, were to stretch out a helping hand to the poor, to feed the hungry, and succour the distressed. National customs were to be revived, commerce and art were to be fostered by wealthy patrons. The Crown was once more to be in touch with the people. "If Royalty did but condescend to lower itself to a familiarity with the people, it is curious that they will raise, exalt, and adore it, sometimes even invest it with divine and mysterious attributes. If, on the contrary, it shuts itself up in an august seclusion, it will be mocked and caricatured . . . if the great only knew what stress the poor lay by the few forms that remain, to join them they would make many sacrifices for their maintenance and preservation."[6] [Footnote 6: George Smythe, Viscount Strangford, _Historic Fancies_.] It was to lay the views of his party and himself before the public that Disraeli published the three novels, _Coningsby_, _Sybil_, and _Tancred_. _Coningsby_ deals with the political parties of that time, and is full of thinly-disguised portraits of people then living; _Sybil_, from which a quotation is given elsewhere, is a study of life among the working-classes; _Tancred_ discusses what part the Church should take in the government of the people. Though the life of the 'Young England' party was short, it succeeded by means of agitation in and out of Parliament in calling public attention to the harshness of the New Poor Law and the need for social reform. Carlyle was again the writer who influenced the young Disraeli, for the latter saw that to accomplish anything of real value he must form his own party and break loose from the worn-out beliefs and prejudices of both political parties. Though in later days he will be remembered as a statesman rather than as a novelist, it is necessary to study those three books in order to understand what England and the English were in Victoria's early years. Each of these Reform parties had rendered signal service in their own fashion: Church, Government, and People were no longer disunited, distinctions of class had been broken down, and with their disappearance Chartism came to an end. The failure of the "physical force" Chartists in 1848 had served to enforce the lesson taught by Carlyle and Kingsley, that the way to gain reform was not through deeds of violence and bloodshed. Each man must learn to fit himself for his part in the great movement toward Reform. Intelligence, not force, must be their weapon. After years of bitter strife between the Two Nations, England a last enjoyed peace within her own borders--that peace which a patriot poet, Ernest Jones, during a time of bitter trial had so earnestly prayed for: God of battles, give us peace! Rich with honour's proud increase; Peace that frees the fettered brave; Peace that scorns to make a slave; Peace that spurns a tyrant's hand; Peace that lifts each fallen land; Peace of peoples, not of kings; Peace that conquering freedom brings; Peace that bids oppression cease; God of battles, give us peace! _Appendix to Chapter VI_ 1838. The Chartist Movement. The Chartists demanded (1) Annual Parliaments; (2) Manhood Suffrage; (3) Vote by ballot; (4) Equal electoral districts; (5) Abolition of the property qualification for members of Parliament; (6) Payment for members of Parliament. The Reform Act of 1832 had brought the middle classes into power, and the working classes were now striving to better their own condition. The Anti-Corn Law League, formed in this year, was largely a middle-class agitation supported by merchants and manufacturers. The great northern towns had been enfranchised by the Reform Bill, and sent as leaders of the movement Richard Cobden and John Bright. Both parties in Parliament were opposed to a total abolition of the Corn Laws. 1842. A motion for Free Trade defeated in Parliament by a large majority. 1843. Agitation in Ireland for the Repeal of the Union. Daniel O'Connell, the leader, arrested. He was found guilty of conspiracy, but his sentence was afterward revoked by the House of Lords. 1845. Failure of the potato crop in Ireland. 1846. Repeal of the Corn Laws, in order to open the ports free to food stuffs. Free Trade established and the prices of food begin to fall. 1848. The year of Revolution. France proclaims a Republic with Prince Louis Napoleon, nephew of Napoleon I, as its President. Risings in Austria and Italy. Renewal of the Chartist agitation. The meeting in London to present a Petition to Parliament proves a failure. 1853-56. Years of prosperity owing to Free Trade and growth of intelligence among the working classes prove the chief causes of the death of Chartism. The workers now begin to aim at reforms through their Trades Unions. The Co-operative Movement set on foot in Rochdale in 1844 leads to the formation of many other branches. Between the years 1851 and 1865 national imports nearly treble, and exports more than double, themselves. THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881). His writings more than those of any other man give us a key to the meaning of the early Victorian Age. 1839. _Chartism_. 1841. _Heroes and Hero Worship_. 1843. _Past and Present_. 1850. _Latter-Day Pamphlets_. CHARLES DICKENS (1812-70). 1836. _Pickwick Papers_. 1838. _Oliver Twist_ (the evils of the Workhouse). 1850. _David Copperfield_ (contains sketches of Dickens' early life). 1853. _Hard Times_. 1857. _Little Dorrit_ (the Marshalsea prison for debtors). DISRAELI, LORD BEACONSFIELD (1804-81). 1844. _Coningsby_ (political life and the 'Young England' policy). 1845. _Sybil_ (the claims of the people). 1847. _Tancred_ (the Church and the State). EBENEZER ELLIOTT (1781-1849). 1828. _Corn Law Rhymes_ (the poet of the workers and of sorrow). ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL (1810-65). 1848. _Mary Barton_ (Industrial Lancashire during the crisis of 1842). 1855. _North and South_ (the struggle between Master and Man). CHARLES KINGSLEY[7] (1819-75). 1848. _Yeast_ (the hard lives of the agricultural labourers). 1850. _Alton Locke_ (life and labour of the city poor). [Footnote 7: The Prince Consort was a great admirer of the works of Charles Kingsley, which, he said, in speaking of _Two Years Ago_, showed "profound knowledge of human nature, and insight into the relations between man, his actions, his destiny, and God." The Queen was also one of his admirers, and in 1859 she appointed him one of her chaplains. Later on he delivered a series of lectures on history to the Prince of Wales.] CHARLES READE (1814-84). 1856. _It is Never too Late to Mend_ (life in an English prison). 1863. _Hard Cash_ (an exposure of bad administration of lunatic asylums). JOHN RUSKIN (1819-1900). 1859. _The Two Paths_. 1862. _Unto this Last_. 1871. _Fors Clavigera_. (In the last-named book Ruskin describes the scheme of his St George's Guild, an attempt to restore happiness to England by allying art and science with commercial industry.) CHAPTER VII: _The Children of England_ "From the folding of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. . . . They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. . . . 'They are Man's,' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. 'And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.'"[8] [Footnote 8: Charles Dickens, _A Christmas Carol_.] In surveying the long reign of Queen Victoria nothing strikes one more than the gradual growth of interest in children, and the many changes in the nation's ideas of their upbringing and education. At the beginning of her reign the little children of the poor were for the most part slaves, and were often punished more cruelly by their taskmasters than the slaves one reads of in _Uncle Tom's Cabin_. When Disraeli, afterward Lord Beaconsfield and Prime Minister, wrote _Sybil_, he drew, in that book, a terrible picture of the life of children in the manufacturing districts and in the country villages. The following extract speaks for itself: "There are many in this town who are ignorant of their very names; very few who can spell them. It is rare that you meet with a young person who knows his own age; rarer to find the boy who has seen a book, or the girl who has seen a flower. Ask them the name of their sovereign and they will laugh; who rules them on earth or who can save them in heaven are alike mysteries to them." In such a town as Disraeli describes there were no schools of any kind, and the masters treated their apprentices "as the Mamelouks treated the Egyptians." The author declares that "there is more serfdom now in England than at any time since the Conquest. . . . The people were better clothed, better fed, and better lodged just before the Wars of the Roses than they are at this moment. The average term of life among the working classes is seventeen." One of the first results of machinery taking the place of human labour was that an enormous number of women and young children of both sexes were employed in the factories in place of grown men, who were no longer needed. Especially in the spinning mills thousands of men were thrown out of work, and lower wages were paid to those who took their place. This led directly to the breaking up of the home and home-life. The wives were often obliged to spend twelve to thirteen hours a day in the mills; the very young children, left to themselves, grew up like wild weeds and were often put out to nurse at a shilling or eighteenpence a day. One reads of tired children driven to their work with blows; of children who, "too tired to go home, hide away in the wool in the drying-room to sleep there, and could only be driven out of the factory with straps; how many hundreds came home so tired every night that they could eat no supper for sleepiness and want of appetite, that their parents found them kneeling by the bedside where they had fallen asleep during their prayers." Elizabeth Barrett Browning, one of the greatest poets of Victoria's reign, pleads for mercy and human kindness in her "Cry of the Children." Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And _that_ cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west-- But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. "For oh," say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping The reddest flower would look as pale as snow; For, all day, we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark underground-- Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round." In the country the state of affairs was no better. New systems of industrial production threw large numbers of farm hands out of work, the rate of wages fell, and machinery, steam, and the work of women and children took the place of the labourer. The children found a champion in Lord Ashley, afterward Lord Shaftesbury, who succeeded in the face of much opposition in his efforts to pass laws which should do away with such shameful wrong and injustice. The increased amount of coal used (15-1/2 million tons at the beginning of the century, 64-1/2 million tons in 1854) naturally led to the demand for more workers, and it was owing to this that the proposals of Lord Shaftesbury met with such opposition from the mine-owners, who feared that if child labour were made illegal they would not have sufficient 'hands' to work the mines and that they would have to pay higher wages. The Act of 1842 forbade altogether the employment of women and girls in the mines, and allowed only boys of the age of ten or more to do such work. The Poor Law Guardians of the time used to send children into the mines at the age of seven as a means of finding employment for them. The hours of work were limited to ten daily and fifty-eight each week. Little or no attempt was made in the Bill to give children the means of obtaining a good education, although considerably more than half the children in the country never went to school at all, and many large towns were without a proper school. By a previous Factory Act of 1834 all children under fourteen years of age were compelled to attend school for two hours daily. The employer was allowed to deduct one penny a week from the child's wages to pay the teacher. This proved absolutely useless, as the masters employed worn-out workers as teachers, and in consequence the children learnt nothing at all. It was not until the year 1870 that a Bill was passed in Parliament to create an adequate number of public elementary schools for every district in the kingdom. To show the increase in the number of schools built, there were in the year 1854, 3825, and in the year 1885, 21,976. But the children of England owe almost as much to Charles Dickens as they do to Lord Shaftesbury. He was almost the first, and certainly the greatest, writer who, with a heart overflowing with sympathy for little children, has left us in his books a gallery of portraits which no one can ever forget. He himself, "a very small and not over-particularly-taken-care-of boy," passed through a time of bitter poverty, and his stay at school, short as it was, was not a period of his life upon which he looked back with any pleasure. The material for his books was drawn from life--from his own and from the lives of those around him--and for this reason all that he wrote will always be of great value, as it gives us a good idea of the Early and Mid Victorian days. His ambition was to strike a blow for the poor, "to leave one's hand upon the time, lastingly upon the time, with one tender touch for the mass of toiling people." Who can ever forget in the _Christmas Carol_ the crippled Tiny Tim, "who behaved as good as gold and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see." Other pictures of suffering childhood are 'Little Nell' and 'The Marchioness' in _The Old Curiosity Shop_, 'Jo' and 'Charley' in _Bleak House_, and 'Smike,' the victim of the inhuman schoolmaster 'Squeers.' The cruelty of the times is shown in the case of an unfortunate sempstress who tried to earn a living by making shirts for three-halfpence each. Once, when she had been robbed of her earnings, she tried to drown herself. The inhuman magistrate before whom she was brought told her that she had "no hope of mercy in this world." It was after hearing of this from Charles Dickens that Thomas Hood wrote the well-known "Song of the Shirt": Work--work--work! From weary chime to chime, Work--work--work As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. The age might well take to heart the lesson taught by the great-souled writer--that the two chief enemies of the times were Ignorance and Want. The lot of the unfortunate children in the Union Workhouses was no better. They were treated rather worse than animals, with no sympathy or kindness, owing to the ignorance of those who were set in authority over them. Any one who reads _Oliver Twist_ may learn the nature of the life led by the 'pauper' children in those 'good old days.' "The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered--the poor people liked it! It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work. 'Oho!' said the board, looking very knowing, 'we are the fellows to set this to rights; we'll stop it all, in no time.' So, they established the rule, that all poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody, not they) of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted with the waterworks to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a corn-factor to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and half a roll on Sundays. . . . Relief was inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened people." A movement which helped, possibly far more than any other, to better the lot of the children of the Poor commenced with the foundation of the Ragged School Union, of which the Queen became the patroness. Out of this sprang a small army of agencies for well-doing. Commencing only with evening schools, which soon proved insufficient, the founders established day schools, with classes for exercise and industrial training: children were sent to our colonies where they would have a better chance of making a fair start in life; training ships, cripples' homes, penny banks, holiday homes followed, and from these again the numerous Homes and Orphanages which entitle us to call the Victorian Age the Age of Kindness to Children. Charles Dickens took the keenest interest in the work of the Ragged Schools. A letter from Lord Shaftesbury quoted in his Life gives a clear idea of the marvellous work they had accomplished up to the year 1871: "After a period of 27 years, from a single school of five small infants, the work has grown into a cluster of some 300 schools, an aggregate of nearly 30,000 children, and a body of 3000 voluntary teachers, most of them the sons and daughters of toil. . . . Of more than 300,000 children, which, on the most moderate calculation, we have a right to conclude have passed through these schools since their commencement, I venture to affirm that more than 100,000 of both sexes have been placed out in various ways--in emigration, in the marine, in trades and in domestic service. For many consecutive years I have contributed prizes to thousands of the scholars; and let no one omit to call to mind what these children were, whence they came, and whither they were going without this merciful intervention. They would have been added to the perilous swarm of the wild, the lawless, the wretched, and the ignorant, instead of being, as by God's blessing they are, decent and comfortable, earning an honest livelihood, and adorning the community to which they belong." Dickens believed, first of all, in teaching children cleanliness and decency before attempting anything in the form of education. "Give him, and his," he said, "a glimpse of heaven through a little of its light and air; give them water; help them to be clean; lighten the heavy atmosphere in which their spirits flag and which makes them the callous things they are . . . and then, but not before, they will be brought willingly to hear of Him whose thoughts were so much with the wretched, and who had compassion for all human sorrow." CHAPTER VIII: _Ministering Women_ Honour to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs; And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! LONGFELLOW No account of the reign of Queen Victoria would be complete without some reference to the achievements of women, more especially when their work has had for its chief end and aim the alleviation of suffering. Woman has taken a leading part in the campaign which has been and is now being ceaselessly carried on against the forces of sin, ignorance, and want. In the early years of Victoria's reign the art of sick-nursing was scarcely known at all. The worst type of nurse is vividly pictured for us by Charles Dickens in _Martin Chuzzlewit_: "She was a fat old woman, this Mrs Gamp, with a husky voice and a moist eye, which she had a remarkable power of turning up, and only showing the white of it. Having very little neck, it cost her some trouble to look over herself, if one may say so, at those to whom she talked. She wore a very rusty black gown, rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl and bonnet to correspond. In these dilapidated articles of dress she had, on principle, arrayed herself, time out of mind on such occasions as the present; . . . The face of Mrs Gamp--the nose in particular--was somewhat red and swollen, and it was difficult to enjoy her society without becoming conscious of a smell of spirits." For a long time, though it had been recognized that the care of the sick was woman's work, no special training was required from those undertaking it. Florence Nightingale did away with all such wrong ideas. In a letter on the subject of training she wrote: "I would say also to all young ladies who are called to any particular vocation, qualify yourselves for it, as a man does for his work. Don't think you can undertake it otherwise. . . . If you are called to man's work, do not exact a woman's privileges--the privilege of inaccuracy, of weakness, ye muddle-heads. Submit yourselves to the rules of business, as men do, by which alone you can make God's business succeed; for He has never said that He will give His success and His blessing to inefficiency, to sketchy and unfinished work." She prepared herself for her life's work by years of hard study and ten years' training, visiting all the best institutions in Germany, France, and Italy. She gave up a life of ease and comfort in order to develop her natural gift to the utmost. Her opportunity was not long in coming. In 1854 the Crimean War broke out. Most of the generals in the English army were old men whose experience of actual warfare dated back to the early days of the century. Everything was hopelessly mismanaged from the beginning. In August the English and French allied forces moved against the fortress of Sebastopol, from which Russia was threatening an attack on Constantinople. Troops were landed in a hostile country without the means of moving them away again; there was little or no provision made to transport food, baggage, or medical stores. After the victory of Alma Lord Raglan marched on to Balaclava, and here the transport utterly broke down. The soldiers, in addition to undertaking hard fighting, were forced to turn themselves into pack-mules and tramp fourteen miles through the mud in the depth of winter in order to obtain food and warm blankets for their comrades and themselves. Their condition rapidly became terrible. Their clothing wore to rags, their boots--mostly of poor quality--gave out entirely. Their food--such as it was--consisted of biscuit, salt beef or pork, and rum. No vegetables could be obtained, and for want of green food scurvy broke out among the troops. Stores were left decaying in the holds of transports, and the doctors were forced to see men dying before their eyes without the means of helping them. The loss of life from the actual fighting was considerable, but more particularly so from the insanitary condition of the camp and the wretched hospital arrangements. The actual figures of our losses in the war speak for themselves. Out of a total loss of 20,656, only 2598 fell in battle; 18,058 died from other causes in hospital. Several regiments lost nearly all their men, and during the first seven months of the siege men died so fast that in a year and a half no army would have been left at all. William Russell, the special correspondent of _The Times_, first brought this appalling state of affairs to the notice of the public, and the nation at last woke up. A universal outburst of indignation forced ministers to act, and to act quickly. Stores were hurried to the front; fresh troops were sent out to relieve the almost exhausted remnants of the army, and on the 21st October Florence Nightingale, with a band of nurses, set sail; she arrived on the very eve of the Battle of Inkerman. Within a few months of her arrival it is estimated that she had no fewer than ten thousand sick men in her charge, and the rows of beds in one hospital alone measured two and one-third miles in length. Her influence over the rough soldiers was extraordinary; one of them said of her: "She would speak to one and another, and nod and smile to many more; but she could not do it to all, you know--we lay there in hundreds--but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content." Out of chaos she made order, and there were no more complaints of waste and inefficiency. She never quitted her post until the war was at an end, and on her return to England she received a national welcome. She was received by the Queen and presented with a jewel in commemoration of her work, and no less than fifty thousand pounds was subscribed by the nation, a sum which was presented by Miss Nightingale to the hospitals to defray the expenses of training nurses. [Illustration: Florence Nightingale] Since this time no war between civilized peoples has taken place without trained nurses being found in the ranks of both armies, and at the Convention of Geneva, some years later, it was agreed that in time of war all ambulances, military hospitals, etc., should be regarded as neutral, and that doctors and nurses should be considered as non-combatants. Nursing rapidly became a profession, and from the military it spread to the civil hospitals, which were used as training schools for all who took up the work. Florence Nightingale's advice was sought by the Government and freely given upon every matter which affected the health of the people, and it is entirely owing to her influence and example that speedy reforms were carried out, especially in the army. Her noble work was celebrated by Longfellow, in his poem "Santa Filomena," often better known as "The Lady with the Lamp": Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp, The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. The Queen followed the course of the war with painful interest. "This is a terrible season of mourning and sorrow," she wrote; "how many mothers, wives, sisters, and children are bereaved at this moment. Alas! It is that awful accompaniment of war, disease, which is so much more to be dreaded than the fighting itself." And again, after a visit to Chatham: "Four hundred and fifty of my dear, brave, noble heroes I saw, and, thank God, upon the whole, all in a very satisfactory state of recovery. Such patience and resignation, courage, and anxiety to return to their service. Such fine men!" Many acts had been passed in previous reigns to improve the disgraceful state of the prisons in this country, but it was left to a band of workers, mostly Quakers, led by Elizabeth Fry, to bring about any real improvement. Any one who wishes to read what dens of filth and hotbeds of infection prisons were at this time need only read the account of the Fleet prison in the _Pickwick Papers_ and of the Marshalsea in _Little Dorrit_. Reform proved at first to be a very slow and difficult matter. New laws passed in 1823 and 1824 insisted upon cleanliness and regular labour for all prisoners; chaplains and matrons for female prisoners were appointed. The public, however, got the idea--as in the case of workhouses--that things were being made too comfortable for the inmates, and the Society for the Improvement of Prison Discipline was bitterly attacked. Mrs Fry had started work in Newgate Prison, then justly considered to be the worst of all the bad prisons in the country. The condition of the women and children was too dreadful to describe, and she felt that the only way to introduce law and decency into this 'hell upon earth' was by influencing the children. She founded a school in the prison, and it was not long before there was a marked improvement in the appearance and behaviour of both the children and the women. The success of her work attracted public attention, and a Committee of the House of Commons was appointed to inquire into the condition of the London prisons. Mrs Fry was called upon to give evidence, and she recommended several improvements, _e.g._ that prisoners should be given some useful work to do, that rewards should be given for good behaviour, and that female warders should be appointed. She visited other countries in order to study foreign prison systems, and her work in the prisons led her to consider what could be done to improve the condition of the unfortunate women who were transported as convicts. She succeeded in improving matters so much that female warders were provided on board ship, and proper accommodation and care on their arrival at their destination. Even such a tender-hearted man and friend of the poor as Thomas Hood, author of "Song of the Shirt," misunderstood Mrs Fry's aims, for in a poem called "A Friendly Address to Mrs Fry," he wrote: No--I will be your friend--and, like a friend, Point out your very worst defect--Nay, never Start at that word! But I _must_ ask you why You keep your school _in_ Newgate, Mrs Fry? Your classes may increase, but I must grieve Over your pupils at their bread and waters! Oh, though it cost you rent--(and rooms run high)-- Keep your school _out_ of Newgate, Mrs Fry! In the face of domestic sorrows and misfortunes, Mrs Fry persevered until the day of her death in 1845 in working for the good of others. The work in this direction was continued by Mary Carpenter, whose father was the headmaster of a Bristol school. She began her life's work after a severe outbreak of cholera in Bristol in 1832. At this time there were practically no reformatory or industrial schools in the country, and Mary Carpenter set to work with some friends to found an institution near Bristol. She worked to save children--especially those whose lives were spent in the midst of sin and wickedness--from becoming criminals, and in order to bring this about she aimed at making their surroundings as homelike and cheerful as possible. She even helped to teach the children herself, as she found great difficulty in finding good assistants. She wished to convince the Government that her methods were right, and so persuade them to set up schools of a similar kind throughout the country. The great Lord Shaftesbury was her chief supporter, but it was not until the year 1854 that Mary Carpenter succeeded in her desire, when a Bill was passed establishing reformatory schools. From this time her influence rapidly increased, and it is mainly owing to her efforts that at the present day such precautions are taken to reform young criminals on the sound principle of "prevention is better than cure." Mary Carpenter also visited India no fewer than four times in order to arouse public opinion there to the need for the better education of women, and at a later date she went to America, where she had many warm friends and admirers. She had, as was only natural, been keenly interested in the abolition of negro slavery. One of the most distinguished women in literature during the Victorian Age was Harriet Martineau. At an early age it was evident that she was gifted beyond the ordinary, and at seven years old she had read Milton's "Paradise Lost" and learnt long portions of it by heart. Her health was extremely poor; she suffered as a child from imaginary terrors which she describes in her Autobiography, and she gradually became deaf. She bore this affliction with the greatest courage and cheerfulness, but misfortunes followed one another in rapid succession. Her elder brother died of consumption, her father lost large sums of money in business, and the grief and anxiety so preyed upon his mind that he died, leaving his family very badly off. This, and the loss later on of the little money they had left, only served to strengthen Miss Martineau's purpose. She studied and wrote until late in the night, and after her first success in literature, when she won all three prizes offered by the Unitarian body for an essay, she set to work on a series of stories which were to illustrate such subjects as the effect of machinery upon wages, free trade, etc. After the manuscript had been refused by numerous publishers, she succeeded in getting it accepted, and the book proved an extraordinary success. She moved to London, and her house soon became the centre where the best of literature and politics could always be discussed. She was consulted even by Cabinet Ministers, but in spite of all the praise and adulation she remained quite unspoiled. The idea of women taking part in public movements was still not altogether pleasing to the majority of people, who were apt to look upon 'learned' women as 'Blue-stockings,' a name first used in England in the previous century in rather a contemptuous way. Come, let us touch the string, And try a song to sing, Though this is somewhat difficult at starting, O! And in our case more than ever, When a desperate endeavour, Is made to sing the praise of Harry Martineau! Of bacon, eggs, and butter, Rare philosophy she'll utter; Not a thing about your house but she'll take part in, O! As to mine, with all my soul, She might take (and pay) the whole-- But that is all my eye and Harry Martineau! Her political economy Is as true as Deuteronomy; And the monster of Distress she sticks a dart in, O! Yet still he stalks about, And makes a mighty rout, But that we hope's my eye and Harry Martineau! In 1835 she visited the United States, and here she was able to study the question of slavery. She joined the body of the 'Abolitionists,' and as a result was attacked from all sides with the utmost fury, for the Northern States stood solid against abolition. But she remained unmoved in her opinion, and when in 1862 the great Civil War broke out, her writings were the means of educating public opinion. It was largely due to her that this country did not foolishly support the secession of the Southern States from the Union. During a period of five years she was a complete invalid, and some of her best books, including her well-known stories for children, _Feats on the Fiord_ and _The Crofton Boys_, were written in that time. After her recovery her life was busier than ever. She wrote articles for the daily papers, but her chief pleasure lay in devising schemes for improving the lot of her poorer neighbours. She organized evening lectures for the people, and founded a Mechanics' Institute and a building society. During her life-time she was the acknowledged leader on all moral questions, especially those which affected the lives of women. "It has always been esteemed our special function as women," she said, "to mount guard over society and social life--the spring of national existence." CHAPTER IX: _Balmoral_ It was in Balmoral Castle that the husband and wife most loved to be with their children. Here they could lead a simple life free from all restraints, "small house, small rooms, small establishment. . . . There are no soldiers, and the whole guard of the Sovereign consists of a single policeman, who walks about the grounds to keep off impertinent intruders and improper characters. . . . The Prince shoots every morning, returns to luncheon, and then they walk or drive. The Queen is running in and out of the house all day long, and often goes about alone, walks into the cottages, and chats with the old women." The Queen loved her life here even more than the Prince, and every year she yearned for it more and more. "It is not alone the pure air, the quiet and beautiful scenery, which makes it so delightful," she wrote; "it is the atmosphere of loving affection, and the hearty attachment of the people around Balmoral which warms the heart and does one good." It was during the year 1848 that the royal couple paid their first visit to Balmoral. The Queen had long wished to possess a home of her own in the Highlands where her husband could indulge in some outdoor sport, and where they both could enjoy a brief rest, from time to time, from the anxiety and care of State affairs. Their life there during the years 1848-61 is described by the Queen in her diary, _Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands_. It was first published after the Prince's death and was dedicated to him in the words: "To the dear memory of him who made the life of the writer bright and happy, these simple records are lovingly and gratefully inscribed." The first impressions were very favourable: "It is a pretty little castle in the old Scottish style. There is a picturesque tower and garden in front, with a high wooded hill; at the back there is wood down to the Dee; and the hills rise all around." Their household was, naturally, a small one, consisting of the Queen's Maid of Honour, the Prince's valet, a cook, a footman, and two maids. Among the outdoor attendants was John Brown, who in 1858 was attached to the Queen as one of her regular attendants everywhere in the Highlands, and remained in her service until his death. "He has all the independence and elevated feelings peculiar to the Highland race, and is singularly straightforward, simple-minded, kind-hearted and disinterested; always ready to oblige; and of a discretion rarely to be met with." The old castle soon proved to be too small for the family, and in September 1853 the foundation-stone of a new house was laid. After the ceremony the workmen were entertained at dinner, which was followed by Highland games and dancing in the ballroom. Two years later they entered the new castle, which the Queen described as "charming; the rooms delightful; the furniture, papers, everything perfection." The Prince was untiring in planning improvements, and in 1856 the Queen wrote: "Every year my heart becomes more fixed in this dear Paradise, and so much more so now, that _all_ has become my dearest Albert's _own_ creation, own work, own building, own laying out as at Osborne; and his great taste, and the impress of his dear hand, have been stamped everywhere. He was very busy today, settling and arranging many things for next year." Visits to the cottages of the old people on the estate and in the neighbourhood were a constant source of delight and pleasure to the Queen, and often when the Prince was away for the day shooting, she would pay a round of calls, taking with her little presents. The old ladies especially loved a talk with their Queen. "The affection of these good people, who are so hearty and so happy to see you, taking interest in everything, is very touching and gratifying," she remarked upon them. "We were always in the habit of conversing with the Highlanders--with whom one comes so much in contact in the Highlands. The Prince highly appreciated the good breeding, simplicity, and intelligence, which make it so pleasant, and even instructive to talk to them." In September 1855, soon after moving into the new castle, the news arrived of the fall of Sebastopol, and this was taken as an omen of good luck. The Prince and his suite sallied forth, followed by all the population, to the cairn above Balmoral, and here, amid general cheering, a large bonfire was lit. The pipes played wildly, the people danced and shouted, guns and squibs were fired off, and it was not until close upon midnight that the festivities came to an end. During the same month the Princess Royal became engaged to Prince Frederick William of Prussia, who was then visiting Balmoral. Acting on the Queen's advice, Prince Frederick did not postpone his good fortune until a later date, as he had at first intended, but during a ride up Craig-na-Ban, he picked a piece of white heather (the emblem of 'good luck') and offered it to the young Princess, and this gave him an opportunity of declaring his love. These extracts, printed from the Queen's Journals, were intended at first for presentation only to members of the Royal Family and Her Majesty's intimate friends, especially to those who had accompanied her during her tours. It was, however, suggested to the Queen that her people would take even as keen an interest in these simple records of family life, especially as they had already shown sincere and ready sympathy with her personal joys and sorrows. "The book," its editor says, "is mainly confined to the natural expressions of a mind rejoicing in the beauties of nature, and throwing itself, with a delight rendered keener by the rarity of its opportunities, into the enjoyment of a life removed, for the moment, from the pressure of public cares." It is of particular interest because here the Queen records from day to day her thoughts and her impressions in the simplest language; here she can be seen less as a queen than as a wife and mother. Her interest in her whole household and in all those immediately around her is evident on almost every page. To quote again: "She is, indeed, the Mother of her People, taking the deepest interest in all that concerns them, without respect of persons, from the highest to the lowest." As a picture of the Royal Court in those days this is exceedingly valuable, for it shows what an example the Queen and her husband were setting to the whole nation in the simple life they led in their Highland home. That the old people especially loved her can be seen from the greetings and blessings she received in the cottages she used to visit. "May the Lord attend ye with mirth and with joy; may He ever be with ye in this world, and when ye leave it." [Illustration: Queen Victoria in the Highlands G. Amato] The Queen was never weary of the beauties of the Highlands, and quotes the following lines from a poem by Arthur Hugh Clough to describe 'God's glorious works': The gorgeous bright October, Then when brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded, And amid russet of heather and fern, green trees are bonnie; Alders are green, and oaks; the rowan scarlet and yellow; One great glory of broad gold pieces appears the aspen, And the jewels of gold that were hung in the hair of the birch tree; Pendulous, here and there, her coronet, necklace, and earrings, Cover her now, o'er and o'er; she is weary and scatters them from her. In the year 1883 the Queen published _More Leaves from the Journal_, and dedicated it "To my loyal Highlanders, and especially to the memory of my devoted personal attendant and faithful friend, John Brown." They are records of her life in Scotland during the years 1862 to 1882. In the August of 1862 a huge cairn, thirty-five feet high, was erected to the memory of the Prince Consort. It was set on the summit of Craig Lowrigan, where it could be seen all down the valley. A short extract will serve as a specimen of the Queen's style of writing: "At a quarter to twelve I drove off with Louise and Leopold in the waggonette up to near the 'Bush' (the residence of William Brown, the farmer) to see them 'juice the sheep.' This is a practice pursued all over the Highlands before the sheep are sent down to the low country for the winter. It is done to preserve the wool. Not far from the burnside, where there are a few hillocks, was a pen in which the sheep were placed, and then, just outside it, a large sort of trough filled with liquid tobacco and soap, and into this the sheep were dipped one after the other; one man took the sheep one by one out of the pen and turned them on their backs; and then William and he, holding them by their legs, dipped them well in, after which they were let into another pen into which this trough opened, and here they had to remain to dry. To the left, a little lower down, was a cauldron boiling over a fire and containing the tobacco with water and soap; this was then emptied into a tub, from which it was transferred into the trough. A very rosy-faced lassie, with a plaid over her head, was superintending this part of the work, and helped to fetch the water from the burn, while children and many collie dogs were grouped about, and several men and shepherds were helping. It was a very curious and picturesque sight." CHAPTER X: _The Great Exhibition_ The idea of a "great exhibition of the Works and Industries of all Nations" was Prince Albert's. The scheme when first proposed in 1849 was coldly received in this country. It was intended, to use the Prince's own words, "To give us a true test and a living picture of the point of development at which the whole of mankind has arrived in this great task, and a new starting-point from which all nations will be able to direct their further exertions." _The Times_ led the attack against the proposed site in Hyde Park, and the public was uneasy at the thought of large numbers of foreigners congregating in London, and at the expected importation of foreign goods. As showing the absurd things which 'John Bull' could say at this time in his jealousy and dislike of foreigners the Prince wrote: "The strangers, they give out, are certain to commence a thorough revolution here, to murder Victoria and myself, and to proclaim the Red Republic in England; the Plague is certain to ensue from the confluence of such vast multitudes, and to swallow up those whom the increased price of everything has not already swept away. For all this I am to be responsible, and against all this I have to make efficient provision." _Punch_ pictured the young Prince begging, cap in hand, for subscriptions: Pity the sorrows of a poor, young Prince Whose costly schemes have borne him to your door; Who's in a fix, the matter not to mince, Oh! help him out, and Commerce swell your store! Such constant worry and anxiety affected the Prince's health, but the support of Sir Robert Peel and of many great firms gradually wore down the opposition. The building was designed by Paxton, who had risen from being a gardener's boy in the Duke of Devonshire's service to the position of the greatest designer of landscape-gardening in the kingdom. He took his main ideas for the Crystal Palace from the great conservatories at Kew and Chatsworth. It was like a huge greenhouse in shape, nearly one thousand feet long and ninety feet high, with fountains playing in the naves and a great elm-tree in full leaf under the roof. On May 1, 1851, the opening day, everything went well. The crowds in the streets were immense, and there were some 34,000 visitors present in the building during the opening ceremony. Lord Macaulay was much impressed with the Exhibition, for he wrote after the opening: "I was struck by the numbers of foreigners in the streets. All, however, were respectable and decent people. I saw none of the men of action with whom the Socialists were threatening us. . . . I should think there must have been near three hundred thousand people in Hyde Park at once. The sight among the green boughs was delightful. The boats, and little frigates, darting across the lake; the flags; the music; the guns;--everything was exhilarating, and the temper of the multitude the best possible. . . . "I made my way into the building; a most gorgeous sight; vast; graceful; beyond the dreams of the Arabian romances. I cannot think that the Caesars ever exhibited a more splendid spectacle. I was quite dazzled, and I felt as I did on entering St Peter's. I wandered about, and elbowed my way through the crowd which filled the nave, admiring the general effect, but not attending much to details." And again on the last day he wrote: "Alas! alas! it was a glorious sight; and it is associated in my mind with all whom I love most. I am glad that the building is to be removed. I have no wish to see the corpse when the life has departed." The Royal Party were received with acclamation all along the route. "It was a complete and beautiful triumph,--a glorious and touching sight, one which I shall ever be proud of for my beloved Albert and my country," wrote the Queen. Six million people visited the Great Fair during the time it remained open. In one respect, however, it could scarcely be considered a triumph for this country. It was still an ugly, and in some respects a vulgar, age. The invention of machinery had done little or nothing to raise the level of the public taste for what was appropriate and beautiful in design. That an article cost a large sum of money to manufacture and to purchase seemed sufficient to satisfy the untrained mind. Generally speaking, the taste of the producers was uneducated and much inferior to that of the French. Most of the designs in carpets, hangings, pottery, and silks were merely copies, and were often extremely ugly. England, at this time the first among the Industrial Nations, had utterly failed to hold her own in the Arts. Machinery had taken the place of handwork, and with the death of the latter art and industry had ceased to have any relation. Public taste in architecture was equally bad. A 'revival' of the art of the Middle Ages resulted only in a host of poor imitations. "Thirty or forty years ago, if you entered a cathedral in France or England, you could say at once, 'These arches were built in the age of the Conqueror--that capital belonged to the earlier Henrys.' . . . Now all this is changed. You enter a cathedral, and admire some iron work so rude you are sure it must be old, but which your guide informs you has just been put up by Smith of Coventry. You see . . . some painted glass so badly drawn and so crudely coloured it must be old--Jones of Newcastle."[9] [Footnote 9: Fergusson, _History of Modern Styles of Architecture_.] John Ruskin, who was in many ways the greatest art teacher of his age, was the first to point out the value and the method of correct observation of all that is beautiful in nature and in art. In an address on "Modern Manufacture and Design," delivered to the working men of Bradford, he declared: "Without observation and experience, no design--without peace and pleasurableness in occupation, no design--and all the lecturings, and teachings, and prizes and principles of art, in the world are of no use, so long as you don't surround your men with happy influences and beautiful things. . . . Inform their minds, refine their habits, and you form and refine their designs; but keep them illiterate, uncomfortable, and in the midst of unbeautiful things, and whatever they do will still be spurious, vulgar, and valueless." At the time, however, the Exhibition proved a great success, and the Duke of Coburg carried most favourable impressions away with him. He says: "The Queen and her husband were at the zenith of their fame. . . . Prince Albert was not satisfied to guide the whole affair only from above; he was, in the fullest sense of the word, the soul of everything. Even his bitterest enemies, with unusual unreserve, acknowledged the completeness of the execution of the scheme." So far from there being a loss upon the undertaking there was actually half a million of profit. The proceeds were devoted to securing ground at South Kensington upon which a great National Institute might be built. This undertaking (the purchase of the ground) was not carried through without great difficulty and anxiety. The Queen's sympathy and encouragement were, as always, of the greatest help to her husband, and he quoted a verse from a German song, to illustrate how much he felt and appreciated it: When man has well nigh lost his hope in life, Upwards in trust and love still looks the wife, Towards the starry world all bright with cheer, Faint not nor fear, thus speaks her shining tear. The Great Exhibition was sufficient proof--if any had been needed--of how the Prince with his wife laboured incessantly for the good of others. Without his courage, perseverance, and ability there is no doubt that this great undertaking would never have been carried through successfully. He recognized the fact that princes live for the benefit of their people; his desire for the improvement in all classes was never-ending, and from him his wife learnt many lessons which proved of the greatest value to her in later life when she stood alone and her husband was no longer there to aid her with his unfailing wise advice. A second Exhibition was held in 1862, and so far as decorative art was concerned there were distinct signs of improvement. 'Art manufacture' had now become a trade phrase, but manufacturers were still far from understanding what 'Art' really meant. As an instance of this, one carpet firm sent a carpet to be used as a hanging on which Napoleon III is depicted presenting a treaty of Commerce to the Queen. Particular attention had apparently been paid to the 'shine' on Napoleon's top boots and to the Queen's smile! The Prince's great wish was to restore to the workman his pride in the work of his hands, to relieve the daily toil of some of its irksomeness by the interest thus created in it, and, where the work was of a purely mechanical nature, and individual skill and judgment were not called for, he wished the worker to understand the principles upon which the machine was built and the ingenuity with which it worked. His schemes for the building and equipment of Museums of Science and Art were arranged with the purpose in view that both rich and poor should have equal opportunities of seeing what improvements had been made throughout the ages, and how vast and far-reaching the effects of such improvements were on the lives of the whole nation. It was under his direction that the pictures in the National Gallery were first arranged in such a manner as to show the history and progress of art. In his own words: "Our business is not so much to create, as to learn to appreciate and understand the works of others, and we can never do this till we have realized the difficulties to be overcome. Acting on this principle myself, I have always tried to learn the rudiments of art as much as possible. For instance, I learnt oil-painting, water-colours, etching, lithography, etc., and in music I learnt thorough bass, the pianoforte, organ, and singing--not, of course, with a view of doing anything worth looking at or hearing, but simply to enable me to judge and appreciate the works of others." It is interesting to note how closely the views of the Prince agreed with those of John Ruskin in matters of art and literature. Ruskin declared that it was the greatest misfortune of the age that, owing to the wholesale introduction of machinery, the designer and maker were nearly always different people instead of being one and the same person. He declared that no work of art could really be 'living' or capable of moving us to admiration as did the masterpieces of the Middle Ages unless the maker had thought out and designed it himself. It was largely owing to his teachings that the 'Arts and Crafts' movement under William Morris and Walter Crane arose--a movement which has since that time spread over the whole civilized world. In 1862, together with some of his friends, Morris formed a company to encourage the use of beautiful furniture and to introduce 'Art in the House.' Morris himself had learnt to be a practical carpet-weaver and dyer, and had founded the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. All the work of this firm was done by hand as far as possible; only the best materials were to be used and designs were to be original. They manufactured stained glass, wall paper, tapestry, tiles, embroidery, carpets, etc., and many of the designs were undertaken by Edward Burne-Jones. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the poet-painter, Holman Hunt (best remembered by his famous picture "The Light of the World ") and others, formed what was known as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, to instruct public taste in creative work in art and literature. At the Kelmscott Press some of the most beautiful printed books of their kind were produced under the direction of Morris. Ruskin, like so many others of his time, was greatly influenced by Carlyle, and his views on the 'condition of England' question were practically the same. He bewailed the waste of work and of life, the poverty and the 'sweating.' He urged employers to win the goodwill of those who worked for them as the best means of producing the best work. He preached the 'rights' of Labour--that high wages for good work was the truest economy in the end, and that beating down the wages of workers does not pay in the long run. He declared that the only education worth having was a 'humane' education--that is, first of all, the building of character and the cultivation of wholesome feelings. "You do not educate a man by telling him what he knew not, but by making him what he was not," was the theory which he endeavoured to put into practice by experiments such as an attempt to teach every one to "learn to do something well and accurately with his hands." In common with Wordsworth Ruskin held that the love of Nature was the greatest of educators. He believed that The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. The beauty and the everlasting marvel of Nature's works were, to him as to the poet of the Lakes, the real road to knowledge: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. An education of not the brain alone, but of heart and hand as well, all three working in co-operation, was necessary to raise man to the level of an intelligent being. Ruskin's teachings fared no better than those of Carlyle at first, and though he is spoken of sometimes as being 'old-fashioned,' yet his lesson is of the old-fashioned kind which does live and will live, for, like Dickens, he knew how to appeal to the hearts of his readers. He is one of the most picturesque writers in the language, a man of great nobility of character and generous feelings, who had a tremendous belief in himself and knew how to express his thoughts in the most beautiful language. Some of his books, for example _Sesame and Lilies_ and _Unto this Last_, are probably destined for immortality. CHAPTER XI: _Albert the Good_ The year 1861 was a black year for the Queen. On March 15th her mother, the Duchess of Kent, died. She had been living for some time at Frogmore, a pleasant house in the Windsor Home Park, and here in the mausoleum erected by her daughter her statue is to be seen. She was sincerely loved by every member of her household, and her loss was felt as one affecting the whole nation. In the words of Disraeli: "She who reigns over us has elected, amid all the splendour of empire, to establish her life on the principle of domestic love. It is this, it is the remembrance and consciousness of this, which now sincerely saddens the public spirit, and permits a nation to bear its heartfelt sympathy to the foot of a bereaved throne, and to whisper solace to a royal heart." The death of the Queen's' mother came as a great shock to the Prince Consort. The Queen was, for a time, utterly unable to transact any business, and this added to his already heavy burden of cares and responsibilities. In the following November the King of Portugal died. The Prince had loved him like a son, and this fresh disaster told so severely upon his health that he began to suffer much from sleeplessness. The strain of almost ceaseless work for many years was gradually wearing him out. He had never been afraid of death, and not long before his last illness he had said to his wife: "I do not cling to life. You do; but I set no store by it. If I knew that those I love were well cared for, I should be quite ready to die to-morrow. . . . I am sure, if I had a severe illness, I should give up at once, I should not struggle for life." On the 1st of December the Queen felt anxious and depressed. Her husband grew worse and could not take food without considerable difficulty, and this made him very weak and irritable. The physicians in attendance were now obliged to tell her that the illness was low fever, but that the patient himself was not to know of this. The Ministers became alarmed at his state, and when the news of his illness became public there was the greatest and most universal anxiety for news. In spite of slight improvements from time to time, the Prince showed no power of fighting the disease, and on the evening of the 14th December he passed gently away. It is no exaggeration to say that the death of the Queen's beloved husband saddened every home in the land; it was a sorrow felt equally by the highest and the lowest. He died in the fulness of his manhood, leaving her whom he had loved and guarded so tenderly to reign in lonely splendour. In the dedication of _Idylls of the King_ to the memory of Prince Albert, Tennyson, the poet-laureate, wrote: Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure; Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made One light together, but has past and leaves The Crown a lonely splendour. When one looks over the vista of years which have passed since that mournful day, it is with sadness mingled with regret. For it is too true that "a prophet is not without honour, save in his own country." 'Albert the Good' was, like many other great men, in advance of his times, and not until he was dead did the nation as a whole realize the blank he had left behind him. Even so late as 1854 Greville writes in his Diary of the extraordinary attacks which were made upon the Prince in the public Press. Letter after letter, he noted, appeared "full of the bitterest abuse and all sorts of lies. . . . The charges against him are principally to this effect, that he has been in the habit of meddling improperly in public affairs, and has used his influence to promote objects of his own and the interests of his own family at the expense of the interests of this country; that he is German and not English in his sentiments and principles; that he corresponds with foreign princes and with British Ministers abroad without the knowledge of the Government, and that he thwarts the foreign policy of the Ministers when it does not coincide with his own ideas and purposes." And again: "It was currently reported in the Midland and Northern counties, and actually stated in a Scotch paper, that Prince Albert had been committed to the Tower, and there were people found credulous and foolish enough to believe it." But English gratitude is always such To hate the hand which doth oblige too much. These words of Daniel Defoe help to explain something of the attitude of a part of the nation toward the Prince in his lifetime. He had given his life in the service of his wife and his adopted country, but he was a 'foreigner,' and the insular Briton, brought up in the blissful belief that "one Englishman was as good as three Frenchmen," could not and would not overcome his distrust of one who had not been, like himself, so singularly blessed in his nationality. But Time has its revenges, and the services of Prince Albert will "smell sweet and blossom in the dust" long after the very names of once famous lights of the Victorian era have been forgotten. His home life was singularly sweet and happy, and a great contrast to that of some of his wife's predecessors upon the English throne. The Queen, writing to her Uncle Leopold in this the twenty-first year of their marriage, says: "_Very_ few can say with me that their husband at the end of twenty-one years is _not_ only full of the friendship, kindness, and affection which a truly happy marriage brings with it, but the same tender love of the _very first days of our marriage_!" The Prince, in a letter to a friend, rejoiced that their marriage "still continues green and fresh and throws out vigorous roots, from which I can, with gratitude to God, acknowledge that much good will yet be engendered for the world." The finest tribute to the Prince Consort's memory is to be found in the Dedication written by Lord Tennyson to his _Idylls of the King_: These to His Memory--since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself--I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears-- These Idylls. Like Arthur, 'the flower of kings,' he was a man of ideals, above petty jealousies and small ambitions: Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. The _Idylls_ produced such a deep impression upon the Prince that he wrote to the author, asking him to inscribe his name in the volume. The book remained always a great favourite with him, and Princess Frederick William was engaged upon a series of pictures illustrating her favourite passages at the time of his death. An enumeration of the varied activities of Prince Albert during his lifetime would need a volume. His position was always a difficult one and was seldom made easier by the section of the Press which singled him out as a target for its poisoned arrows. Only a strong sense of duty and an unwavering belief in his wife's love could have sustained him through the many dark hours of tribulation and sorrow. He rose early all the year round, and prepared drafts of answers to the Queen's Ministers, wrote letters and had cleared off a considerable amount of work before many men would have thought of beginning the day's tasks. [Illustration: THE ALBERT MEMORIAL] No article of any importance in the newspapers or magazines escaped his attention. Every one appealed to him for help or advice, and none asked in vain. His wide knowledge and judgment were freely used by the Queen's statesmen, and the day proved all too short for the endless amount of work which had to be done. In spite of increasing burdens and poor health he was always in good spirits. "At breakfast and at luncheon, and also at our family dinners, he sat at the top of the table, and kept us all enlivened by his interesting conversation, by his charming anecdotes, and droll stories without end of his childhood, of people at Coburg, of our good people in Scotland, which he would repeat with a wonderful power of mimicry, and at which he would himself laugh most heartily. Then he would at other times entertain us with his talk about the most interesting and important topics of the present and of former days, on which it was ever a pleasure to hear him speak."[10] [Footnote 10: Queen Victoria's _Journal_.] His rule in life was to make his position entirely a part of the Queen's, "to place all his time and powers at her command." Every speech which he made in public was carefully considered beforehand, and then written out and committed to memory. As he had to speak in a foreign tongue, he considered this precaution absolutely necessary. At the same time it often made him feel shy and nervous when speaking before strangers, and this sometimes gave to those who did not know him a mistaken impression of coldness and reserve. His sympathy with the working classes was sincere and practical. He was convinced that "any real improvement must be the result of the exertion of the working people themselves." He was President of the Society for Improving the Condition of the Labouring Classes, and never lost an opportunity of pointing out that, to quote his own words, "the Royal Family are not merely living upon the earnings of the people (as these publications try to represent) without caring for the poor labourers, but that they are anxious about their welfare, and ready to co-operate in any scheme for the amelioration of their condition. We may possess these feelings, and yet the mass of the people may be ignorant of it, because they have never heard it expressed to them, or seen any tangible proof of it." His grasp of detail and knowledge of home and foreign political affairs astonished every one who met him, ministers and ambassadors alike. His writing-table and that of the Queen stood side by side in their sitting-room, and here they used to work together, every dispatch which left their hands being the joint work of both. The Prince corrected and revised everything carefully before it received the Queen's signature. Considering the small amount of time at his disposal, it was remarkable how much he was able to read, and read thoroughly, both with the Queen and by himself. "Not many, but much," was his principle, and every book read was carefully noted in his diary. Even to the last he exerted his influence in the cause of peace. The American Civil War broke out in 1861, and Great Britain declared her neutrality. But an incident, known as 'The Trent Affair,' nearly brought about a declaration of war. The Southern States, or 'Confederates,' as they were usually called, sent two commissioners to Europe on board the British mail steamer _Trent_. The _Trent_ was fired upon and boarded by a Federal officer, who arrested the commissioners. This was regarded as an insult to our flag, as it was a breach of international law to attack the ship of a neutral power. The Government therefore decided to demand redress, and a dispatch, worded by Palmerston, was forwarded to the Queen for her signature. The Prince realized at once that if the dispatch were forwarded as it was written it would lead to open war between the Northern States and our country, and he suggested certain alterations to the Queen, who agreed to them. A more courteously worded message was sent, and the Northern States at once agreed to liberate the commissioners and offered an ample apology. CHAPTER XII: _Friends and Advisers_ Possibly the person to whom the Queen owed most--next to her husband--was Lord Melbourne. His position at the time when the young Queen came to the throne was a unique one. Victoria was just eighteen years of age--that is to say, if she had been a little younger it would have been necessary to appoint a Regent until such time as she came of age. For many years it had not been a matter of certainty that she would succeed to the throne, and the late King's unreliable temper had been the means of preventing the matter from being properly arranged as regards certain advantages which might have been given to the Princess during his life-time. In many ways, however, it was fortunate that the Queen came to the throne at such an early age: if her knowledge of State politics was small, she possessed, at any rate, a well-trained mind, a sense of duty, and a clear idea as to the responsibilities of her position as ruler of a great nation. There had been four reigning queens in this country before Victoria, but all of them had had some previous training for their duties. The two Tudor queens came of a ruling stock, and were older in years and experience. The times, too, were very different. Queen Elizabeth, for example, before coming to the throne possessed an intimate knowledge of political affairs, and experience--she had been confined in the Tower of London and narrowly escaped losing her head--had endowed her with the wisdom of the serpent. The two Stuart queens were no longer young, and both were married. The circumstances in the case of the young Victoria were thus totally different. She stood alone, and it was clear that some one must help her to grapple with the thousand and one difficulties which surrounded her. It was for some time uncertain who would undertake the duty, until, almost before he had realized it himself, Lord Melbourne found himself in the position of 'guide, philosopher, and friend.' How he devoted himself to this work can be judged from the fact that no one--not even any of his opponents--regarded him with the slightest mistrust or jealousy. Melbourne was at this time fifty-eight years of age, an honourable, honest-hearted Englishman. He was sympathetic by nature, fond of female society, and, in addition, was devoted to the Queen. His manner toward her was always charming, and he was in constant attendance upon her. Nor was the training which the Queen received from him limited to politics, but matters of private interest were often discussed. Every morning he brought dispatches with him to be read and answered; after the midday meal he went out riding with her, and, whenever his parliamentary duties allowed, he was to be found at her side at the dinner-table. When he retired from office he was able to state with pride that he had seen his Sovereign every day during the past four years. The news of her engagement to Prince Albert was received by him with the keenest pleasure, and the Queen in writing to her uncle says: "Lord Melbourne, whom I of course have consulted about the whole affair, quite approves my choice, and expresses great satisfaction at the event, which he thinks in every way highly desirable. Lord Melbourne has acted in this business, as he has always done toward me, with the greatest kindness and affection." It was a real wrench to the Queen when the time for parting came. Melbourne, with his easy-going nature and somewhat free and easy language, had schooled himself as well as his young pupil, and had become a friend as well as an adviser. Some words of Greville's might aptly serve for this great statesman's epitaph: "It has become his providence to educate, instruct, and form the most interesting mind and character in the world. No occupation was ever more engrossing or involved greater responsibility . . . it is fortunate that she has fallen into his hands, and that he discharges this great duty wisely, honourably, and conscientiously." The Queen was equally fortunate in his successor, Sir Robert Peel, a statesman for whom she had every confidence and respect, "a man who thinks but little of party and never of himself." Peel was never afraid of making up his mind and then sticking to his plan of action, although, as often happened, it brought him into opposition with members of his own party. In his hands both the Queen and her husband felt that the interests of the Crown were secure. Peel naturally felt considerable embarrassment on first taking up office, as he had given support in the previous year to a motion which proposed cutting down the Prince's income. But the Prince felt no resentment, and so frank and cordial was his manner that Peel, following Lord Melbourne's lead, continued to keep him, from day to day, thoroughly in touch with the course of public affairs. The relations between the Queen and her Minister were cordial in the extreme. Peel appreciated very fully her simple domestic tastes, and he was able at a later date to bring before her notice Osborne, which might serve as a "loophole of retreat" from the "noise and strife and questions wearisome." The Queen was delighted with the estate. "It is impossible to see a prettier place, with woods and valleys and _points de vue_, which would be beautiful anywhere; but when these are combined with the sea (to which the woods grow down), and a beach which is quite private, it is really everything one could wish." In 1845 the Queen asked Lord Aberdeen if she could not show in some way her appreciation of the courage with which Sir Robert Peel had brought forward and supported two great measures, in the face of tremendous opposition. She suggested that he should be offered the Order of the Garter, the highest distinction possible. Sir Robert Peel's reply was that he would much prefer not to accept any reward at all; he sprang, he said, from the people, and such a great honour in his case was out of the question. The only reward he asked for was Her Majesty's confidence, and so long as he possessed that he was content. When his ministry came to an end the Prince wrote to him, begging that their relations should not on that account cease. Sir Robert replied, thanking him for "the considerate kindness and indulgence" he had received at their hands, and regretting that he should no longer be able to correspond so frequently as before. The Prince and he were in the fullest sympathy in matters of politics, art, and literature, and Peel had supported the Prince loyally through all the anxieties connected with the arrangements for the Great Exhibition. His death in 1850 was a calamity. Prince Albert, in a letter, speaks of Peel as "the best of men, our truest friend, the strongest bulwark of the throne, the greatest statesman of his time." The Duke of Wellington said in the Upper House: "In all the course of my acquaintance with Sir Robert Peel I never knew a man in whose truth and justice I had a more lively confidence, or in whom I saw a more invariable desire to promote the public service. In the whole course of my communications with him I never knew an instance in which he did not show the strongest attachment to truth; and I never saw in the whole course of my life the slightest reason for suspecting that he stated anything which he did not believe to be the fact." The Queen writing to her uncle said that "Albert . . . felt and feels Sir Robert's loss dreadfully. He feels he has lost a second father." As a statesman it was said of him that "for concocting, producing, explaining and defending measures, he had no equal, or anything like an equal." By far the most interesting person who acted as both friend and adviser to the Queen and her husband was the Baron Christian Friedrich von Stockmar, who had been private physician to Prince Leopold, and afterward private secretary and controller of his household. He took an active part in the negotiations which led to his master becoming King of the Belgians. Long residence in this country had given him a thorough knowledge of England and the English, and he claimed friendship with the leading diplomatists both at home and on the European continent. In 1834 he retired to Coburg, but later was chosen, as we have seen, to lend his valuable advice toward bringing about a union between Prince Albert and Queen Victoria, both of whom he knew and admired. Immediately before Victoria's accession King Leopold had sent him to England, where his counsel, judgment, and thorough knowledge of the English Constitution were placed at the service of the young Princess. He accompanied Prince Albert on a tour in Italy, and again returned to England to make arrangements for the Prince's future household. All that he did during this period was done quietly and behind the scenes, and though he was a foreigner by birth, he worked to bring about the marriage for the sake of the country he loved so well. He looked upon England as the home of political freedom. "Out of its bosom," he stated, "singly and solely has sprung America's free Constitution, in all its present power and importance, in its incalculable influence upon the social condition of the whole human race; and in my eyes the English Constitution is the foundation-, corner-, and cope-stone of the entire political civilization of the human race, present and to come." He soon became the Prince's confidential adviser, and his unrivalled knowledge and strict sense of truth and duty proved of the utmost value. He endeared himself to both the Queen and the Prince, and successive statesmen trusted him absolutely for his freedom from prejudice and for his sincerity. In 1842 he drew up for the Queen some rules for the education of her children. "A man's education begins the first day of his life," was one of his maxims. He insisted that "the education of the royal infants ought to be from its earliest beginning _a truly moral and a truly English one_." The persons to whom the children are entrusted should receive the full support and confidence of the parents, otherwise "education lacks its very soul and vitality." He suggested that a lady of rank should be placed at the head of the nursery, as being better able to understand the responsibilities and duties attached to the education and upbringing of the Queen's children. His advice was again taken when it was necessary to settle upon what plan the young Prince of Wales should be educated. Stockmar's judgment of men was singularly correct and just. He formed the highest opinion of Sir Robert Peel, and on the Duke of Wellington's death in 1852 he wrote in a letter to the Prince a masterly analysis of the great commander's character, concluding with these words: "As the times we live in cannot fail to present your Royal Highness with great and worthy occasions to distinguish yourself, you should not shrink from turning them to account . . . as Wellington did, for the good of all, yet without detriment to yourself." The Prince corresponded regularly with 'the good Stockmar,' and always in time of doubt and trial came sage counsel from his trusted friend. In fact, the Prince took both the Queen and his friend equally into his confidence; they were the two to whom he could unbosom himself with entire freedom. Disraeli, afterward Lord Beaconsfield, obtained the Queen's fullest confidence and won her friendship to an extent which no Minister since Melbourne had ever been able to do. 'Dizzy,' the leader of the 'Young England' party, the writer of political novels, was a very different person from the statesman of later years. It is difficult to remember or to realize in these days that it was looked upon as something quite extraordinary for a member of a once despised and persecuted race, the Jews, to hold high office. The annual celebrations of 'Primrose Day,' April 19, the anniversary of his death, are sufficient proof that this great statesman's services to the British Empire are not yet forgotten. Lord Beaconsfield, whom she regarded with sincere affection, possessed a remarkable influence over the Queen, for the simple reason that he never forgot to treat her as a woman. He was noted throughout his life for his chivalry to the opposite sex, and his devotion to his wife was very touching. He was a firm believer in the power of the Crown for good. "The proper leader of the people," he declared, "is the individual who sits upon the throne." He wished the Sovereign to be in a position to rule as well as to reign, to be at one with the nation, above the quarrels and differences of the political parties, and to be their representative. When quite a young man, he declared that he would one day be Prime Minister, and with this end in view he entered Parliament against the wishes of his family. He was an untiring worker all his life, and a firm believer in action. "Act, act, act without ceasing, and you will no longer talk of the vanity of life," was his creed. His ideas on education were original, and he did everything in his power to improve the training of the young. In 1870 he supported the great measure for a scheme of national education. Some years earlier he declared that "it is an absolute necessity that we should study to make every man the most effective being that education can possibly constitute him. In the old wars there used to be a story that one Englishman could beat three members of some other nation. But I think if we want to maintain our power, we ought to make one Englishman equal really in the business of life to three other men that any other nation can furnish. I do not see otherwise how . . . we can fulfil the great destiny that I believe awaits us, and the great position we occupy." He did more than any other Minister to raise the Crown to the position it now occupies, and no monarch ever had a more devoted and faithful servant. His high standard of morals and his force of character especially appealed to the English people, and his loyalty to his friends and colleagues remained unshaken throughout his whole life. He impressed not only his own countrymen, but also foreigners, with his splendid gifts of imagination and foresight. Bismarck, the man of 'blood and iron,' who welded the disunited states of Germany into a united and powerful empire, considered that Queen Victoria was the greatest statesman in Europe, and of the great Beaconsfield he said: "Disraeli _is_ England." Disraeli was a master of wit and phrase, and many of his best sayings and definitions have become proverbial, _e.g._ "the hansom, the 'gondola' of London," "our young Queen and our old institutions," "critics, men who have failed," "books, the curse of the human race." [Illustration: Sir Robert Peel, Lord Melbourne, Benjamin Disraeli Photo W.A. Mansell & Co.] The central figure of his time was the statesman-warrior, the great Duke of Wellington, '_the_ Duke.' After the famous Marlborough, England had not been able to boast of such a great commander. He was the best known figure in London, and though he never courted popularity or distinction, yet he served his Queen as Prime Minister when desired. "The path of duty" was for him "the way to glory." In 1845 the greatest wish of his life was realized when the Queen and her husband paid him a two days' visit at his residence, Strathfieldsaye. Alfred Tennyson's "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington," in 1852, praises him as 'truth-teller' and 'truth-lover,' and mourns for him: Let the long, long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful, martial music blow; The last great Englishman is low. In striking contrast to the 'Iron Duke' was the man whom Disraeli could never learn to like, Lord John Russell. Generally depicted in the pages of _Punch_ as a pert, cocksure little fellow, 'little Johnny,' the leader of the Whig party was a power as a leader. He knew how to interpret the Queen's wishes in a manner agreeable to herself, yet he did not hesitate, when he thought it advisable, to speak quite freely in criticism of her actions. His ancestors in the Bedford family had in olden days been advisers of the Crown, and Lord John thus came of a good stock; he himself, nevertheless, was always alert to prevent any encroachment upon the growing powers and rights of the people. He was a favourite of the Queen, and she gave him as a residence a house and grounds in Richmond Park. He was a man of the world and an agreeable talker, very well read, fond of quoting poetry, and especially pleased if he could indulge in reminiscences in his own circle of what his royal mistress had said at her last visit. Finally, mention must be made of one who, though he held no high position of State, can with justice be regarded as both friend and adviser of the Queen--John Brown. He entered the Queen's service at Balmoral, became later a gillie to the Prince Consort, and in 1851 the Queen's personal outdoor attendant. He was a man of a very straightforward nature and blunt speech, and even his Royal Mistress was not safe at times from criticism. In spite of his rough manner, he possessed many admirable qualities, and on his death in 1883 the Queen caused a granite seat to be erected in the grounds of Osborne with the following inscription: A TRUER, NOBLER, TRUSTIER HEART, MORE LOVING AND MORE LOYAL, NEVER BEAT WITHIN A HUMAN BREAST. CHAPTER XIII: _Queen and Empire_ What should they know of England who only England know? The England of Queen Elizabeth was the England of Shakespeare: This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise; This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war; This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. In Tennyson's _Princess_ we find an echo of these words, where the poet, in contrasting England and France, monarchy and republic--much to the disadvantage of the latter--says: God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled. But at a later date, in an "Epilogue to the Queen," at the close of the _Idylls of the King_, Tennyson has said farewell to his narrow insular views, and speaks of Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes For ever-broadening England, and her throne In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, That knows not her own greatness: if she knows And dreads it we are fall'n. He had come to recognize the necessity for guarding and maintaining the Empire, with all its greatness and all its burdens, as part of this country's destiny. It is a little difficult to realize that the British Empire, as we now know it, has been created within only the last hundred years. Beaconsfield, in his novel _Contarini Fleming_, describes the difference between ancient and modern colonies. "A modern colony," he says, "is a commercial enterprise, an ancient colony was a political sentiment." In other words, colonies were a matter of 'cash' to modern nations, such as the Spaniards: in the time of the ancients there was a close tie, a feeling of kinship, and the colonist was not looked upon with considerable contempt and dislike by the Mother Country. Beaconsfield believed that there would come a time, and that not far distant, when men would change their ideas. "I believe that a great revolution is at hand in our system of colonization, and that Europe will soon recur to the principles of the ancient polity." This feeling of pride in the growth and expansion of our great over-seas dominions is comparatively new, and there was a time when British ministers seriously proposed separation, from what they considered to be a useless burden. The ignorance of all that concerned the colonies in the early years of Victoria's reign was extraordinary, and this accounted, to a great extent, for the indifference with which the English people regarded the prospect of drifting apart. Lord Beaconsfield was a true prophet, for this indifference is now a thing of the past, and in the year 1875 an Imperial Federation League was formed, which, together with the celebrations at the Jubilees in 1887 and 1897, helped to knit this country and the Dominions together in bonds of friendship and sympathy. The rapid improvements in communication have brought the different parts of the Empire closer together; the Imperial Penny Postage and an all-British cable route to Australia have kept us in constant touch with our kinsmen in every part of the world where the Union Jack is flown. But this did not all come about in a day. Prejudice and dislike are difficult to conquer, and it was chiefly owing to the efforts of Lord Beaconsfield that they were eventually overcome. Imperialism too often means 'Jingoism,'--wild waving of flags and chanting of such melodies as: We don't want to fight, But, by Jingo, if we do, We've got the ships, we've got the men, We've got the money too. The true Imperialism is "defence, not defiance." Beaconsfield looked back into the past and sought to "resume the thread of our ancient empire." For him empire meant no easy burden but a solemn duty, a knitting together of all the varied races and religions in one common cause. "Peace with honour" was his and England's watchword. He believed, in fact, like Shakespeare, in saying Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear't, that th' opposed may beware of thee. He was very particular on the duty of "if necessary, saying rough things kindly, and not kind things roughly," which was a lesson Lord Palmerston never seemed to be capable of learning. Another of his maxims was that it was wiser from every point of view to treat semi-barbarous nations with due respect for their customs and feelings. He preached Confederation and not Annexation. "By pursuing the policy of Confederation," he declared, "we bind states together, we consolidate their resources, and we enable them to establish a strong frontier, that is the best security against annexation." His whole policy was to foster the growth of independence and build the foundations of a peace which should be enduring. "Both in the East and in the West our object is to have prosperous, happy, and contented neighbours." The object of his imperialism was to progress, at the same time paying due respect to the traditions of the past; he rightly believed that the character of a nation, like that of an individual, is strengthened by responsibility. "The glory of the Empire and the prosperity of the people" was what he hoped to achieve. During the anxious times of the Indian Mutiny he alone seemed to grasp the real meaning of this sudden uprising of alien races. He declared that it was a revolt and not a mutiny; a revolt against the English because of their lack of respect for ancient rights and customs. After the war was ended he declared that the Government ought to tell the people of India "that the relation between them and their real ruler and sovereign, Queen Victoria, shall be drawn nearer." This should be done "in the Queen's name and with the Queen's authority." He appealed to the whole Indian nation by his 'Royal Titles Bill,' by means of which the Queen received the title of Empress of India. This brought home to the minds and imaginations of the native races the real meaning and grandeur of the Empire of which they were now a part. The great Queen was now _their_ Empress, or, to use the Indian title, '_Kaiser-i-Hind_.' The Queen took the deepest interest in the Proclamation to the Indian people in 1858, and insisted on a number of alterations before she would allow it to be passed as satisfactory. She wrote to Lord Derby asking him to remember that "it is a female sovereign who speaks to more than a hundred millions of Eastern people on assuming the direct government over them after a bloody, civil war, giving them pledges which her future reign is to redeem, and explaining the principles of her government. Such a document should breathe feelings of generosity, benevolence, and religious feeling, pointing out the privileges which the Indians will receive in being placed on an equality with the subjects of the British Crown, and the prosperity following in the train of civilization." Direct mention was to be made of the introduction of railways, canals, and telegraphs, with an assurance that such works would be the cause of general welfare to the Indian people. In conclusion she added: "Her Majesty wishes expression to be given to her feelings of horror and regret at the results of this bloody civil war, and of pleasure and gratitude to God at its approaching end, and Her Majesty thinks the Proclamation should terminate by an invocation to Providence for its blessing on a great work for a great and good end." The amended Proclamation was read in every province in India and met everywhere with cordial approval by princes and natives alike. The feeling of loyalty was aroused by the Queen's assurance that "in your prosperity is our strength, in your contentment our security, and in your gratitude our best reward." On May 1, 1859, in England, and on July 28, 1859, in India, there was a general thanksgiving for the restoration of peace. Although the Queen was never able to visit India in person, in 1875 the Prince of Wales went, at her request, to mark her appreciation of the loyalty of the native princes. The welcome given to the future King of England was truly royal. Reviews, banquets, illuminations, state dinners followed one another in rapid succession. Benares, the sacred city of the Hindoos, was visited, and here the Prince witnessed a great procession which included large numbers of elephants and camels, and an illumination of the entire river and city. At Delhi, the capital of the Great Mogul, the Prince was met by Lord Napier of Magdala at the head of fifteen thousand troops, and at Lucknow an address and a crown set with jewels were presented to him. [Illustration: The Secret of England's Greatness J.T. Baker Photo W.A. Mansell & Co.] It was in the same year that Disraeli, on behalf of the British Government, purchased a very large number of shares in the Suez Canal, thus gaining for us a hand in its administration--a vitally important matter when one realizes how much closer India has been brought by this saving in time over the long voyage round the Cape. To pass in review the growth and expansion of the Empire during the Queen's reign would be a difficult task, and an impossible one within the limits of a small volume. The expressions of loyalty and devotion from the representatives of the great over-seas dominions on the occasion of the Queen's Jubilee in 1887 were proof enough that England and the English were no longer an insular land and people, but a mighty nation with one sovereign head. In the address which was presented to the Queen it was stated that during her reign her colonial subjects of European descent had increased from two to nine millions, and in Asia and India there was an increase of population from ninety-six to two hundred and fifty-four millions. After the great ceremony of thanksgiving in St Paul's Cathedral the Queen expressed her thanks to her people in the following message: "I am anxious to express to my people my warm thanks for the kind, and more than kind, reception I met with on going to and returning from Westminster Abbey with all my children and grandchildren. "The enthusiastic reception I met with then, as well as on those eventful days in London, as well as in Windsor, on the occasion of my Jubilee, has touched me most deeply, and has shown that the labours and anxieties of fifty long years--twenty-two years of which I spent in unclouded happiness, shared with and cheered by my beloved husband, while an equal number were full of sorrows and trial borne without his sheltering arm and wise help--have been appreciated by my people. This feeling and the sense of duty towards my dear country and subjects, who are so inseparably bound up with my life, will encourage me in my task, often a very difficult and arduous one, during the remainder of my life. "The wonderful order preserved on this occasion, and the good behaviour of the enormous multitudes assembled, merits my highest admiration. That God may protect and abundantly bless my country is my fervent prayer." And in laying the foundation-stone of the Imperial Institute, she said: "I concur with you in thinking that the counsel and exertions of my beloved husband initiated a movement which gave increased vigour to commercial activity, and produced marked and lasting improvements in industrial efforts. One indirect result of that movement has been to bring more before the minds of men the vast and varied resources of the Empire over which Providence has willed that I should reign during fifty prosperous years. "I believe and hope that the Imperial Institute will play a useful part in combining those resources for the common advantage of all my subjects, conducing towards the welding of the colonies, India, and the mother-country, into one harmonious and united community. . . ." When war was declared in South Africa and the Boer forces invaded Cape Colony and Natal, contingents from Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Cape Colony, and Natal joined the British force and fought side by side throughout that long and trying campaign. In 1897 was celebrated the sixtieth anniversary of the Queen's reign, and every colony sent a detachment of troops to represent it. At the steps of St Paul's Cathedral the Queen remained to return thanks to God for all the blessings of her reign, and after the magnificent procession had returned she once again sent a message to her people: "In weal and woe I have ever had the true sympathy of all my people, which has been warmly reciprocated by myself. It has given me unbounded pleasure to see so many of my subjects from all parts of the world assembled here, and to find them joining in the acclamations of loyal devotion to myself, and I wish to thank them all from the depth of my grateful heart." _Appendix to Chapter XIII_ THE BRITISH EMPIRE The population of the Empire is estimated to be 355 millions of coloured and 60 millions of white people. CANADA 1840. The Act of Union passed. The two colonies of Upper and Lower Canada united, and a representative Assembly formed. 1867. Bill for the Federation of Canada passed. The various provinces united under the title of Dominion of Canada, ruled by a Governor-General, nominated by the Crown. The Central Parliament, which dealt with matters relating to the Dominion, established at Ottawa. 1885. Completion of the Canadian Pacific Railway, which led to the opening up of the North-West. The great stream of emigration from Europe commences. AUSTRALIA Australia became a United Commonwealth at the beginning of the present century. From 1851 onward the transportation of convicts was prohibited. The expansion of the Commonwealth has taken place to a great extent during the reign of Queen Victoria. The majority of the settlers are of British descent. SOUTH AFRICA South Africa finally united in 1910 with self-government. INDIA Disraeli, in 1876, introduced the Royal Titles Bill, by means of which the Queen was able to assume the title of Empress of India. CHAPTER XIV: _Stress and Strain_ Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. TENNYSON The greatest Revolutions are not always those which are accompanied by riot and bloodshed. England's Revolution was peaceful, but it worked vast and almost incredible changes. We find, in the first place, that after the great Napoleonic Wars and during the 'forty years' peace' a new class, the 'Middle Class,' came into being. It had, of course, existed before this time, but it had been unable to make its power felt. The astonishing increase of trade and consequently of wealth, the application of steam power with special influence upon land and sea transit, transformed England into "the Workshop of the World." By the year 1840 railways were no longer regarded as something in the nature of an experiment, which might or might not prove a success; they had, indeed, become an integral part of the social life of the nation. In 1840 the Railway Regulation Act was passed, followed in 1844 by the Cheap Trains Act, which required that passengers must be carried in covered waggons at a charge of not more than one penny a mile and at a speed of not less than twelve miles an hour. From 1844 onward the construction of railways proceeded apace, until by the year 1874 no less than 16,449 miles had been laid. Ocean traffic under steam progressed equally rapidly; in 1812 the first steamer appeared upon the Clyde, and in 1838 the famous _Great Western_ steamed from Bristol to New York. The quickening and cheapening of transport called for new and improved methods of manufacture; small business concerns grew into great mercantile houses with interests all over the face of the globe. Everywhere movement and expansion; everywhere change. A powerful commercial class came into existence, and power--that is, voting power--passed to this class and was held by it until the year 1865. From this year, roughly speaking, the power passed into the hands of the democracy. Education, which had been to a great extent a class monopoly, gradually penetrated to all ranks and grades of society. In 1867 the second Reform Act was passed; a very large proportion of the urban working classes were given the power of voting, and it was naturally impossible to entrust such powers for long to an illiterate democracy. Therefore, in 1870, Mr Forster's Education Act was passed, which required that in every district where sufficient voluntary schools did not exist a School Board should be formed to build and maintain the necessary school accommodation at the cost of the rates. By a later Act of 1876 school attendance was made compulsory. Every effort was made in succeeding years to raise the level of intelligence among present and future citizens. Education became national and universal. During the period 1865-85 the population of the kingdom increased, and the emigration to the British colonial possessions reached its maximum in the year 1883, when the figures were 183,236. The rapid rise in population of the large towns drew attention more and more urgently to the question of public health. Every city and every town had its own problems to face, and the necessity for solving these cultivated and strengthened the sense of civic pride and responsibility. We find during this period an ever-growing interest throughout the country in the welfare, both moral and mental, of the great mass of the workers. Municipal life became the training-ground where many a member of Parliament served his apprenticeship. Municipalities took charge of baths and washhouses, organized and built public markets, ensured a cheap and ample supply of pure water, installed modern systems of drainage, provided housing accommodation at low rents for the poorer classes, built hospitals for infectious diseases, and, finally, carried on the great and important work of educating its citizens. The power of Labour began, at last, to make itself felt. The first attempt at co-operation made by the Rochdale Pioneers in 1844 stimulated others to follow their example, and in 1869 the Co-operative Union was formed. The Trade Unions showed an increased interest in education, in forming libraries and classes, and in extending their somewhat narrow policy as their voting power increased. Out of this movement sprang Working Men's Clubs attached to the Unions and carrying on all branches of work, educational and beneficial, amongst its members. The standard of society was continually rising, and it was already a far cry to the Early Victorian England described in an earlier chapter. The world was growing smaller--that is to say, communications between country and country, between continent and continent, were growing more easy. The first insulated cable was laid in 1848, across the Hudson River, from Jersey City to New York, and in 1857 an unsuccessful attempt was made to connect the New and the Old World. In 1866 the _Great Eastern_, after two trials, succeeded in laying a complete cable. The expansion of the powers of human invention led to a great increase in the growth of comfort of all classes. To take only a few striking examples: at the beginning of the century matches were not yet invented, and only in 1827 were the 'Congreve' sulphur matches put on the market; they were sold at the rate of one shilling a box containing eighty-four matches! In the year 1821 gas was still considered a luxury; soap and candles were both greatly improved and cheapened. By the withdrawal of the window tax in 1851 obvious and necessary advantages were gained in the building of houses. In 1855 the stamp duty on newspapers was abolished. In these days of cheap halfpenny papers with immense circulations it is difficult to realize that at a date not very far distant from us, the poor scarcely, if ever, saw a newspaper at all. Friends used to club together to reduce the great expense of buying a single copy, and agents hired out copies for the sum of one penny per hour. The only effect of the stamp duty had been to cut off the poorer classes from all sources of trustworthy information. In 1834 not a single town in the kingdom with the exception of London possessed a daily paper. The invention of steam printing, and the introduction of shorthand reporting and the use of telegraph and railways, revolutionized the whole world of journalism. Charles Dickens, on the occasion of his presiding, in May 1865, at the second annual dinner of the Newspaper Press Fund, gave his hearers an idea of what newspaper reporters were and what they suffered in the early days. "I have pursued the calling of a reporter under circumstances of which many of my brethren here can form no adequate conception. I have often transcribed for the printer, from my shorthand notes, important public speeches in which the strictest accuracy was required, and a mistake in which would have been to a young man severely compromising, writing on the palm of my hand, by the light of a dark lantern, in a post-chaise and four, galloping through a wild country, and through the dead of the night, at the then surprising rate of fifteen miles an hour. . . . I have worn my knees by writing on them on the old back-row of the old gallery of the old House of Commons; and I have worn my feet by standing to write in a preposterous pen in the old House of Lords, where we used to be huddled together like so many sheep--kept in waiting, say, until the woolsack might want re-stuffing. Returning home from exciting political meetings in the country to the waiting press in London, I do verily believe I have been upset in almost every description of vehicle known in this country. I have been, in my time, belated on miry by-roads, towards the small hours, forty or fifty miles from London, in a wheelless carriage, with exhausted horses and drunken post-boys, and have got back in time for publication, to be received with never-forgotten compliments by the late Mr Black, coming in the broadest of Scotch from the broadest of hearts I ever knew." During these later years England came to look upon her duties and responsibilities toward her colonial possessions in quite a different light. Imperialism became a factor in the political life of the nation. The builders of Empire in the time of Queen Elizabeth took a very narrow view of their responsibilities; they were not in the least degree concerned about the well-being of a colony or possession for its own sake. The state of Ireland in those days spoke for itself. The horrors of the Indian Mutiny in 1857 was the first lesson which opened England's eyes to the fact that an Empire, if it is to be anything more than a name, must be a united whole under wise and sympathetic guidance. The rebellion proved to be the end of the old East Indian Company. England took over the administration of Indian affairs into her own hands. An "Act for the better Government of India" was passed in 1858, which provided that all the territories previously under the government of the Company were to be vested in Her Majesty, and all the Company's powers to be exercised in her name. The Viceroy, with the assistance of a Council, was to be supreme in India. In 1867 a great colonial reform was carried out, the Confederation of the North American Provinces of the British Empire. By this Act the names of Upper and Lower Canada were changed respectively to Ontario and Quebec. The first Dominion Parliament met in the autumn of the same year, and lost no time in passing an Act to construct an Inter-Colonial Railway affording proper means of communication between the maritime and central provinces. In 1869 the Hudson Bay territory was acquired from the Company which held it, and after the Red River Insurrection, headed by a half-breed, Louis Riel, had been successfully crushed by the Wolseley Expedition, the territory was made part of the Federation. In 1871 British Columbia became part of the Dominion, on condition that a railway was constructed within the following ten years which should extend from the Pacific to the Rocky Mountains and connect with the existing railway system. The great Canadian Pacific Railway was completed in 1885, opening out the West to all-comers. The rise and growth of the Imperialistic spirit has been greatly influenced by the literature on the subject, which dated its commencement from Professor Seeley's _Expansion of England_ in 1883. This was followed by an immense number of works by various writers, the chief of whom, Rudyard Kipling, has popularized the conception of Imperialism and extended its meaning: Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown. The Empire was not, however, to be consolidated without war and bloodshed, for relations with the two Boer Republics, the Transvaal and the Orange River, became more and more strained as years went on. The last years of the Queen's life were destined to be saddened by the outbreak of war in South Africa. The facts which led to the outbreak were briefly these, though it is but fair to state that there are, even now, various theories current as to the causes. The discovery and opening up of the gold mines of the Transvaal had brought a stream of adventurous emigrants into the country, and it was these 'Outlanders' of whom the Dutch were suspicious. The Transvaal Government refused to admit them to equal political rights with the Dutch inhabitants. It was certain, however, that the Outlanders would never submit to be dependent on the policy of President Kruger, although the Dutch declared that they had only accepted the suzerainty of Great Britain under compulsion. Negotiations between the two Governments led to nothing, as neither side would give way, and at last, in 1899, following upon an ultimatum demanding the withdrawal of British troops from the borders of the Republic, war broke out. It had undoubtedly been hastened by the ill-fated and ill-advised raid in 1896 of Dr Jameson, the administrator of Rhodesia. It is scarcely necessary to review the details of this war at any length. It proved conclusively that the Government of this country had vastly underrated the resisting powers of the Boers. For three years the British army was forced to wage a guerilla warfare, and adapt itself to entirely new methods of campaigning. On May 28, 1900, the Orange Free State was annexed under the name of the Orange River Colony. In June Lord Roberts entered Pretoria, but the war dragged on until 1902, when a Peace Conference was held and the Boer Republics became part of the British Empire. Very liberal terms were offered to and accepted by the conquered Dutch. But long before this event took place Queen Victoria had passed away. She had followed the whole course of the war with the deepest interest and anxiety, and when Lord Roberts returned to this country, leaving Lord Kitchener in command in South Africa, the Queen was desirous of hearing from his own lips the story of the campaign. The public was already uneasy about the state of her health, and on January 20th it was announced that her condition had become serious. On Tuesday, January 22, she was conscious and recognized the members of her family watching by her bedside, but on the afternoon of the same day she peacefully passed away. One of the last wishes she expressed was that her body should be borne to rest on a gun-carriage, for she had never forgotten that she was a soldier's daughter. On the day of the funeral the horses attached to the gun-carriage became restive, and the sailors who formed the guard of honour took their place, and drew the coffin, draped in the Union Jack, to its last resting-place. Through the streets of London, which had witnessed two great Jubilee processions, festivals of rejoicing and thanksgiving, the funeral cortege passed, and a great reign and a great epoch in history had come to an end. CHAPTER XV: _Victoria the Great_ The keynote of Queen Victoria's life was simplicity. She was a great ruler, and at the same time a simple-minded, sympathetic woman, the true mother of her people. She seemed by some natural instinct to understand their joys and their sorrows, and this was the more remarkable as for forty years she reigned alone without the invaluable advice and assistance of her husband. Her qualities were not those which have made other great rulers famous, but they were typical of the age in which she lived. All her life she was industrious, and never spared herself any time or trouble, however arduous and disagreeable her duties might be. She possessed the keenest sense of duty, and in dealing with men and circumstances she never failed to do or say the right thing. Her daily intercourse with the leading English statesmen of the time gave her an unrivalled knowledge of home and foreign politics. In short, her natural ability and good sense, strengthened by experience, made her what she was, a perfect model of a constitutional monarch. During her reign the Crown once again took its proper place: no longer was there a gulf between the Ruler and the People, and Patriotism, the love of Queen and Country, became a real and living thing. Pope's adage, "A patriot is a fool in every age," could no longer be quoted with any truth. Queen Victoria was, above all, a great lover of peace, and did all in her power for its promotion. Her personal influence was often the means of smoothing over difficulties both at home and abroad when her Ministers had aggravated instead of lessening them. She formed her own opinions and held to them, though she was always willing to listen to reason. The Memorandum which she drew up in the year 1850 shows how firm a stand she could take when her country's peace seemed to be threatened. Lord Palmerston, though an able Minister in many respects, was a wilful, hot-headed man, who was over-fond of acting on the spur of the moment without consulting his Sovereign. His dispatches, written as they so often were in a moment of feverish enthusiasm, frequently gave offence to foreign monarchs and statesmen, and were more than once nearly the cause of war. It was remarked of him that "the desk was his place of peril, his pen ran away with him. His speech never made an enemy, his writing has left many festering sores. The charm of manner and urbanity which so served him in Parliament and in society was sometimes wanting on paper, and good counsels were dashed with asperity." Lord Palmerston, the Queen complained, did not obey instructions, and she declared that before important dispatches were sent abroad the Sovereign should be consulted. Further, alterations were sometimes made by him when they had been neither suggested nor approved by the Crown. Such proceedings caused England, in the Queen's own words, to be "generally detested, mistrusted, and treated with indignity by even the smallest Powers." In the Memorandum the Queen requires: "(1) That he will distinctly state what he proposes in a given case, in order that the Queen may know as distinctly to what she has given her royal sanction. "(2) Having once given her sanction to a measure, that it be not arbitrarily altered or modified by the Minister. Such an act she must consider as a failure in sincerity towards the Crown, and justly to be visited by the exercise of her Constitutional right of dismissing that Minister. She expects to be kept informed of what passes between him and the Foreign Ministers, before important decisions are taken, based upon that intercourse; to receive the Foreign dispatches in good time and to have the drafts for her approval sent to her in sufficient time to make herself acquainted with their contents before they must be sent off. The Queen thinks it best that Lord John Russell should show this letter to Lord Palmerston." More than once the alteration of a dispatch by the Queen prevented what might easily have plunged this country into a disastrous war. After the Mutiny in India a proclamation was issued to the native races, and the Queen insisted upon alterations which would clearly show that their religious beliefs should in no way be interfered with, thus preventing a fresh mutiny. On rare occasions her indignation got the better of her--once, notably, when, owing to careless delay on the part of the Ministry, General Gordon perished at Khartoum, a rescue party failing to reach him in time. In a letter to his sisters she spoke of this as "a stain left upon England," and as a wrong which she felt very keenly. Her style of writing was as simple as possible, yet she always said the right thing at the right moment, and her letters of sympathy or congratulation were models of their kind and never failed in their effect. Few, if any, reigns in history have been so blameless as hers, and her domestic life was perfect in its harmony and the devotion of the members of her family to one another. She possessed the 'eye of the mistress' for every detail, however small, which concerned housekeeping matters, and though her style of entertaining was naturally often magnificent, everything was paid for punctually. After the visits of King Louis Philippe and the Emperor Nicholas of Russia, Sir Robert Peel acknowledged that "Her Majesty was able to meet every charge and to give a reception to the Sovereigns which struck every one by its magnificence without adding one tittle to the burdens of the country. I am not required by Her Majesty to press for the extra expenditure of one single shilling on account of these unforeseen causes of increased expenditure. I think that to state this is only due to the personal credit of Her Majesty, who insists upon it that there shall be every magnificence required by her station, but without incurring one single debt." When one remembers that the Queen had to superintend the household arrangements of Buckingham Palace, Balmoral Castle, Osborne, and Windsor, and that the latter alone gave employment, in one way and another, to two thousand people, it can be realized that this was a tremendous undertaking in itself. Method and neatness, first instituted by the Prince Consort, were always insisted upon in place of the disorder and waste which had reigned supreme before the Queen became head of the household. [Illustration: THE VICTORIA AND ALBERT MUSEUM, SOUTH KENSINGTON] Before her life was saddened by the untimely loss of her husband the Queen was the leader of English society, and her influence was, as may be imagined, thoroughly wholesome and good. She was all her life a deeply religious woman, and though her observance of Sunday was strict, she never allowed it to become a day of penance. Her religion was 'humane'--indeed, her intense sympathy with all sorrow and suffering was one of her supreme virtues, and her early upbringing made her dislike all elaborate forms of ceremony during the service. When in the Highlands she always attended the simple little Presbyterian church, where the congregation was, for the most part, made up of the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. It is this simplicity and 'homeliness' of the Queen which were so often misunderstood by those who could not realize how much she was at one with her people. The Queen was never more happy than when she was visiting some poor sufferer and comforting those in sorrow. Her memory for the little events which made up the lives and happiness of those far below her in social rank was amazing. She was a great and a truly democratic Queen. She gave the greater portion of her Jubilee present toward a fund to establish institutions to provide nurses for the sick poor. During the latter years of her reign, when she was less and less to be seen at public functions and ceremonies, many complaints were made about her reputed neglect of royal duties. She felt the injustice of such statements very keenly and with good reason. No allowances were made for her poor health, for her years, for the family losses which left her every year more and more a lonely woman. Her duties, ever increasing in number and extent, left her no time, even if she had possessed the inclination, to take part in pomp and ceremony. The outburst of loyalty and affection on the occasion of her two Jubilee celebrations proved that she still reigned supreme in the nation's heart. The Queen was not only a great monarch, but also a great statesman. Consider for a moment the many and bewildering changes which took place in her own and other countries during her reign. Our country was almost continually at war in some portion of the globe. The British Army fought side by side with the French against Russia in the Crimea, and against the rebels in the Indian Mutiny; two Boer wars were fought in South Africa in 1881, and 1899-1902. There were also lesser wars in China, Afghanistan, Abyssinia, Zululand and Egypt. The Queen lived to see France change from a Monarchy to a Republic; to see Germany beat France to her knees and become a united Empire, thanks to the foresight of her great statesman Bismarck, and her great general von Moltke. During the same year (1870) the Italian army entered Rome, as soon as the French garrison had been withdrawn, and Italy became a united country under King Victor Emmanuel. Despite the fact that the map of Europe was continually changing, England managed to keep clear of international strife, and this was in no small degree due to the personal influence of the Queen. The England of her early years would be an absolutely foreign country to us, if by some magic touch we were to be transplanted back down the line of years. It was different in thought, feeling, and outlook. The extraordinary changes in the modes of travelling, by means of which numbers of people who had never even thought of any other country beside their own, were enabled to visit other lands, broke down, bit by bit, the barrier between the Continent and ourselves. England became less of an insular and more of a continental power. The social changes were, as has been shown, all for good. Education became not the privilege of the few but the right of all who wished for it. Step by step the people gained in power and in the right to govern themselves. The idea of citizenship, of a patriotism which extended beyond the narrow limits of these isles, slowly took root and blossomed. Through all these manifold changes the Queen reigned, ever alert, and even in her last years taking the keenest interest in the growth of her mighty kingdom. "The use of the Queen in a dignified capacity is incalculable," declared Walter Bagehot in his famous essay on _The English Constitution_. He continues: "Without her in England, the present English Government would fail and pass away." It is interesting to read the reasons which such a clear and distinguished thinker gives to explain the hold which the Monarchy retains upon the English nation as a whole. Firstly: there is the Family, of which the Queen is the head; the Nation looks upon her as its mother, witness its enthusiasm at the marriage of the Prince of Wales. Secondly: The Monarchy strengthens the Government with the strength of religion. It is the duty of a loyal citizen to obey his Queen; the oath of allegiance is no empty form. The Queen from her very position acts as a symbol of unity. Thirdly: The Queen is the head of our society; she represents England in the eyes of foreign nations. Fourthly: The Monarchy is the head of our morality. The example of Queen Victoria's simple life has not been lost upon the nation. It is now quite a natural thing to expect and to find the domestic virtues personified in the ruling monarch, and this in spite of the fact that history has shown what temptations lie in the way of those possessed of the highest power in the state. Shakespeare voiced the feeling of the people for the kingship in the words which he put into the mouth of Henry V: Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins, lay on the king: We must bear all. O hard condition! twin-born with greatness, Subject to the breath of every fool, whose sense No more can feel but his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect, That private men enjoy? And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And lastly, the actual Government of the country may change but the Monarch remains, subject to no changes of Parliament, above and aloof from the strife of political parties, the steadying influence in times of transition. The Sovereign has three rights: "The right to be consulted, the right to encourage, the right to warn." A comparison of the reigns of the four Georges with the reign of Queen Victoria shows that it was only during the latter's reign that the duties of the constitutional monarch were well and conscientiously performed. The Queen worked as well as her Ministers, and was their equal and often their superior in business capacity. To conclude: "The benefits of a good monarch are almost invaluable, but the evils of a bad monarch are almost irreparable." On the death of the Queen, Mr Arthur Balfour, speaking in the House of Commons, described his visit to Osborne at a time when the Royal Family was already in mourning. The Queen's desk was still littered with papers, the inkstand still open and the pen laid beside it. "She passed away with her children and her children's children to the third generation around her, beloved and cherished of all. She passed away without, I well believe, a single enemy in the world. Even those who loved not England loved her. She passed away not only knowing that she was, I had almost said, worshipped and reverenced by all her subjects, but that their feelings towards her had grown in depth and intensity with every year she was spared to rule over us." _Appendix_ Victoria Alexandrina, only daughter of Edward, Duke of Kent, fourth son of George III. Born at Kensington, May 24, 1819. Became Queen, June 20, 1837. Married Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Prince Consort, born August 26, 1819, died December 14, 1861. Died January 22, 1901, after a reign of sixty-three years. _Summary of Chief Events during the Queen's Reign_ 1838. Commencement of the Chartist Movement. 1840. PENNY POSTAGE ESTABLISHED mainly through the efforts of Rowland Hill. War with China. 1841. Sir Robert Peel appointed Premier. 1842. War with Afghanistan. Peace with China. The Chinese cede Hong Kong. 1843. Agitation in Ireland for the Repeal of the Union. Arrest of Daniel O'Connell. 1845. War with the Sikhs. Failure of potato crop in Ireland, which resulted in a famine in the following winter. 1846. Repeal of the Corn Laws. Lord John Russell appointed Premier. 1848. Revolution in France. Prince Louis Napoleon becomes President of the Republic. Chartist Agitation in London. 1849. Annexation of the Punjab. 1850. Death of Sir Robert Peel. 1851. THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 1852. Death of the Duke of Wellington. Louis Napoleon elected Emperor of France. 1853. Turkey declares war against Russia. 1854. Great Britain and France declare war against Russia. THE CRIMEAN WAR. Invasion of the Crimea. The Battle of the Alma (Sept. 20). Siege of Sebastopol. Battle of Balaclava and Charge of the Light Brigade (Oct. 25). Battle of Inkerman (Nov. 5). 1855. Lord Palmerston appointed Premier. Death of the Emperor Nicholas of Russia. Fall of Sebastopol (Sept.). 1856. Peace concluded with Russia by the Treaty of Paris. 1857. THE INDIAN MUTINY. The massacre at Cawnpore (July). Capture of Delhi (Sept.). Sir Colin Campbell relieves Lucknow (Nov.). 1858. Suppression of the Mutiny. Abolition of the East India Company. The possessions and powers of the Company transferred to the Crown. The Queen's Proclamation to India issued by Lord Canning, first Viceroy. 1859. Establishment of the Volunteer Army. Fenianism in Ireland. Trial of O'Donovan Rossa. 1860. Second Chinese War and occupation of Pekin. 1861. THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR. Repeal of the duty on paper. 1862. The second Great Exhibition. 1865. Death of Lord Palmerston. Lord Russell appointed Premier. 1866. THE ATLANTIC CABLE LAID. Lord Derby appointed Premier. The war between Austria and Prussia. 1867. THE SECOND REFORM BILL passed. It largely extended the suffrage in English boroughs. 1868. Disraeli appointed Premier. 1869. Suez Canal opened. 1870. THE ELEMENTARY EDUCATION ACT passed, which compelled the attendance of children at efficient schools. The Franco-German War. Halfpenny postcards first came into use. 1871. Establishment of the German Empire. TREATY OF WASHINGTON, which settled by arbitration the Alabama claims. 1872. The Ballot Act passed to secure secret voting at elections. 1874. Disraeli appointed Premier for the second time. 1875. Purchase of shares in the Suez Canal. 1876. Disraeli becomes Earl of Beaconsfield. THE QUEEN PROCLAIMED EMPRESS OF INDIA. 1878. Congress of Berlin to settle the Eastern Question. Great Britain was represented by Lords Salisbury and Beaconsfield. Second Afghan War. 1879. War in Zululand. 1880. Rising of the Boers in the Transvaal. 1881. Defeat of the British at Majuba Hill. Peace concluded in March. Death of Lord Beaconsfield. 1882. OCCUPATION OF EGYPT. Bombardment of Alexandria and the Battle of Tel-el-Kebir. 1883. War in the Soudan. Defeat of Hicks Pasha. 1885. Fall of Khartoum and death of General Gordon. Redistribution Bill. Number of Members of Parliament increased from 658 to 670. The Revised Version of the Bible. 1886. Annexation of Upper Burmah. 1887. JUBILEE CELEBRATION. 1888. Death of the Emperor William I. of Germany, and of his son Frederick III. Succession of William II. The Local Government Act, by which England and Wales was divided into counties and county boroughs for purposes of local government. 1889. Charter granted to British South African Co. 1896. The Jameson Raid. 1897. The 'Diamond' Jubilee. 1898. Death of Gladstone. War in Soudan. Battle of Omdurman. 1899. South African War. 20430 ---- THE AFTERGLOW OF A GREAT REIGN Four Addresses Delivered in St. Paul's Cathedral by the RIGHT REV. A. F. WINNINGTON INGRAM, D.D. Bishop Suffragan of Stepney, and Canon of St. Paul's Cathedral London Wells Gardner, Darton & Co. 3, Paternoster Buildings, E C 1901. CONTENTS. PAGE I. HER TRUTHFULNESS II. HER MORAL COURAGE III. THE RAINBOW ROUND ABOUT THE THRONE IV. THE LAW OF KINDNESS The After-glow of a Great Reign. I. HER TRUTHFULNESS. "Behold, Thou requirest truth in the inward parts."--_Psalm li. 6._ We stand to-day like men who have just watched a great sunset. On some beautiful summer evening we must all of us have watched a sunset, and we know how, first of all, we see the great orb slowly decline towards the horizon; then comes the sense of coming loss; then it sets amid a blaze of glory, and then it is buried, buried for ever so far as that day is concerned, to reappear as the leader of a new dawn. In exactly the same way have we for years been watching with loving interest the declining years of our Queen, years that declined so slowly towards the horizon that we almost persuaded ourselves we should have her with us for ever. Then came, but a few weeks ago, a sudden sense of coming loss, then her sun set in a blaze of glory, and yesterday she was buried, buried from our sight, to reappear, as we believe, as a bright particular star in another world. We do not grudge her her rest. Few words can express more beautifully the thoughts of thousands than these words just put into my hand-- "Leave her in peace, her time is fully come, Her empire's crown All day she bore, nor asked to lay it down, Now God has called her home. Let sights and sounds of earth be all forgot, Her cares and tears She hath endured thro' her allotted years, Now they can touch her not. From that fierce light which beats upon a throne Now has she passed Into God's stillness, cool and deep and vast, Let Heaven for earth atone. All gifts but one He gave, but kept the best Till now in store; Now He doth add to all He gave before His perfect gift of rest." [1] But, just as in the sunset a beautiful and tender after-glow remains long after the sun has set, so we are gathered to-day in the tender after-glow. And I propose that we should try and gather up one by one--to learn ourselves and to tell our children, and the generations yet unborn, as some explanation of the marvellous influence which she exercised--some of the qualities of the Queen whom we have lost. And let us first fix our minds upon something which at first sight seems so simple, but yet seems to have struck every generation of statesmen as a thing almost supernatural--and that is _her marvellous truthfulness_. Said a great statesman, "She is the most perfectly truthful being I have ever met." "Perfect sincerity" is the description of another. Now what that must have meant to England, for generation after generation of statesmen to have had at the centre of the empire a truthful person, a person who never used intrigue, who never was plotting or planning, or working behind the backs of those who were responsible to advise her--to have had someone perfectly sincere to deal with in the great things of state--that is something which must be left for the historian who chronicles the Victorian era thoroughly to paint. No, my friends, our task now is far simpler: it is to ask what is the secret of this marvellous truthfulness, can we obtain it ourselves, and does God demand it? Let us take the last question first, and we take it first because it is the question directly answered in our text. The answer is given by someone who understood human nature, by someone who had sinned, had been forgiven, had been roused out of the conventionalities of life by a great experience, who had looked out of the door of his being and had seen God. And he tells us, as the result of his experience, and as the basis of his repentance, these words "Behold, Thou requirest truth in the inward parts." It is one thing to say words which, understood in a certain sense, are true, it is one thing to avoid direct breaches in our action of the law of honour, but it is another thing to be in ourselves absolutely sincere, to look up into the eyes of God, as a truthful child looks up into the eyes of its mother, to possess our own hearts like a flawless gem, with nothing to hide, nothing to keep back, and nothing to be ashamed of--that is to have truth in the inward parts, and that is what God demands. It is what He found in Christ, one of the things which made Him say time after time, "This is My beloved Son, in Whom I am well pleased"; He found ever reflecting back His Face as He looked down upon Him a perfectly sincere Person, true through and through. That was the secret of His marvellous influence, that was why little children came and crept under the ample folds of His love, that was why young men came and told Him their secrets, that was why everybody, except the bad, felt at home with Him, that was why women were at their best with Him, that was why Herod the worldly found he could not flatter Him, and Pilate the coward found Him devoid of fear; it was because right through, not only in His words and actions, but in His being He not only had, but He was, Truth in the inward parts. And it is because our Queen, with her simple and beautiful faith in her Saviour, caught from childhood this attribute of her Lord, because she worked it out into her character, made it the foundation of everything she did--it is for that reason she was able to keep the Court pure, and the heart of the country true, to get rid of flattery, meanness and intrigue, and to chase away the sycophant and the traitor. Is it not a lesson which the country needs, is there any nobler monument that we could build to her than this--to incorporate into the character of the nation the first and great characteristic of her own character, and to try and plant in society, in trade, and in Christian work, truth in the inward parts? Take, first, _society_. It is a cheap sneer, which speaks perpetually of the hollowness of so-called society, as if rich people could not make and did not make as honest friendships as the poor and middle class; but, at the same time, few would deny how much of what would be such a good thing is disfigured by display and insincerity, that miserable attempting to be thought richer than we are, that pitiable struggle to get into a smarter set than happens to be ours, the unreal compliments, the insincere expressions, the sometimes hideous treachery. If society were purged from these, it would not be the dull thing which some people imagine, just as if this insincerity and frivolity and unreality constituted the brightness of it. No, it is these things which constitute the dulness and the stupidity. If they were done away with, then society would be a gathering of true men and women, true to themselves, true to one another, and true to God, and would be a society which God could bless. Secondly, take _trade_ and _commerce_. Speaking in the very centre of a city reared upon a basis of honourable commerce, it would be more than wicked to refuse to acknowledge the splendid honour and trust on which such commerce is based; but when we clergy, not once or twice, but constantly, get letters from those employed in firms and in business up and down the country, saying, "How can I live a Christian life, when I am obliged by my employer to do dishonest things in business, when I am told to tell lies, or I shall lose my place?" When we have, even within the last few months, terrible instances of breach of trust among those who have been entrusted with the most sacred interests by the widow and the orphan, must we not acknowledge that a second great monument which we might build to our Queen would be to restore to the trade and commerce of the country those principles of honour and integrity on which the great firms were built up, and to make it true again from end to end of the world that an Englishman's word is as good as his bond. And so, again--would to God we had not to add it!--what a revolution would be worked in _Christian work_ itself--Christian work that is supposed to demand from everyone who undertakes it perfect forgetfulness of self, and entire self-abnegation, to have as its workers men and women conspicuous for humility, for thinking of others before themselves, for being ready to bear the cross on the way to the crown. And yet can we deny--would God we could!--that in Christian work there is an amount of self-advertisement, of jealousy among workers, and of insincerity which lowers our cause, and damages the progress of Christianity? Think for a moment what it would be if all Christians were really united as Christ meant them to be, if they worked with one another, showing a common front to the world, one great society, as Christ conceived it, without jealousy, without conceit, without pride, but throwing themselves into one magnificent common cause. Why, nothing could stand before the Christian Church if it were like that. Can we not in this coming reign, and the century just begun, try and plant in the heart of every Christian worker truth in the inward parts? How are we, then--that comes to be the last question--how are we to attain this wonderful gift, the secret of a strong character? And, first of all, let us be perfectly clear as to the first essential. The first essential is _detachment of mind_. Oh! what cowards we are with regard to the opinion of others! You will find time after time men and women, who think themselves free, living under the most degrading tyranny of fear as to what will be thought of them by others. Not to care at all what anybody thinks is inhuman, but to be bound by a kind of trembling terror as to what people will say or think, is a degrading slavery. Bit by bit it creates in the character a habit of insincerity; little by little the question is in the heart and in the mind, "Will this be popular or not? Shall I be liked for this?" We speak or do something according to the reflection it will make in the thoughts of others. There may be some here who know that that is their temptation, who know that they are not true, that they are never themselves, they are always somebody else, or the reflection of the mind of somebody else. Let the example of our truthful Queen speak like a trumpet note the old words of the New Testament, "Stand upright on thy feet," and be a man. And, if the first secret is detachment of mind, putting aside self-consciousness, which is very often other-people-consciousness, the second secret is _an increasing consciousness of God_. Is it not an extraordinary thing that when we are only here for a few fleeting years, and everybody around us is hurrying to his grave as fast as he can, and when the only person whose opinion matters the least is the eternal God, Who goes on generation after generation, and before Whom everyone must appear at the last--is it not an extraordinary thing how little we think of Him at all? How often during the past week have you thought of God? To actually acquire a continual sense of His presence, to be conscious that His eyes, the eyes of Him Who is from everlasting to everlasting, are always fixed upon us, to rise in the morning with the feeling, "One more day's work for God," and to go to bed in the evening with only one care, "How have we done it?"--that is to gradually foster in the character the second great thing which will produce truth in the inward parts--a consciousness and love of God. And then, thirdly, _learn truth like a lesson_. If we did not learn it as the Queen did as a child, let us begin now. Watch every word. Are we in the habit of boasting, are we in the habit of lying, are we in the habit of being insincere? Not "What did we do?" but "Why did we do it?" is the real question. Why did we give that donation to something? For the good of the cause or to see our name in the paper? Why did we do this thing? Was it done from a true and pure motive? And if, as we try and learn truth like a lesson, step by step, in word and deed, we also pray continually, "Give me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me," then there shall emerge gradually something that will last beyond the grave--an image, which is also the pattern, the character of the child, slowly won, but which was the prototype to start with; and thus we may hope to be sincere, and without offence until the day of Christ. [1] Lines by the Rev. W. H. Draper, Rector of Adel, Leeds. II. HER MORAL COURAGE. "Why are ye fearful? O! ye of little faith."--_St. Matthew viii. 26._ We saw last Sunday that we were like men who had just watched a great sunset, that we were standing, as it were, in the beautiful and tender after-glow, which so often follows a beautiful sunset, and we set ourselves to try and gather up and meditate upon some of the great qualities in the character of her whom we have lost, as some explanation, of the influence which made her reign so great. And we have already contemplated together what it was to have _truth in the inward parts_. We thought over the truthfulness of one, of whom it was said by a great statesman, that she was the most truthful being he had ever met. And we saw what a revolution it would work in society, in commerce, and in Christian work, if every one of us had that downright sincerity and straightforwardness which characterized her. We now take another quality, and I suppose I shall carry most of you with me when I mention, as a second great quality for us to try and incorporate into our own characters, and so into the life of the nation for the new reign--her moral courage. She had plenty of physical courage. She was a fearless horsewoman in her youth, she was proud of being the daughter of a soldier, she loved her own soldiers and sailors, and marked to the very last day of her life their gallant deeds with delight. But there was throughout her life something more than physical courage, and that was her moral courage. Take, first of all, the way in which she bore her own personal troubles. If there was anyone who could say with the Psalmist, "All Thy waves and storms have gone over me," it was our late Queen. What the loss of her husband was to her, you may gather from this beautiful letter published in Lord Selborne's Life, which she addressed to him years afterwards on the loss of his own wife: "To lose the loved companion of one's life is losing half one's own existence. From that time everything is different, every event seems to lose its effect; for joy, which cannot be shared by those who feel everything with you, is no joy, and sorrow is redoubled when it cannot be shared and soothed by the one who alone could do so. No children can replace a wife or a husband, may they be ever so good and devoted. One must bear one's burden alone. That our Heavenly Father may give you strength in this heavy affliction, and that your health may not suffer, is the sincere prayer of yours most truly, Victoria, R.I." [1] There could hardly have been penned, one would have thought, a more touching or more beautiful letter, and penned years after the loss of her husband. It revealed to the heart of the nation what that loss was to her. It was followed in the years afterwards by the loss of children and grandchildren. And the first thing, therefore, that strikes us is that, in the midst of this personal sorrow, one stroke following after another, with a moral courage which is an example to us all, she never gave up her work; without fainting or failing, that huge pile of documents, which, in a few days of cessation from her work, mounted up--a great statesman tells us--so high, was dealt with, those ceaseless interviews, that constant correspondence--were carried through up to the last by one who proved herself faithful unto death. And, as with personal sorrow, so with public anxiety. It has become now common property that, in the dark days of December, 1899, the Queen was the one who refused to be depressed in her court; when disaster followed disaster it was the Queen who, by her moral courage, kept up the spirits of those around her, and who, with a perfect trust in her soldiers and sailors, and with an absolute confidence in the justice of her cause, went steadily, brightly, and cheerfully on with her work, upheld by the moral courage which I put before you and before myself as our example for to-day. And so, once again, her moral courage took the form--a rare form, too, in these days--of the courage of her own opinions. One statesman has told us that he never differed from a matured opinion of his Sovereign without a great sense of responsibility; another, that when he once acted directly against it he found that he was wrong and she was right. Another has pointed out how we have lost among the crowned heads of Europe, in her personal influence among them, one of the strongest influences in Europe for peace and righteousness. And, therefore, when we think to ourselves of the difficulty of acting always constitutionally and yet strongly, and to know that our Queen, on all hands, is admitted to have done this through a long lifetime, we see a third aspect of the moral courage which we have to seek to emulate. Now, the question is--for these sermons are meant in no sense to be mere panegyrics--In what way can we, gathered here on a Sunday afternoon, incorporate into our characters something of the moral courage which characterized the Queen? And the first thing which strikes us is this: What a vast field it is on which we have to exercise it. To those who have to see a great deal of the sorrows of others, sometimes life simply seems one series of undeserved calamities. Take, for instance, that unhappy man who, recently, in this cathedral, shot himself, and by his own act passed into the other world. Look into his history, and you will find nothing specially wrong that he had done up to then. He had just been one of the unfortunates amongst us. He had been for years a steady workman, able to keep himself; then his joints got stiff, too stiff for work. "I cannot go on living on your husband's earnings, Rose," he said, on the morning that he died, and without, no doubt, a proper understanding of the guilt of self-murder, by his own act he passed--so he thought--out of trouble into rest. We do well to pray that we comfortable people in the world may be pardoned for any carelessness and selfishness on our part which makes the world so intolerable to many of our fellow creatures. But still, though we may soften by our pity the act which he did, and even for such an one we can only speak softly about the dead; though we know full well that some of the best men that ever lived, in a fit of insanity, or under depression quite impossible for them to control, have passed, by their own hand, out of this world, yet we cannot hide from ourselves that self-destruction is an act of cowardice, that where men and women break down is not in physical courage, but in moral courage, and that those lines penned long ago are true to-day: "When all the blandishments of life are gone, The coward slinks to death, the brave live on!" But we need not go to such an exceptional occurrence as that to find a field for this exercise of moral courage. Take all those incidents of life which happen day after day--the little child snatched from us in all its beauty and its innocence: the bright lad shot upon the field of battle in a moment, taken away with all his brightness, and his laughter, and his merriment; the man who loses in middle life his money and has to begin the hard struggle of saving all over again--how are we to explain it? What can we say to light up in any degree so vast a problem? There is, my dear brothers and sisters, I believe, no full explanation here, but there is a belief which comforts us, and that is, that these calamities of life are all being used for a great purpose; that when the Scripture says of God that "He sits as a refiner and purifier of silver," it does give us some sort of clue which nerves us to bear what we have to bear. Those who pass from us, pass, we believe, into what has been called, "God's great Convalescent Home" in another world, but to us who have to suffer, who receive these strokes, the suffering is not useless; it is a furnace which has to fashion that heavenly tempered thing which we call "moral courage," and to produce it any suffering is worth bearing. Do think over that, you who may be going through the furnace now, do remember that you have not lost that lad, that child, for ever, that it is only a few years until you see him again; but, meanwhile, while he is prepared there, you are being prepared here. The character is everything, and if there can be produced in you and in me that moral courage which makes us like our Saviour, we shall not be sorry for it in the days to come. And so, again, take that awful trial which comes at times of having to suffer under a false accusation. I saw someone this week whom I believe to be lying under a most terrible accusation which is absolutely false. And, if anyone of you has ever been through that terrible trial of suffering under an imputation on your honour, which you know to be false, but cannot prove to be false, you realize what a field such a state as that presents for moral courage. What are we to say to anyone we see who is under that most terrible trial? What are we to say to ourselves if such a misfortune and trial comes to us? Why, we can only say this, and it is enough--that if it is true that a general places his bravest soldiers in the hottest part of the battle, if it is true that it is only certain strokes which can reach the most sensitive parts of our character, if it is true that this very trial came to Jesus Christ Himself, and He had it said of Him--"He works through Beelzebub, the prince of the devils," "He saved others, Himself He cannot save"--then, my brother, the secret of your strange punishment is out, it means that it is a special mark of favour, it is a Victoria Cross for service, it is Christ coming to you and bringing the very cup out of which He drank Himself, and saying, "Are ye able to drink of the cup that I drink of, and to be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?" Pray hard, pray with all your strength, for the moral courage to answer back, "I am able." "Therefore," as the poet so beautifully says:-- "Therefore gird up thyself, and come to stand Unflinching under the unfaltering hand That waits to prove thee to the uttermost. It were not hard to suffer by His hand If thou could see His face; but in the dark! That is the one last trial--be it so; Christ was forsaken, so must thou be too: How couldst thou suffer but in seeming else? Thou wilt not see the face, nor feel the hand, Only the cruel crushing of the feet, When, thro' the bitter night, the Lord comes down To tread the wine-press. Not by sight but faith, Endure, endure; be faithful to the end." And so, once again, looking out upon our ordinary life, what shall we need to put backbone into life? What do we need to give a little more strength to it, to enable us to be braver and firmer and stronger? It is just that power of being able to take our own line against others; it is just that courage of our opinions; it is consistent with being perfectly humble, and ever ready to learn; it implies no conceit, and no contempt of others, but it enables this one in the workshop to stand up for the faith in which he believes, that one in the drawing-room to take a strong moral line when people are sneering at virtue; it nerves us to stand by our colours and to cry to the last, "Faith of our fathers, living still, We will be true to thee till death." How then are we to gain the secret? What is the secret of moral courage? And, in answering that question, let us be perfectly fair to those who, like the Stoics of old, showed a wonderful endurance with no knowledge whatever of Christ, and very little belief in another world; let us be perfectly honest and frank with regard to the virtue of those in our day who, having lost, to their infinite misfortune, their childish faith, still say to themselves: "I will cling to my morality, I will try and keep a clean hand and a pure heart"; let us give full allowance to what we have heard of this morning in this cathedral--the power and the influence of secondary motives, secondary motives allowed sometimes to save us for the time before the primary motive comes in--but still, making all allowance for that, what is the secret of the best moral courage? It is not the highest moral courage merely to endure, it is not the highest moral courage, like the old Roman, just to fold our toga round us and die. There has come a new thing into the world, a new kind of moral courage, and that moral courage is full of inspiration and full of cheerfulness: it does not merely bear the cross, it takes up the cross. It has in the midst of its own sorrow a force and a power which shake the world; it has in the midst of personal trouble, "A heart at leisure from itself To soothe and sympathize." And what is the secret of that? And I would dare anyone here, whatever may be their private belief, to doubt or to dispute this, that it is produced and shown by no one else but those who believe that Jesus is with them in the ship; and that when you see some woman going through the most terrible trouble, perfectly calm, quiet, brave and cheerful; when some man, over whom all the waves and storms are bursting, stands there brave, and cheerful, and happy in the hour of trial, it is because, unheard by the world, he hears a voice in his ear saying, "Why are ye fearful? O ye of little faith," because, unseen by the world, he sees Someone standing with His hand upon the tiller, Someone Whom he believes to have supreme power in the last resort over the waves, and Who he knows, at exactly the right moment when it is best for him, will say the word before which every billow and every storm sinks to rest, "Peace be still." The trial is that Jesus often seems asleep; the trial is that when the ship of State labours on in the trough of the waves there seems no steersman in view; the trial is that when the Church seems overwhelmed by controversy, and about to be buried under its waves, Jesus makes no sign; the trial is that Lazarus actually dies and lies dead, and Jesus still stays two days in the same place where He was; but the magnificent truth which we Christians believe is this--that, though apparently asleep, He never is asleep; that He rises from time to time and shows His strength; that He rose once and burst into fragments the power of death. They thought He was quite asleep in the grave, but He rose with all His power, and broke for every mourner throughout the ages that were to come, the power of death for ever. He rises in the midst of the Church, He brings the Church in His own time into a peace and calm which seemed at one time impossible; He rises in our own personal life, and while the world thinks how that poor man or poor woman is overwhelmed with trouble, we know that we are in a wonderful and supernatural calm. And, therefore, the whole question is this: Have we got, or do we believe we have got, Jesus in the ship with us? Do we hear His voice saying, "Be of good cheer; it is I, be not afraid?" As we watch, then, the moral courage produced in our Queen by her simple, but strong faith, I beg you with me to pray God to grant us a living faith in Jesus Christ, which is the secret of strength, and we shall find that it will give us moral courage, not of earth, which the world can neither give nor take away. [1] "Memorials: Personal and Political of the Earl of Selborne." Vol. IV., 161. III. THE RAINBOW ROUND ABOUT THE THRONE. "And there was a rainbow round about the throne."--_Rev. iv. 3._ We are taking, you will remember, one by one--picturing ourselves in the after-glow which succeeds a great sunset--the qualities which made the influence of the Queen that we have lost so great, and we have taken them, not as constituting a prolonged panegyric, but as practical lessons, and much-needed lessons, for ourselves. And we first contemplated the truthfulness of one of whom it has been said, that she was the most truthful being that the speaker--a great statesman--had ever met. Then we traced in trouble, in public anxiety, amid a multitude of advisers, the effect and the power of moral courage. We saw that moral courage is only strong enough to stand up against overwhelming trouble, when anxieties and difficulties are thick around us, if we really believe that our Lord Jesus Christ is with us in the ship, and that we hear His voice say to us, "Why are ye so fearful, O ye of little faith?" And yet, as we go on, we become more and more aware that we have not yet penetrated to the central secret of her power; nor shall we. Can any man name the real secret of influence, or analyse the strength of personality? But, if we cannot hope to penetrate to the central secret, we can, with firm and reverent gaze, gather more than we have yet done of how it was that the Court of Queen Victoria was the purest Court in the world, and why her influence was so unique among all civilized nations. And, as we take our third glance, we find that round her throne, so far as it is possible for human things to copy the divine, there was a reflection of what the inspired Seer, with open eyes, saw round the throne of God--a rainbow round about the throne. What do we understand by a rainbow? Four things, at least. First, the colours of the rainbow, beautiful and various as they are, blend into the purest white; secondly, a rainbow, even for the most careless, and those most untouched by natural beauty, is one of the most inherently attractive things in the world; thirdly--a rainbow is God's appointed sign of hope, hope founded on the faithfulness of God: "While the earth remaineth, winter and summer, seed time and harvest shall not cease"; and, fourthly--strange paradox at first, but true--a rainbow is one of the most awful things in the world, because it reminds us that what has created it is the terrible light which, without the atmosphere, would scorch to nothingness; for, while the sun, through the medium of the atmosphere, blesses, let its flames, mountains high, touch a planet that has drifted from its course, and it scorches to death. With those four thoughts in our minds, let us first contemplate the rainbow round the throne of God. And we shall now understand that the first thing which we can learn is, that there is around the throne of God a circle of unblemished purity. We might have known it; we have been told it over and over again. "God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all." "With the clean thou must be clean, and with the holy thou must learn holiness." We know it, yet where we fail is in not realizing the awful bearing which it has upon our lives. A rainbow of perfect purity bars the way of entrance to the throne of God, except for the pure. And then, secondly, to temper, as it were, the awfulness of the first revelation, we find that the light of God is brought us through a medium; the glory, grace, and truth of God are shown us in the face of Jesus Christ. And, as we follow Him during these coming six weeks, let us remember that we are watching the rainbow, that we are watching the medium through which the light of God reaches us in all its inherent attractiveness. If the heavenly rainbow is not produced by the light shining upon the tears of human penitence, where is hope for the world? But because it is so produced, the rainbow round the throne of God wins us to God. "Come unto Me," it seems to signify, "all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Thirdly, the rainbow round the throne of God speaks of hope. Just as the husbandman, getting anxious about his harvest, troubled by the variableness of the season, looks up on some showery day and sees the rainbow in the sky, and it reminds him of the faithfulness of God, and His promise that seed time and harvest shall not cease, so the father with his son snatched suddenly from him in the battle, so the soul waiting so long year after year, for something to come which does not come, so the tempted one at home or at work, looks upon the rainbow round the throne of God, and that rainbow speaks of God's faithfulness. "His righteousness standeth," that is what the rainbow says, "like the strong mountains, and His judgments are like the great deep." And, founded on the faithfulness of God, we can hope. And yet, in spite of the attractiveness and in spite of the hope, the rainbow round the throne of God is still awful, for it reminds us of what, in our soft age, we are apt to forget--that "our God is a consuming fire," that never, from generation to generation, does He lower His standard for a moment, that not because in one age or another sins are condoned or thought lightly of does He vary for an instant the standard of holiness He demands, because He has appointed a day when He will judge the world by the standard of that Man Whom He has ordained. And when, therefore, we turn from the prototype in Heaven to the copy of it which we have been lately seeing on earth, we are not surprised to find the same mingled elements of attractiveness and awfulness in the rainbow which encircled the throne of the empire for three and sixty years. In the first place, we find it a rainbow of unsullied purity. No one could go down, even for a few hours, to preach at the Court, without being struck by the goodness of the men, as well as the goodness of the women, who surrounded the Queen. There was an atmosphere of goodness, of innocence, of pure home life, which constituted a beautiful rainbow round the throne. It had what we should expect--an attractive power throughout the world. Everyone felt, for that reason, at home with their Queen, because they were conscious that, at her home, there were just the very qualities, and the very characteristics, of a pure, and true, and good home. It gave an impulse of hope to the whole empire. Young mothers in Canada, Australia, and the islands of the sea, mothers of grown-up sons and daughters who found it difficult to keep the standard high in their own homes, thousands of them, without knowing it, were helped and inspired and enlightened by the sight of the far-away rainbow round about the throne at the centre of the empire. "She did it, she has managed it; in the midst of Court life, in the midst of all difficulties and duties, her home is pure: mine shall be pure; the Queen, God bless her!" That was the thought of thousands of hearts, and the inspiration of thousands of homes throughout the empire. And yet, who shall deny that there was an awe about it all? The man or woman was not born who dared to take a liberty in the presence of Queen Victoria. And can we wonder that the awful purity which shone round the throne chased away, as evil birds are chased away by the light, all things bad, all things loathsome, and all things even questionable! Our lesson, then, is this: How can we keep in the nation, in the home, in the individual soul, a rainbow round the throne; how can we incorporate into the national life, and home life, and the individual life, the spotless purity that we saw in the Queen whom we have lost? And, first of all, believe in the possibility of it. Those men who, in their clubs, or before younger men, talk as if virtue and purity were impossible; those women who allow into their drawing-rooms, or into the society of those they love, men known to be bad, are doing all that lies in their power to make the rainbow impossible; they are doing all in their power to make it impossible for us to have in the nation, in the home, or in the individual life, purity at all. Those who look out upon scenes which disgrace our social system, and our city, and, with a shrug of the shoulders, lead people to believe they constitute a necessary evil which cannot be faced, are not only unconsciously believing in the blasphemy that God made His physical laws so that they could not obey His moral laws; they are not only condoning the most unblushing cruelty which is going on in our midst to-day, but, also, they are not realizing that Jesus Christ came with the very purpose among others of proving that the pure life was a possible one. What is the Incarnation but the taking of a human body, with all its passions, with all its impulses, a real Human body, and wearing it perfectly untarnished to the end? We must take hold, by meditation and by prayer, of the teaching of the Incarnation, that we may live as children of the Incarnation. We were sent into the world with a rainbow round our souls. "Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory, do we come, From God, Who is our home." And we may be perfectly certain that God does not send us into this world with a rainbow round our souls if it is impossible to preserve the brightness and the purity of that rainbow in the world to which He sent us. Having realized the possibility of it, the next thing to realize is that it is absolutely essential. No one without that rainbow can pass to the throne of God. There are many here, perhaps, who say, "Ah! it is too late to teach me that now; my rainbow, if I ever had one, faded from round my brow long ago." My brother or sister, did we not see that a rainbow was made by the light shining upon rain, and do we not believe that, if any single one here brings the tears of real penitence, that there shall be round him again, or round her, the most beautiful rainbow, the rainbow of the light of forgiveness shining upon penitence? During these six weeks, let us then look into our own souls, and ask ourselves in the light of God, "Where are we! how about our thoughts? how about our words? how about our characters? where is the pristine purity of youth? what about our lives today?" If such questions draw us on to our knees, with tears of penitence, to beg God again of His mercy to make a rainbow shine around us, there shall still be a rainbow round the throne in our hearts. And, while we look into our own hearts, and remember the rigorous demand of God for the pure heart, lastly, let us safeguard our children. "Whoso shall cast a stumbling block in the way of one of these little ones, it were better that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea." Why? Because it robs them of the joy of the rainbow, because that subtle suggestion, that careless talk, that stumbling block placed in the way, dims the children's view of Heaven, "where their angels do always behold the face of our Father Which is in Heaven." I pray you, then, my friends, safeguard the rainbow for your children, as well as for yourselves. Many careful writers, among others the Head Master of Haileybury, recommend, as a great safeguard, the teaching to children, before knowledge is conveyed to them from impure sources, the simple facts of life. "They are innocent," says the latter writer, "of impurity, indescribably eager for wholesome knowledge, perfectly trustful of their parents, and, though self-absorbed, are capable of being easily trained to a tone of mind to which sympathy is congenial and cruelty abhorrent. Such a description is literally true of the great majority of quite young children, and we believe that qualities such as these elicited the great saying, 'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.'" He goes on to say that "such a trustful, innocent frame of mind is the very frame of mind to receive from the father and mother this simple instruction in the facts of life which would save many a fall and many a misery in the days to come; and is far," he says, "from sullying the purity of the child's mind." "People sometimes speak of the indescribable beauty of the children's innocence, and insist that there is nothing which calls for more constant thanksgiving than their influence on mankind, but I will venture to say that no one quite knows what it is who has foregone the privilege of being the first to set before them the true meaning of life and birth, and the mystery of their own being. Not only do we fail to build up sound knowledge in them, but we put away from ourselves the chance of learning something that must be divine." [1] God help us, then, for ourselves, in our home, in the nation, and, above all, among the children, to secure that in the coming reign, and through the coming century, there may be a rainbow round about the throne. [1] Rev. E. Lyttelton, "Training of the Young in Laws of Sex," pp. 16, 17, 109. IV. THE LAW OF KINDNESS. "In her tongue is the law of kindness."--_Prov. xxxi. 26._ We have reached our last lesson from the life and character of Queen Victoria. Some will be surprised that this lesson should have been kept for the last one, as the kindness and sympathy of the late Queen was a proverb among her people. But, if we come to think of it, it is far best to have kept it to the last. Mere kindness, apart from sincerity, apart from moral courage, without the rainbow of purity, counts low among the virtues. We have known kind people, have we not, who were weak, who were fickle, who were even treacherous, and there is a sad truth in that half-cynical statement that it is the province of the wise to remedy the mistakes of the good. But what captivated the whole Empire in the sympathy of Queen Victoria was its strength; that one so strong should be so kind; that one so fearless should have so much sympathy; that one whose moral standard was so high should be full of mercy and gentleness. It was that which gave a force to those many stories which came to us about the visits to the little lonely cottages in the Highlands; the telegrams to the women huddled by the pit-mouth in their misery; the letter to the mother of the young officer who had died for his country--what gave force to it all was its strength, the fact that it was no passing impulse, but the deep beating of a true mother's heart, that it was the outcome of character; and that, as is so beautifully said in this description of the virtuous woman in the Book of Proverbs: "In her tongue was the law of kindness." And when we turn from the pattern to the prototype--and never, for a moment, during Lent, can we afford to take our eyes off Jesus Christ Himself--when we turn from the Queen to the Saviour, in Whom she had so simple and so touching a faith, the first thing we find to our comfort is that He, too, felt the need of sympathy. Is there any picture in the whole of the New Testament more touching than that which shows us how He goes just before His greatest trial to seek sympathy from His followers, how He, the Head, the Leader, does not disdain to turn to the very followers who trusted in Him for sympathy? "Couldst thou not watch with Me one hour?" And the picture is so comforting, because it tells us that that craving for sympathy, which all of us feel at times, is a true human instinct, that there is nothing wrong in it, that one of the things that we can do for one another is to be like comrades on a night march, when one or another is stricken down, to stand over him, and be ready, at any moment, with the cup of sympathy to give him. And when Jesus goes to His own disciples to ask them for sympathy, it is a lesson that the need for sympathy is a true need, and the desire for it a true instinct of the human heart. But, then, remember, the sympathy He looks for is the sympathy which He always gave, something as tender and gentle as the touch of a good surgeon's hand upon a wounded limb, but also something as strong, and as firm, and as helpful. Why sympathy gets discredited, why people speak of "a morbid craving for sympathy," is because so much sympathy is sympathy of the wrong sort. There is some sympathy which enervates instead of strengthening. It thinks of itself, it thinks of the happiness of having to itself the object of its sympathy, it seeks merely to soothe. But the true sympathy goes far beyond that; the true sympathy never thinks of itself at all. It is simply concentrated upon one thought--how can I, in this trial-time, when my brother or my sister is stricken down by my side, how can I nerve and strengthen him or her to rise to the glorious vocation to which God has called him or called her, to strengthen them to be what God would have them be? And that was the sympathy, was it not, that Christ gave perpetually. It was within Him like a spring working by law, a spring which had all the regularity, as well as the spontaneity, of some beautiful spring among the hills, and it was at the service of every sufferer that came to Him; but He never hurt people when He tried to comfort them, because He gave them the nerving and strengthening sympathy of love. And then, again, notice how constant it was with Him. He was never too tired to be kind. He might be disappointed forty-nine times, but the fiftieth time found Him perfectly ready still. Wake Him up from His sleep, and He is ready to do an act of mercy. Place Him, tired, by the well, and He is ready there to try and help a sinful soul. Let Him have a little quiet time far away but the multitude find Him out, and then sympathy for them is ready to spring to His lips, for "He had compassion on the multitude," we are told, and in His tongue was the law of kindness. Therefore, among the virtues which we set ourselves to acquire during Lent, let us set ourselves, with the help of God, and by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, to see if we cannot acquire in our characters, as part of them, this power of sympathy; and, as we test ourselves, one by one, by the laws which ought to govern our lives during these six weeks, let us test ourselves by that law which more than any other goes to the root of our characters--the law of kindness. We ought to obey this law, first, in our own home lives; secondly, in our private charities; and, thirdly, in our public responsibilities. And, first of all, have we got such a perpetual spring of sympathy in our hearts ready for emergencies, ready for every sufferer, ready for every sinner who comes to us? Have we such a perpetual spring within us, ready and accessible for use in our home lives? It seems that the one thing a Christian should never be without is this spring of sympathy. "The water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up to everlasting life." It is hard to see what good a Christian is doing in the world at all if this primary function of his Christianity is undischarged. If he fails in that, he is failing in his primary duty. This, then, is the first question I would press upon everyone, as I would press it upon myself: Have I at the disposal of the brother who needs me the sympathy he wants, and if not, of what use am I in the world? Think what some lives are in the home circle; all the other members of the family have to devote themselves to keeping some one in a good humour. The children are anxious lest the father or perhaps the mother should be ill-tempered to-day. This so-called Christian, with the primary duty of being loving, sympathetic, considerate, is a creature of moods; father is ill-tempered to-day, and the whole house is miserable; or mother, for some reason unexplained to the children of the family, for days together allows herself to be under a cloud of gloom. And you see in a family--who has not seen it?--an amount of restless, anxious, watching, to try and prevent the ill-temper creeping over this one whose temper is of such importance to the whole family circle. And do we not constantly see that most unjust tyranny which the ill-tempered or ill-controlled member of the family has over the rest? Is such a one seated among us in this church to-day? Let him go down on his knees, and pray to be forgiven for failing in the primary duty of life, the duty of being loving and sympathetic at home. There are many courteous enough and popular enough outside, who yet at home utterly break every day of their lives the law of kindness. Let us face it on our knees, if it is so, and pray to be forgiven. It is self that does it, that miserable self which stops and chokes, as it were, the spring from working. We are so anxious to have a little more credit or a little more comfort. And it is because our eyes are fixed upon ourselves that we do not see that wounded man in front of us, and do not hear his cry for aid. It is a first condition of having sympathy to have a heart "at leisure from itself to soothe and sympathize." There are some whose lives are confined to their home circle; some girl, perhaps, who longs to go outside, but is thought too young to work for others, and thus she can do nothing in her home that seems worthy of being done for her Saviour. I would say to such, what an aim to be in the home circle, the most unselfish girl there! What an inspiration to have brothers and sisters say what a brother that one is! what a sister that one is! he or she never fails us in our hour of need. And then in our private charity, is not this the secret of the worthlessness of so much so-called charity that constantly we give not really to help the sufferer, but to save ourselves? That careless gift to the beggar in the street, or to someone who asks us for a gift--is it not constantly, not really to help that person, but to ease our own minds and consciences? It is really given to ourselves. No; what we must practise--and God knows it is hard enough in this crowded city and in this crowded life we live--what we must practise is getting down by our brother's side. We must save him from the temptation which is a curse to him; from the temptation to drink, it may be, that is ruining him. Get down by his character, look at him as Christ would look at him. What does he need? How can we help him, that poor wounded man brought across our path? We must try and give him, in the name of Christ, the very thing he needs, the character which he lacks. And so, again, with our public responsibilities. There are three figures very prominently before our eyes just now. There is, first, the overcrowded dweller in our slums--poor men and women and boys and girls, dwelling as they do nine and ten and even more in a room--that room the only place for them to eat and sleep in. It is astonishing how good and pure the boys and girls come out of such homes; but there the evil is, and it is not getting better, it is getting worse; every year makes it worse. And as we face it what are we to do? I do sometimes think, my friends, you who come from comfortable homes, you who belong to the better class, and are going from this Church to beautiful homes of your own, do not realize what it is to those brothers and sisters of yours to have only one little room to live in, what immorality it must lead to, and does lead to, what terribly stunted frames among the children, and what stunted characters. We have been, some of us, for weeks past, considering, in conference, the great problem. One of the best experts, who has studied the question for years, has made up his mind that the most hopeful remedy is to have from the centre of our great city, to every part of the great circumference of London, underground and overground means of transit to whirl away from the centre to something which may be called home the poor people who work for us. Others are still in favour of building in the slums better buildings at a cheap rate, which, as a Conservative paper this week advocated, should be helped by the State. But the point is this: Whatever plan is fixed upon by the experts and those responsible, are we ready to rise to it? Does the law of kindness touch us in our municipal work? Are we prepared, as a great Christian city, to rise to the self-sacrifice which it involves? We believe that all these schemes eventually will pay, but undoubtedly at the first there may be a call upon the self-sacrifice of Londoners to carry them out. And I would ask you to put it to your consciences whether we should gauge the rates only according to their amount. We have to watch carefully whether our public money is wasted, we have to take our share in deciding what shall be done, but we have also to consider when we are called upon as Christian citizens, to pay a little more towards a well-considered scheme to cure one of the most terrible evils in our midst, whether the law of kindness does not bid us do so. Let us send this week on to our central Council--by whatever party name they call themselves--men who have the time and the brains, and, above all, the heart, to deal with these great problems. Then we have before us prominently one we miscall the Hooligan. And we must freely admit when street ruffianism has reached a certain point, there is but one thing to do, and that is to bring in firmly and strongly the arm of the law. But can we as Christian citizens be content with the arm of the law? Is there no other arm, no other law that we are bound to try before these young lads grow up indeed ruffians who must be dealt with by the law? Are we so hopeless and helpless as to have no other power to bring in upon them? Can we not transform them as boys? Must we be content to transport them as men? And so on Friday there was inaugurated at the Mansion House a scheme for dealing with the roughest lads of our town in such a way as experience has shown does transform them from the possibility of becoming young ruffians into respectable and honest men; in other words, to apply to them in their youth the law of kindness, and so make it unnecessary to apply to them for their discipline the penalty for the breach of any other law throughout their lives. I ask you whether you as Christian citizens cannot rise to a great scheme like this to plant down in every little slum some place beside the public-house into which the lads so lovable and so full of good and so open to influence, if you will only take them in time, may come to in the evening to be trained and disciplined and taught, and so be changed that their lives may be more worthy of children of God. You cannot all personally help, but we shall be asking some of you young men to give up one evening a week and go and work these clubs. The older ones can give money; we want from you your personal help. Will you give it? And lastly, we have to-day before us the untaught child. After all is said and done, these schemes for dealing with Hooligans would be unnecessary if we really had from the very beginning an efficient scheme for teaching the young Christian principles. You are asked today to give your alms to the National Society. It is a grand thing for us of the Church of England to think that we have given for the education of the people for the last eighty years more than 10,000 pounds a week. And yet the work is failing. In God's name, because we are interested in a new scheme, let us not forsake or starve the old. And a liberal contribution to the National Society is a true response to the law of kindness. Let us take home, then, these four great lessons from the character of our late Queen--Truth in the inward parts, Moral courage throughout life, The rainbow of purity round the throne of the heart, and In the tongue the law of kindness. May God send them home to us and incorporate them into the national character, and then we shall have with us for years to come the after-glow of a great reign. 24780 ---- None 13103 ---- Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 13103-h.htm or 13103-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/3/1/0/13103/13103-h/13103-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/3/1/0/13103/13103-h.zip) GREAT BRITAIN AND HER QUEEN by ANNE E. KEELING Author of "General Gordon: Hero and Saint," "The Oakhurst Chronicles," "Andrew Golding," etc. Second Edition. Revised and Enlarged, 1897 [Illustration: Queen Victoria] [Illustration: Claremont] CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE GIRL QUEEN AND HER KINGDOM CHAPTER II. STORM AND SUNSHINE CHAPTER III. FRANCE AND ENGLAND CHAPTER IV. THE CRIMEAN WAR CHAPTER V. INDIA CHAPTER VI. THE BEGINNINGS OF SORROWS CHAPTER VII. CHANGES GOOD AND EVIL CHAPTER VIII. OUR COLONIES CHAPTER IX. INTELLECTUAL AND SPIRITUAL PROGRESS CHAPTER X. PROGRESS OF THE EMPIRE FROM 1887 TO 1897 CHAPTER XI. PROGRESS OF WESLEYAN METHODISM UNDER QUEEN VICTORIA, 1837-1897 CONCLUSION LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Queen Victoria Claremont The Coronation of Queen Victoria Kensington Palace Duchess of Kent Elizabeth Fry Rowland Hill Father Mathew George Stephenson Wheatstone St. James's Palace Prince Albert The Queen in Her Wedding-Dress Sir Robert Peel Daniel O'Connell Richard Cobden John Bright Lord John Russell Thomas Chalmers John Henry Newmann Balmoral Buckingham Palace Napoleon III The Crystal Palace, 1851 Lord Ashley Earl of Derby Duke of Wellington Florence Nightingale Lord Canning Sir Colin Campbell Henry Havelock Sir John Lawrence Windsor Castle Prince Frederick William Princess Royal Charles Kingsley Lord Palmerston Abraham Lincoln and his son Princess Alice The Mausoleum Dr. Norman Macleod Prince of Wales Princess of Wales Osborne House Sir Robert Napier Mr. Gladstone Lord Beaconsfield Lord Salisbury General Gordon Duke of Albany Duchess of Albany Sydney Heads Robert Southey William Wordsworth Alfred Tennyson Robert Browning Charles Dickens W. M. Thackeray Charlotte Brontë Lord Macaulay Thomas Carlyle William Whewell, D.D. Sir David Brewster Sir James Y. Simpson Michael Faraday David Livingstone Sir John Franklin John Ruskin Dean Stanley "I was sick, and ye visited me" Duke of Connaught The Imperial Institute Duke of Clarence Duke of York Duchess of York Princess Henry of Battenberg Prince Henry of Battenberg The Czarina of Russia H. M. Stanley Dr. Fridtjof Nansen Miss Kingsley J. M. Barrie Richard Jefferies Rev. J. G. Wood Dean Church Professor Huxley Professor Tyndall C. H. Spurgeon Dr. Horatius Bonar Sir J. E. Millais, P.R.A. Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A. Wesley preaching on his father's tomb Group of Presidents:--No. 1 Centenary Meeting at Manchester Key to Centenary Meeting Wesleyan Centenary Hall Group of Presidents:--No. 2 Sir Francis Lycett The Methodist Settlement, Bermondsey. London, S.E. Theological Institution, Richmond Theological Institution, Didsbury Theological Institution, Headingley Theological Institution, Handsworth Kingswood School, Bath The North House, Leys School, Cambridge Queen's College, Taunton Wesley College, Sheffield Children's Home, Bolton Westminster Training College and Schools Group of Presidents:--No. 3 [Illustration: The Coronation of Queen Victoria] GREAT BRITAIN AND HER QUEEN. [Illustration: Kensington Palace] CHAPTER I. THE GIRL-QUEEN AND HER KINGDOM. Rather more than one mortal lifetime, as we average life in these later days, has elapsed since that June morning of 1837, when Victoria of England, then a fair young princess of eighteen, was roused from her tranquil sleep in the old palace at Kensington, and bidden to rise and meet the Primate, and his dignified associates the Lord Chamberlain and the royal physician, who "were come on business of state to the Queen"--words of startling import, for they meant that, while the royal maiden lay sleeping, the aged King, whose heiress she was, had passed into the deeper sleep of death. It is already an often-told story how promptly, on receiving that summons, the young Queen rose and came to meet her first homagers, standing before them in hastily assumed wrappings, her hair hanging loosely, her feet in slippers, but in all her hearing such royally firm composure as deeply impressed those heralds of her greatness, who noticed at the same moment that her eyes were full of tears. This little scene is not only charming and touching, it is very significant, suggesting a combination of such qualities as are not always found united: sovereign good sense and readiness, blending with quick, artless feeling that sought no disguise--such feeling as again betrayed itself when on her ensuing proclamation the new Sovereign had to meet her people face to face, and stood before them at her palace window, composed but sad, the tears running unchecked down her fair pale face. That rare spectacle of simple human emotion, at a time when a selfish or thoughtless spirit would have leaped in exultation, touched the heart of England deeply, and was rightly held of happy omen. The nation's feeling is aptly expressed in the glowing verse of Mrs. Browning, praying Heaven's blessing on the "weeping Queen," and prophesying for her the love, happiness, and honour which have been hers in no stinted measure. "Thou shalt be well beloved," said the poetess; there are very few sovereigns of whom it could be so truly said that they _have_ been well beloved, for not many have so well deserved it. The faith of the singer has been amply justified, as time has made manifest the rarer qualities joyfully divined in those early days in the royal child, the single darling hope of the nation. Once before in the recent annals of our land had expectations and desires equally ardent centred themselves on one young head. Much of the loyal devotion which had been alienated from the immediate family of George III. had transferred itself to his grandchild, the Princess Charlotte, sole offspring of the unhappy marriage between George, Prince of Wales, and Caroline of Brunswick. The people had watched with vivid interest the young romance of Princess Charlotte's happy marriage, and had bitterly lamented her too early death--an event which had overshadowed all English hearts with forebodings of disaster. Since that dark day a little of the old attachment of England to its sovereigns had revived for the frank-mannered sailor and "patriot king," William IV; but the hopes crushed by the death of the much-regretted Charlotte had renewed themselves with even better warrant for Victoria. She was the child of no ill-omened, miserable marriage, but of a fitting union; her parents had been sundered only by death, not by wretched domestic dissensions. People heard that the mortal malady which deprived her of a father had been brought about by the Duke of Kent's simple delight in his baby princess, which kept him playing with the child when he should have been changing his wet outdoor garb; and they found something touching and tender in the tragic little circumstance. And everything that could be noticed of the manner in which the bereaved duchess was training up her precious charge spoke well for the mother's wisdom and affection, and for the future of the daughter. It was indeed a happy day for England when Edward, Duke of Kent, the fourth son of George III, was wedded to Victoria of Saxe-Coburg, the widowed Princess of Leiningen--happy, not only because of the admirable skill with which that lady conducted her illustrious child's education, and because of the pure, upright principles, the frank, noble character, which she transmitted to that child, but because the family connection established through that marriage was to be yet further serviceable to the interests of our realm. Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg was second son of the Duchess of Kent's eldest brother, and thus first cousin of the Princess Victoria--"the Mayflower," as, in fond allusion to the month of her birth, her mother's kinsfolk loved to call her: and it has been made plain that dreams of a possible union between the two young cousins, very nearly of an age, were early cherished by the elders who loved and admired both. [Illustration: Duchess of Kent. From an Engraving by Messrs. P. & D. Colnaghi & Co., Pall Mall East.] The Princess's life, however, was sedulously guarded from all disturbing influences. She grew up in healthy simplicity and seclusion; she was not apprised of her nearness to the throne till she was twelve years old; she had been little at Court, little in sight, but had been made familiar with her own land and its history, having received the higher education so essential to her great position; while simple truth and rigid honesty were the very atmosphere of her existence. From such a training much might be hoped; but even those who knew most and hoped most were not quite prepared for the strong individual character and power of self-determination that revealed themselves in the girlish being so suddenly transferred "from the nursery to the throne." It was quickly noticed that the part of Queen and mistress seemed native to her, and that she filled it with not more grace than propriety. "She always strikes me as possessed of singular penetration, firmness, and independence," wrote Dr. Norman Macleod in 1860; acute observers in 1837 took note of the same traits, rarer far in youth than in full maturity, and closely connected with the "reasoning, searching" quality of her mind, "anxious to get at the root and reality of things, and abhorring all shams, whether in word or deed." [Footnote] [Footnote: "Life of Norman Macleod, D.D." vol. ii.] It was well for England that its young Sovereign could exemplify virile strength as well as womanly sweetness; for it was indeed a cloudy and dark day when she was called to her post of lonely grandeur and hard responsibility; and to fill that post rightly would have overtasked and overwhelmed a feebler nature. It is true that the peace of Europe, won at Waterloo, was still unbroken. But already, within our borders and without them, there were the signs of coming storm. The condition of Ireland was chronically bad; the condition of England was full of danger; on the Continent a new period of earth-shaking revolution announced itself not doubtfully. It would be hardly possible to exaggerate the wretched state of the sister isle, where fires of recent hate were still smouldering, and where the poor inhabitants, guilty and guiltless, were daily living on the verge of famine, over which they were soon to be driven. Their ill condition much aggravated by the intemperate habits to which despairing men so easily fall a prey. The expenditure of Ireland on proof spirits alone had in the year 1829 attained the sum of £6,000,000. In England many agricultural labourers were earning starvation wages, were living on bad and scanty food, and were housed so wretchedly that they might envy the hounds their dry and clean kennels. A dark symptom of their hungry discontent had shown itself in the strange crime of rick-burning, which went on under cloud of night season after season, despite the utmost precautions which the luckless farmers could adopt. The perpetrators were not dimly guessed to be half-famished creatures, taking a mad revenge for their wretchedness by destroying the tantalising stores of grain, too costly for their consumption; the price of wheat in the early years of Her Majesty's reign and for some time previously being very high, and reaching at one moment (1847) the extraordinary figure of a hundred and two shillings per quarter. There was threatening distress, too, in some parts of the manufacturing districts; in others a tolerably high level of wages indicated prosperity. But even in the more favoured districts there was needless suffering. The hours of work, unrestricted by law, were cruelly long; nor did there exist any restriction as to the employment of operatives of very tender years. "The cry of the children" was rising up to heaven, not from the factory only, but from the underground darkness of the mine, where a system of pitiless infant slavery prevailed, side by side with the employment of women as beasts of burden, "in an atmosphere of filth and profligacy." The condition of too many toilers was rendered more hopeless by the thriftless follies born of ignorance. The educational provision made by the piety of former ages was no longer adequate to the needs of the ever-growing nation; and all the voluntary efforts made by clergy and laity, by Churchmen and Dissenters, did not fill up the deficiency--a fact which had only just begun to meet with State recognition. It was in 1834 that Government first obtained from Parliament the grant of a small sum in aid of education. Under a defective system of poor-relief, recently reformed, an immense mass of idle pauperism had come into being; it still remained to be seen if a new Poor Law could do away with the mischief created by the old one. Looking at the earliest years of Her Majesty's rule, the first impulse is to exclaim: "And all this trouble did not pass, but grew." It seemed as if poverty became ever more direful, and dissatisfaction more importunate. A succession of unfavourable seasons and failing crops produced extraordinary distress; and the distress in its turn was fruitful first of deepened discontent, and then of political disturbances. The working classes had looked for immediate relief from their burdens when the Reform Bill should be carried, and had striven hard to insure its success: it had been carried triumphantly in 1832, but no perceptible improvement in their lot had yet resulted; and a resentful feeling of disappointment and of being victims of deception now added bitterness to their blind sense of misery and injury, and greatly exasperated the political agitation of the ten stormy years that followed. No position could well be more trying than that of the inexperienced girl who, in the first bloom of youth, was called to rule the land in this wild transitional period. Her royal courage and gracious tact, her transparent truthfulness, her high sense of duty, and her precocious discretion served her well; but these young excellences could not have produced their full effect had she not found in her first Prime Minister a faithful friend and servant, whose loyal and chivalrous devotion at once conciliated her regard, and who only used the influence thus won to impress on his Sovereign's mind "sound maxims of constitutional government, and truths of every description which it behoved her to learn." The records of the time show plainly that Lord Melbourne, the eccentric head of William IV's last Whig Administration, was not generally credited with either the will or the ability to play so lofty a part. His affectation of a lazy, trifling, indifferent manner, his often-quoted remonstrance to impetuous would-be reformers, "Can't you let it alone?" had earned for him some angry disapproval, and caused him to be regarded as the embodiment of the detested _laissez-faire_ principle. But under his mask of nonchalance he hid some noble qualities, which at this juncture served Queen and country well. Considered as a frivolous, selfish courtier by too many of the suffering poor and of their friends, he was in truth "acting in all things an affectionate, conscientious, and patriotic part" towards his Sovereign, "endeavouring to make her happy as a woman and popular as a Queen," [Footnote] telling her uncourtly truths with a blunt honesty that did not displease her, and watching over her with a paternal tenderness which she repaid with frank, noble confidence. He was faithful in a great and difficult trust; let his memory have due honour. [Footnote: C. C. F. Greville: "A Journal of the Reign of Queen Victoria."] Under Melbourne's pilotage the first months of the new reign went by with some serenity, though the political horizon remained threatening enough, and the temper of the nation appeared sullen. "The people of England seem inclined to hurrah no more," wrote Greville of one of the Queen's earliest public appearances, when "not a hat was raised nor a voice heard" among the coldly curious crowd of spectators. But the splendid show of her coronation a half-year later awakened great enthusiasm--enthusiasm most natural and inevitable. It was youth and grace and goodness, all the freshness and the infinite promise of spring, that wore the crimson and the ermine and the gold, that sat enthroned amid the ancient glories of the Abbey to receive the homage of all that was venerable and all that was great in a mighty kingdom, and that bowed in meek devotion to receive the solemn consecrating blessing of the Primate, according to the holy custom followed in England for a thousand years, with little or no variation since the time when Dunstan framed the Order of Coronation, closely following the model of the Communion Service. Some other features special to _this_ coronation heightened the national delight in it. Its arrangements evidently had for their chief aim to interest and to gratify the people. Instead of the banquet in Westminster Hall, which could have been seen only by the privileged and the wealthy, a grand procession through London was arranged, including all the foreign ambassadors, and proceeding from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Abbey by a route two or three miles in length, so that the largest possible number of spectators might enjoy the magnificent pageant. And the overflowing multitudes whose dense masses lined the whole long way, and in whose tumultuous cheering pealing bells and sounding trumpets and thundering cannon were almost unheard as the young Queen passed through the shouting ranks, formed themselves the most impressive spectacle to the half-hostile foreign witnesses, who owned that the sight of these rejoicing thousands of freemen was grand indeed, and impossible save in that England which, then as now, was not greatly loved by its rivals. An element which appealed powerfully to the national pride and the national generosity was supplied by the presence of the Duke of Wellington and of Marshal Soult, his old antagonist, who appeared as French ambassador. Soult, as he advanced with the air of a veteran warrior, was followed by murmurs of admiring applause, which swelled into more than murmurs for the hero of Waterloo bending in homage to his Sovereign. A touch of sweet humanity was added to the imposing scene within the Abbey through what might have been a painful accident. Lord Rolle, a peer between seventy and eighty years of age, stumbling and falling as he climbed the steps of the throne, the Queen impulsively moved as if to aid him; and when the old man, undismayed, persisted in carrying out his act of homage, she asked quickly, "May I not get up and meet him?" and descended one or two steps to save him the ascent. The ready natural kindliness of the royal action awoke ecstatic applause, which could hardly have been heartier had the applauders known how true a type that act supplied of Her Majesty's future conduct. She has never feared to peril her dignity by descending a step or two from her throne, when "sweet mercy, nobility's true badge," has seemed to require such a descent. And her queenly dignity has never been thereby lessened. "She never ceases to be a Queen," says Greville _a propos_ of this scene, "and is always the most charming, cheerful, obliging, unaffected Queen in the world." [Illustration: Elizabeth Fry] That "the people" were more considered in the arrangements for this coronation than they had been on any previous occasion of the sort was a circumstance quite in harmony with certain other signs of the times. "The night is darkest before the dawn," and amid all the gloom which enshrouded the land there could be discerned the stir and movement that herald the coming of the day. Men's minds were turning more and more to the healing of the world's wounds. Already one great humane enterprise had been carried through in the emancipation of the slaves in British Colonies; already the vast work of prison reform had been well begun, through the saintly Elizabeth Fry, whose life of faithful service ended ere the Queen had reigned eight years. The very year of Her Majesty's accession was signalised by two noteworthy endeavours to put away wrong. We will turn first to that which _seems_ the least immediately philanthropic, although the injustice which it remedied was trivial in appearance only, since in its everyday triviality it weighed most heavily on the most numerous class--that of the humble and the poor. [Illustration: Rowland Hill] How would the Englishman of to-day endure the former exactions of the Post Office? The family letters of sixty years ago, written on the largest sheets purchasable, crossed and crammed to the point of illegibility, filled with the news of many and many a week, still witness of the time when "a letter from London to Brighton cost eightpence, to Aberdeen one and threepence-halfpenny, to Belfast one and fourpence"; when, "if the letter were written on more than one sheet, it came under the operation of a higher scale of charges," and when the privilege of franking letters, enjoyed and very largely exercised by members of Parliament and members of the Government, had the peculiar effect of throwing the cost of the mail service exactly on that part of the community which was least able to bear it. The result of the injustice was as demoralising as might have been expected. The poorer people who desired to have tidings of distant friend or relative were driven by the prohibitory rates of postage into all sorts of curious, not quite honest devices, to gratify their natural desire without being too heavily taxed for it. A brother and sister, for instance, unable to afford themselves the costly luxury of regular correspondence, would obtain assurance of each other's well-being by transmission through the post at stated intervals of blank papers duly sealed and addressed: the arrival of the postman with a missive of this kind announced to the recipient that all was well with the sender, so the unpaid "letter" was cheerfully left on the messenger's hands. Such an incident, coming under the notice of Mr. Rowland Hill, impressed him with a sense of hardship and wrong in the system that bore these fruits; and he set himself with strenuous patience to remedy the wrong and the hardship. His scheme of reform was worked out and laid before the public early in 1837; in the third year of Her Majesty's reign it was first adopted in its entirety, with what immense profit to the Government we may partly see when we contrast the seventy-six or seventy-seven millions of _paid_ letters delivered in the United Kingdom during the last year of the heavy postage with the number exceeding a thousand millions, and still increasing--delivered yearly during the last decade; while the population has not doubled. That the Queen's own letters carried postage under the new regime was a fact almost us highly appreciated as Her Majesty's voluntary offer at a later date to bear her due share of the income tax. It is well to notice how later Postmasters General, successors of Rowland Hill in that important office, have striven further to benefit their countrymen. In particular, Henry Fawcett's earnest efforts to encourage and aid habits of thrift are worthy of remembrance. Again, it is during the first year of Her Majesty's reign that we find Father Mathew, the Irish Capuchin friar, initiating his vast crusade against intemperance, and by the charm of his persuasive eloquence and unselfish enthusiasm inducing thousands upon thousands to forswear the drink-poison that was destroying them. In two years he succeeded in enrolling two million five hundred thousand persons on the side of sobriety. The permanence of the good Father's immediate work was impaired by the superstitions which his poor followers associated with it, much against his desire. Not only were the medals which he gave as badges to his vowed abstainers regarded as infallible talismans from the hand of a saint, but the giver was credited with miraculous powers such as only a Divine Being could exercise, and which he disclaimed in vain--extravagances too likely to discredit his enterprise with more soberly judging persons than the imaginative Celts who were his earliest converts. But, notwithstanding every drawback, his action was most important, and deserves grateful memory. We may see in it the inception of that great movement whose indirect influence in reforming social habits and restraining excess had at least equalled its direct power for good on its pledged adherents. Though it is still unhappily true that drunkenness slays its tens of thousands among us, and largely helps to people our workhouses, our madhouses, and our gaols, yet the fiend walks not now, as it used to do, in unfettered freedom. It is no longer a fashionable vice, excused and half approved as the natural expression of joviality and good-fellowship; peers and commoners of every degree no longer join daily in the "heavy-headed revel" whose deep-dyed stain seems to have soaked through every page of our last-century annals. And it would appear as though the vice were not only held from increasing, but were actually on the decrease. The statistics of the last decade show that the consumption of alcohol is diminishing, and that of true food-stuffs proportionally rising. [Illustration: Father Mathew] There were other enterprises now set on foot, by no means directly philanthropic in their aim, which contemplated utility more than virtue or justice--enterprises whose vast effects are yet unexhausted, and which have so modified the conditions of human existence as to make the new reign virtually a new epoch. As to the real benefit of these immense changes, opinion is somewhat divided; but the majority would doubtless vote in their favour. The first railway in England, that between Liverpool and Manchester, had been opened in 1830, the day of its opening being made darkly memorable by the accident fatal to Mr. Huskisson, as though the new era must be inaugurated by a sacrifice. Three years later there was but this one railway in England, and one, seven miles long, in Scotland. But in 1837 the Liverpool and Birmingham line was opened; in 1838 the London and Birmingham and the Liverpool and Preston lines, and an Act was passed for transmitting the mails by rail; in 1839 there was the opening of the London and Croydon line. The ball was set fairly rolling, and the supersession of ancient modes of communication was a question of time merely. The advance of the new system was much accelerated at the outset by the fact that railway enterprise became the favourite field for speculation, men being attracted by the novelty and tempted by exaggerated prospects of profit; and the mania was followed, like other manias, with results largely disastrous to the speculators and to commerce. But through years of good fortune and of bad fortune the iron network has continued to spread itself, until all the land lies embraced in its ramifications; and it is spreading still, like some strange organism the one condition of whose life is reproduction, knitting the greatest centres of commerce with the loneliest and remotest villages that were wont to lie far out of the travelled ways of men, and bringing _Ultima Thule_ into touch with London. [Illustration: George Stephenson] Meanwhile the steam service by sea has advanced almost with that by land. In 1838 three steamships crossed the Atlantic between this country and New York, the _Great Western_, sailing from Bristol, and _Sirius_, from Cork, distinguished themselves by the short passages they made,--of fifteen days in the first case, and seventeen days in the second,--and by their using steam power _alone_ to effect the transit, an experiment that had not been risked before. It was now proved feasible, and in a year or two there was set on foot that regular steam communication between the New World and the Old, which ever since has continued to draw them into always closer connection, as the steamers, like swift-darting shuttles, weave their multiplying magic lines across the liquid plain between. The telegraph wires that run beside road and rail, doing the office of nerves in transmitting intelligence with thrilling quickness from the extremities to the head and from the head to the extremities of our State, are now so familiar an object, and their operations, such mere matters of every day, that we do not often recall how utterly unfamiliar they were sixty years ago, when Wheatstone and Cooke on this side the Atlantic, and Morse on the other, were devising their methods for giving signals and sounding alarms in distant places by means of electric currents transmitted through metallic circuits. Submarine telegraphy lay undreamed of in the future, land telegraphy was but just gaining hearing as a practicable improvement, when the crown was set on Her Majesty's head amid all that pomp and ceremony at Westminster. A modern English imagination is quite unequal to the task of realising the manifold hindrances that beset human intercourse at that day, when a journey by coach between places as important and as little remote from each other as Leeds and Newcastle occupied sixteen mortal hours, with changes of horses and stoppages for meals on the road, and when letters, unless forwarded by an "express" messenger at heavy cost, tarried longer on the way than even did passengers; while some prudent dwellers in the country deemed it well to set their affairs in order and make their wills before embarking on the untried perils of a journey up to town. These days are well within the memory of many yet living; but if the newer generations that have arisen during the present reign would understand what it is to be hampered in their movements and their correspondence as were their fathers, they must seek the remoter and more savage quarters of Europe, the less travelled portions of America or of half-explored Australia; they must plunge into Asian or African wilds, untouched by civilisation, where as yet there runs not the iron horse, worker of greater marvels than the wizard steeds of fairy fable, that could, transport a single favoured rider over wide distances in little time. The subjugated, serviceable nature-power Steam, with its fellow-servant the tamed and tutored Lightning, has wonderfully contracted distance during these fifty years, making the earth, once so vast to human imagination, appear as a globe shrunken to a tenth of its ancient size, and bringing nations divided by half the surface of that globe almost within sound of each other's speech. [Illustration: Wheatstone.] That there is damage as well as profit in all these increased facilities of intercourse must be apparent, since there is evil as well as good in the human world, and increased freedom of communication implies freer communication of the evil as of the good. But we may well hope that the cause of true upward progress will be most served by the vast inevitable changes which, as they draw all peoples nearer together, must deepen and strengthen the sense of human brotherhood, and, as they bring the deeds of all within the knowledge of all, must consume by an intolerable blaze of light the once secret iniquities and oppressions abhorrent to the universal conscience of mankind. The public conscience in these realms at least is better informed and more sensitive than it was in the year of William IV's death and of Victoria's accession. CHAPTER II. STORM AND SUNSHINE. [Illustration: St. James's Palace.] The beneficent changes we have briefly described were but just inaugurated, and their possible power for good was as yet hardly divined, when the young Queen entered into that marriage which we may well deem the happiest action of her life, and the most fruitful of good to her people, looking to the extraordinary character of the husband of her choice, and to the unobtrusive but always advantageous influence which his great and wise spirit exercised on our national life. The marriage had been anxiously desired, and the way for it judiciously prepared, but it was in no sense forced on either of the contracting parties by their elders who so desired it. Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg, second son of the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, the Queen's maternal uncle, was nearly of an age with his royal cousin; he had already, young as he was, given evidence of a rare superiority of nature; he had been excellently trained; and there is no doubt that Leopold, king of the Belgians, his uncle, and the Queen's, did most earnestly desire to see the young heiress of the British throne, for whom he had a peculiar tenderness, united to the one person whose position and whose character combined to point him out as the fit partner for her high and difficult destinies. What tact, what patience, and what power of self-suppression the Queen of England's husband would need to exercise, no one could better judge than Leopold, the widowed husband of Princess Charlotte; no one could more fully have exemplified these qualities than the prince in whom Leopold's penetration divined them. The cousins had already met, in 1836, when their mutual attraction had been sufficiently strong; and in 1839, when Prince Albert, with his elder brother Ernest, was again visiting England, the impression already produced became ineffaceably deep. The Queen, whom her great rank compelled to take the initiative, was not very long in making up her mind when and how to act. Her favoured suitor himself, writing to a dear relative, relates how she performed the trying task, inviting him to render her intensely happy by making "the _sacrifice_ of sharing her life with her, for she said she looked on it as a sacrifice. The joyous openness with which she told me this enchanted me, and I was quite carried away by it." This was on October 15th; nearly six weeks after, on November 23rd, she made to her assembled Privy Council the formal declaration of her intended marriage. There is something particularly touching in even the driest description of this scene; the betrothed bride wearing a simple morning dress, having on her arm a bracelet containing Prince Albert's portrait, which helped to give her courage; her voice, as she read the declaration clear, sweet, and penetrating as ever, but her hands trembling so excessively that it was surprising she could read the paper she held. It was a trying task, but not so difficult as that which had devolved on her a short time before, when, in virtue of her sovereign rank, she had first to speak the words of fate that bound her to her suitor. [Illustration: Prince Albert.] Endowed with every charm of person, mind, and manner that can win and keep affection, Prince Albert was able, in marrying the Queen, who loved him and whom he loved, to secure for her a happiness rare in any rank, rarest of all on the cold heights of royalty. This was not all; he was the worthy partner of her greatness. Himself highly cultivated in every sense, he watched with keenest interest over the advance of all cultivation in the land of his adoption, and identified himself with every movement to improve its condition. His was the soul of a statesman--wide, lofty, far-seeing, patient; surveying all great things, disdaining no small things, but with tireless industry pursuing after all necessary knowledge. Add to these intellectual excellences the moral graces of ideal purity of life, chivalrous faithfulness of heart, magnanimous self-suppression, and fervent piety, and we have a slight outline of a character which, in the order of Providence, acted very strongly and with a still living force on the destinies of nineteenth-century England. The Queen had good reasons for the feeling of "confidence and comfort" that shone in the glance she turned on her bridegroom as they walked away, man and wife at last, from the altar of the Chapel Royal, on February 10th, 1840. The union she then entered into immeasurably enhanced her popularity, and strengthened her position as surely as it expanded her nature. Not many years elapsed before Sir Robert Peel could tell her that, in spite of the inroads of democracy, the monarchy had never been safer, nor had any sovereign been so beloved, because "the Queen's domestic life was so happy, and its example so good." Only the Searcher of hearts knoweth how great has been the holy power of a pure, fair, and noble example constantly shining in the high places of the land. [Illustration: The Queen in her Wedding-Dress. _After the Picture by_ Drummond.] It was hinted by the would-be wise, in the early days of Her Majesty's married life, that it would be idle to look for the royally maternal feeling of an Elizabeth towards her people in a wedded constitutional sovereign. The judgment was a mistake. The formal limitations of our Queen's prerogative, sedulously as she has respected them, have never destroyed her sense of responsibility; wifehood and motherhood have not contracted her sympathies, but have deepened and widened them. The very sorrows of her domestic life have knit her in fellowship with other mourners. No great calamity can befall her humblest subjects, and she hear of it, but there comes the answering flash of tender pity. She is more truly the mother of her people, having walked on a level with them, and with "Love, who is of the valley," than if she had chosen to dwell alone and aloof. [Illustration: Sir Robert Peel.] For some years after her marriage the Queen's private life shows like a little isle of brightness in the midst of a stormy sea. Within and without our borders there was small prospect of settled peace at the very time of that marriage. We have said that Lord Melbourne was still Premier; but he and his Ministry had resigned office in the previous May, and had only come back to it in consequence of a curious misunderstanding known as "the Bedchamber difficulty." Sir Robert Peel, who was summoned to form a Ministry on Melbourne's defeat and resignation, had asked from Her Majesty the dismissal of two ladies of her household, the wives of prominent members of the departing Whig Government; but his request conveyed to her mind the sense that he designed to deprive her of all her actual attendants, and against this imagined proposal she set herself energetically. "She could not consent to a course which she conceived to be contrary to usage, and which was repugnant to her feelings." Peel on his part remained firm in his opinion as to the real necessity for the change which he had advocated. From the deadlock produced by mere misunderstanding there seemed at the time only one way of escaping; the defeated Whig Government returned to office. But Ministers who resumed power only because, "as gentlemen," they felt bound to do so, had little chance of retaining it. In September 1841, Lord Melbourne was superseded in the premiership by Sir Robert Peel, and then gave a final proof how single-minded was his loyal devotion by advising the new Prime Minister as to the tone and style likely to commend him to their royal mistress--a tone of clear straightforwardness. "The Queen," said Melbourne--who knew of what he was speaking, if any statesman then did--"is not conceited; she is aware there are many things she cannot understand, and likes them explained to her elementarily, not at length and in detail, but shortly and clearly." The counsel was given and was accepted with equal good feeling, such as was honourable to all concerned; and the Sovereign learned, as years went on, to repose a singular confidence in the Minister with whom her first relations had been so unpropitious, but whose real honesty, ability, and loyalty soon approved themselves to her clear perceptions, which no prejudice has long been able to obscure. We are told that in later years Her Majesty referred to the disagreeable incident we have just related as one that could not have occurred, if she had had beside her Prince Albert "to talk to and employ in explaining matters," while she refused the suggestion that her impulsive resistance had been advised by any one about her. "It was entirely my own foolishness," [Footnote] she is said to have added--words breathing that perfect simplicity of candour which has always been one of her most strongly marked characteristics. [Footnote: "Greville Memoirs," Third Part, vol. i.] Though the matter caused a great sensation at the time, and gave rise to some dismal prophesyings, it was of no permanent importance, and is chiefly noted here because it throws a strong light on Her Majesty's need of such an ever-present aid as she had now secured in the husband wise beyond his years, who well understood his constitutional position, and was resolute to keep within it, avoiding entanglement with any party, and fulfilling with equal impartiality and ability the duties of private secretary to his Sovereign-wife. The Melbourne Ministry had had to contend with difficulties sufficiently serious, and of these the grimmest and greatest remained still unsettled. At the outset of the reign a rebellion in Canada had required strong repression; and we had taken the first step on a bad road by entering into those disputes as to our right to force the opium traffic on China, which soon involved us in a disastrously successful war with that country. On the other hand, our Indian Government had begun an un-called-for interference with the affairs of Afghanistan, which, successful at first, resulted in a series of humiliating reverses to our arms, culminating in one of the most terrible disasters that have ever befallen a British force--the wholesale massacre of General Elphinstone's defeated and retreating army on its passage through the terrible mountain gorge known as the Pass of Koord Cabul. It was on January 13th, 1842, that the single survivor of this massacre appeared, a half-fainting man, drooping over the neck of his wearied pony, before the fort of Jellalabad, which General Sale still held for the English. He only was "escaped alone" to tell the hideous tale. The ill-advised and ill-managed enterprise which thus terminated had extended over more than three years, had cost us many noble lives, in particular that of the much-lamented Alexander Burnes, had condemned many English women and children to a long and cruel captivity among the savage foe, and had absolutely failed as to the object for which it was undertaken--the instalment of Shah Soojah, a mere British tool, as ruler of Afghanistan, in place of the chief desired by the Afghan people, Dost Mahomed. When the disasters to our arms had been retrieved, as retrieved they were with exemplary promptness, and when the surviving prisoners were redeemed from their hard captivity, it was deemed sound policy for us to attempt no longer to "force a sovereign on a reluctant people," and to remain content with that limit which "nature appears to have assigned" to our Indian empire on its north-western border. Later adventures in the same field have not resulted so happily as to prove that these views were incorrect. Our prestige was seriously damaged in Hindostan by this first Afghan war, and was only partially re-established in the campaign against the Sikhs several years later, despite the dramatic grandeur of that "piece of Indian history" which resulted in our annexation of the Punjaub in 1846--a solid advantage balanced by the unpleasant fact that English soldiers had been proved not invincible by natives. It will thus appear that there was not too much that was glorious or encouraging in our external affairs in these early years; but the internal condition of the country was never less reassuring. The general discontent of the English lower orders was taking shape as Chartism--a movement which could not have arisen but for the fierce suspicion with which the working classes had learnt to regard those who seemed their superiors in wealth, in rank, or in political power, and which the higher orders retaliated in dislike and distrust of the labouring population, whom they considered as seditious enemies of order and property. The demon of class hatred was never more alive and busy than in the decade which terminated in 1848. "The Charter," which was the watchword of hope to so many, and the very war-note of discord to many more, comprised six points, of which some at least were sufficiently absurd, while others have virtually passed into law, quietly and naturally, in due course of time; and if the universal Age of Gold which ignorant Chartists looked for has not ensued, at least the anarchy and ruin which their opponents associated with the dreaded scheme are equally non-existent. So fast has the time moved that there is now a little difficulty in understanding the passionate hopes with which the Charter was associated on the one side, and the panic which it inspired on the other; and there is much to move wondering compassion in the profound ignorance which those hopes betrayed, and the not inferior misery amid which they were cherished. Few persons are now so credulous as to expect that annual Parliaments or stipendiary members would insure the universal reign of peace and justice; the people have already found that vote by ballot and suffrage all but universal have neither equalised wealth nor abrogated greed and iniquity; and though there be some dreamers in our midst to-day who look for wonderful transformations of society to follow on possible reforms, there is not even in these dreamy schemes the same amazing disproportion of means to be employed and end to be attained as characterised the Chartist delusion. [Illustration: Daniel O'Connell.] In Ireland men were reposing unbounded faith in another sort of political panacea for every personal and social evil--the Repeal of the Union with England, advocated by Daniel O'Connell, with all the power of his passionate Celtic eloquence, and supported by all his extraordinary personal influence. Apparently he hoped to carry this agitation to the same triumphant issue as that for Catholic emancipation, in which he had taken a conspicuous part; but the new movement did not, like the old one, appeal immediately and plausibly to the English sense of fair play and natural justice. A competent and not unfriendly observer has remarked that O'Connell's "theory and policy were that Ireland was to be saved by a dictatorship entrusted to himself." Whether any salvation for the unhappy land did lie in such a dictatorship was a point on which opinion might well be divided. English opinion was massively hostile to it; but for years all the political enthusiasm of Ireland centred in O'Connell and the cause he upheld. The country might be on the brink of ruin and starvation, but the peril seemed forgotten while the dream lasted. The agitator was wont to refer to the Queen in terms of extravagant loyalty, and it would seem that the feeling was largely shared by his followers. However futile and vainglorious his scheme and methods may appear, we must not deny to him a distinction, rare indeed among Irish agitators, of having steadily disclaimed violence and advocated orderly and peaceable proceedings. He thought his cause would be injured, and not advanced, by such outrages as before and since his day have too often disgraced party warfare in Ireland. His favourite maxim was that "the man who commits a crime gives strength to the enemy." This opinion was not heartily endorsed by all his followers. When it became clear that his dislike of physical force was real, when he did not defy the Government, at last stirred into hostile action by the demonstrations he organised, there was an end of his power over the fiercer spirits whom he had roused against the rule of "the Saxon"--luckless phrase with which he had enriched the Anglo-Irish controversy, and misleading as luckless. O'Connell died, a broken and disappointed man, on his way to Rome in 1847; but the spirit he had raised and could not rule did not die with him, and the younger, more turbulent leaders, who had outbid him for popular approval, continued their anti-English warfare with growing zeal until the year of fate 1848. Even the Principality of Wales had its own peculiar form of agitation, sometimes accompanied by outrage, during these wild opening years. The farmers and labourers in Wales were unprosperous and poor, and in the season of their adversity they found turnpikes and tolls multiplying on their public roads. They resented what appeared a cruel imposition with wrathful impatience, and ere long gave expression to their anger in wild deeds. A text of Scripture suggested to them a fantastic form of riot. They found that it was said of old to Rebecca, "Let thy seed possess the gate of those which hate them," and ere long "Rebecca and her children," men masking in women's clothes, made fierce war by night on the "gates" they detested, destroying the turnpikes and driving out their keepers. These raids were not always bloodless. The Government succeeded in repressing the rioting, and then, finding that a real grievance had caused it, did away with the oppressive tolls, and dealt not too hardly with the captured offenders; leniency which soon restored Wales to tranquillity. [Illustration: Richard Cobden.] [Illustration: John Bright.] A peaceful, strictly constitutional, and finally successful agitation ran its steady course in England for several years contemporaneously with those we have already enumerated. The Anti-Corn-Law League, with which the names of Cobden and Bright are united as closely as those two distinguished men were united in friendship, had in 1838 found a centre eminently favourable to its operations in Manchester. Its leaders were able, well-informed, and upright men, profoundly convinced that their cause was just, and that the welfare of the people was involved in their success or failure. They were men of the middle class, acquainted intimately with the needs and doings of the trading community to which they belonged, and therefore at once better qualified to argue on questions affecting commerce, and less directly interested in the prosperity of agriculture, than the more aristocratic leaders of the nation. Both persuasive and successful speakers, one of them supremely eloquent, they were able to interest even the lowest populace in questions of political economy, and to make Free Trade in Corn the idol of popular passion. Their mode of agitation was eminently reasonable and wise; but it _was_ an agitation, exciting wild enthusiasm and fierce opposition, and must be reckoned not among the forces tending to quiet, but among those that aroused anxious care in the first nine years of the reign. And it was a terrible calamity that at last placed victory within their grasp. The blight on the potato first showed itself in 1845--a new, undreamed-of disaster, probably owing to the long succession of unfavourable seasons. And the potato blight meant almost certainly famine in Ireland, where perhaps three-fourths of the population had no food but this root. The food supply of a whole nation seemed on the point of being cut off. A loud demand was made for "the opening of the ports." By existing laws the ports admitted foreign grain tinder import duties varying in severity inversely with the fluctuating price of home-grown grain; thus a certain high level in the cost of corn was artificially maintained. These regulations, though framed for the protection of the native producer, did not bear so heavily on the consumer as the law of 1815 which they replaced; and the principle represented by them had a large following in the country. But now the argument from famine proved potent to decide the wavering convictions of some who had long been identified with the cause of Protection. The champions of Free Trade were sure of triumph when Sir Robert Peel became one of their converts; and the Corn Bill which he carried in the June of 1846, granting with some little reserve and delay the reforms which the Anti-Corn-Law League had been formed to secure, brought that powerful association to a quiet end. But the threatening Irish famine and the growing Irish disturbances remained, to embarrass the Ministry of Lord John Russell, which came into power within less than a week of that great success of the Tory Minister, defeated on a question of Irish polity on the very day when his Corn Bill received the assent of the House of Lords. [Illustration: Lord John Russell.] We must not omit, as in passing we chronicle this singular fortune of a great Minister, to notice the grief with which Her Majesty viewed this turn of events. Amid all the anxiety of the period, amid her distress at the cruel sufferings of her servants in India, in Britain, in Ireland, and her care for their relief, she had had two sources of consolation: the pure and simple bliss of her home-life, and the assistance of two most valued counsellors--her husband and her Prime Minister. One was inseparably at her side, but one must now leave it; and she and the Prince met their inevitable loss with the dignified outward acquiescence that was fitting, but with sorrow not less real. The Queen would have bestowed on Peel as distinguished an honour as she could confer--the Order of the Garter; Peel deemed it best to decline it gratefully. "He was from the people and of the people," and wished so to remain, content if his Queen could say, "You have been a faithful servant, and have done your duty to the country and to myself." In hapless Ireland, torn by agitation and scourged by pestilence and famine, the general misery had reached a point where no fiscal measures, however wise, could at once alleviate it. The potato famine held on its dreadful way, and the darkest moment of Irish history seemed reached in the year when one hundred and seventy thousand persons perished in that island by hunger or hunger-bred fever. The new plague affected Great Britain also; but its suffering was completely overshadowed by the enormous bulk of Irish woe, which the utmost lavishness of charity seemed scarcely to lessen. That there should be turbulence and even violence accompanying all this wretchedness was no way surprising; but in most men's minds the wretchedness held the larger place, and deservedly so, for the sedition, when ripe enough, was dealt with sharply, though not mercilessly, in such a way that ere long all reasonable dread of a civil war being added to the other horrors, had passed away; and the country had leisure for such recovery as was possible to a land so desolate. [Illustration: Thomas Chalmers.] There was contemporaneous distress enough and to spare in Great Britain: failures in Lancashire alone to the amount of £16,000,000; failures equally heavy in Birmingham, Glasgow, and other great towns; capital was absorbed by the mad speculations in railway shares; and even Heaven's gift of an abundant harvest, by at once lowering the price of corn, helped to depress commerce. Many banks stopped payment, and even the Bank of England seemed imperilled, saving itself only by adopting a bold line of policy advised by Government. At the same time, the Chartist movement was gathering the strength which was to expend itself in the futile demonstrations of 1848. [Illustration: John Henry Newman. _From a photograph by_ Mr. H. J. Whitlock, _Birmingham_.] But as if it were not enough for every department of political or commercial life to be so seriously affected, there was now arising within the English National Church itself a singular movement, destined to affect the religious history of the land as powerfully, if not as beneficially, as did the Evangelical revival of the last century; and the National Kirk of Scotland, after long and stern contention on the crucial point of civil control in things spiritual, was ready for that rending in twain from which arose the Free Kirk; while other religious bodies were torn by the same keen spirit of strife, the same revolt against ancient order, as that which was distracting the world of politics. The bitterness of the disruption in Scotland is well-nigh exhausted, though the controversy enlisted at the time all the fervid power of a Chalmers; men honour the memory of the champions, while hoping to see the once sharp differences composed for ever. But the "Catholic Revival," initiated under the leadership of Newman, Pusey, and Keble, has proved to be no transient disturbance: and no figure has in relation to the Church history of the half-century the same portentous importance as that of John Henry Newman, whose powerful magnetism, as it attracted or repelled, drew men towards Romanism or drove them towards Rationalism, his logical art, made more impressive by the noble eloquence with which he sometimes adorned it, seeming to leave those who came under his spell no choice between the two extremes. When he finally decided on withdrawing himself from the Anglican and giving in his adhesion to the Roman communion, he set an example that has not yet ceased to be imitated, to the incalculable damage of the English Establishment. Happily the massive Nonconformity of the country was hardly touched either by his influence or his example. It is pleasant to turn from scenes of doubt and discord, of strife and sorrow, to that bright domestic life which was now vouchsafed to the Sovereign, as if in direct compensation for the storms that raved and beat outside her home--a home now brightened by the presence of five joyous, healthy children. It is a charming picture of the royal pair and of the manner of life in the palace--styled by one foreigner "the one really pleasant, comfortable English house, in which one feels at one's ease "--that is given us by the finely discerning Mendelssohn, invited by the Prince to "come and try his organ" before leaving England in 1842, on which occasion the Queen joined her husband and his guest at the instrument, enjoying and aiding in their musical performance, and singing, "quite faultlessly and with charming feeling and expression," a song written by the great master who was now paying a farewell visit, with nothing of ceremony in it, to English royalty. With a few touches Mendelssohn makes us see the delightful ease and comfort of this royal interior, the Queen gathering up the sheets of music strewn by the wind over the floor--the Prince cleverly managing the organ-stops so as to suit the master while he played--the mighty rocking-horse and the two birdcages beside the music-laden piano in the Queen's own sitting-room, beautiful with pictures and richly-bound books--the pretty difficulty about her finding some of Mendelssohn's own songs to sing to him, since her music was packed up and taken away to Claremont--her naïve confession that she had been "so frightened" at singing before the master,--all are chronicled with not less zest and affection than the graceful gift of a valuable ring "as a remembrance" to the artist from the Queen, through Prince Albert. It is a much more pleasing impression that we thus obtain than can be given by details of State ceremonial and visits from other sovereigns. Of these last there was no lack, and the princely visitors were entertained with all due pomp and splendour; but neither on account of these costly entertainments nor on behalf of the royal children did the Sovereign ask the nation for so much as a shilling, the Civil List sufficing for every unlooked-for outlay, now that Prince Albert, by dint of persevering effort, had succeeded in putting the arrangements of the royal household on a satisfactory footing, sweeping away a vast number of time-honoured, thriftless expenses, and rendering a wise and generous economy possible. [Illustration: Balmoral.] Formerly the great officers of the Crown were charged with the oversight of the commonest domestic business of the palace. Being non-resident, these overseers did no overseeing, and the actual servants were practically masterless. Hence arose numberless vexations and extravagant hindrances. In 1843 this objectionable form of the division of labour was brought to an end, and one Master of the household who did his work replaced the many officials who, by a fiction of etiquette, had been formerly supposed to do everything while they did and could do nothing. The long-needed reform could not but be pleasing to the Queen, being quite in harmony with the upright principles that had always ruled her conduct, she having begun her reign by paying off the debts of her dead father--debts contracted not in her lifetime nor on her account, and which a spirit less purely honourable might therefore have declined to recognise. [Illustration: Osborne House.] Thanks to the Prince's able management, the royal pair found it in their power to purchase for themselves the estate of Osborne, in the Isle of Wight--a charming retreat all their own, which they could adorn for their delight with no thought of the thronging public; where the Prince could farm and build and garden to his heart's content, and all could escape from the stately restraints of their burdensome rank, and from "the bitterness people create for themselves in London." Before very long they found for themselves that Highland holiday home of Balmoral which was to be so peculiarly dear, and in which Her Majesty--whose first visit to the _then_ discontented Scotland was deemed quite a risky experiment--was so completely to win for herself the admiring love of her Scottish subjects. At Balmoral Mr. Greville saw them some little time after their acquisition of the place, and witnesses to the "simplicity and ease" with which they lived, to the gay good humour that pervaded their circle--"the Queen running in and out of the house all day long, often going out alone, walking into the cottages, sitting down and chatting with the old women," the Prince free from trammels of etiquette, showing what native charm of manner and what high, cultivated intelligence were really his. The impression is identical with that conveyed by Her Majesty's published Journal of that Highland life; and, though lacking the many graceful details of that record, the testimony has its own value. Happy indeed was the Sovereign for whom the black cloud of those years showed such a silver lining! Other potentates were less happy, both as regarded their private blessings and their public fortunes. It would be agreeable to English feelings, but not altogether consonant with historic truth, if we could leave unnoticed the scandalous attempts on the Queen's life which marked the earliest period of her reign and have been renewed in later days. The first attacks were by far of the most alarming character, but Her Majesty, whose escape on one occasion seemed due only to her husband's prompt action, never betrayed any agitation or alarm; and her dauntless bearing, and the care for others which she manifested by dispensing with the presence of her usual lady attendants when she anticipated one of these assaults, immensely increased the already high esteem in which her people held her. The first assailant, a half-crazy lad of low station named Oxford, was shut up in a lunatic asylum. For the second, a man named Francis, the same plea could not be urged; but the death-sentence he had incurred was commuted to transportation for life. Almost immediately a deformed lad called Bean followed the example of Francis. Her Majesty, who had been very earnest to save the life of the miserable beings attacking her, desired an alteration in the law as to such assaults; and their penalty was fixed at seven years' transportation, or imprisonment not exceeding three years, to which the court was empowered to add a moderate number of whippings--punishments having no heroic fascination about them, like that which for heated and shallow brains invested the hideous doom of "traitors." The expedient proved in a measure successful, none of the later assaults, discreditable as they are, betraying a really murderous intention. It has been remarked as a noteworthy circumstance that popular English monarchs have been more exposed to such dangers than others who were cordially disliked. It is not hatred that has prompted these assassins so much as imbecile vanity and the passion for notoriety, misleading an obscure coxcomb to think "His glory would be great According to _her_ greatness whom he quenched." CHAPTER III. FRANCE AND ENGLAND. [Illustration: Buckingham Palace.] It is necessary now to look at the relations of our Government with other nations, and in particular with France, whose fortunes just at this time had a clearly traceable effect on our own. For several years the Court of England had been on terms of unprecedented cordiality with the French Court. The Queen had personally visited King Louis Philippe at the Château d'Eu--an event which we must go back as far as the days of Henry VIII to parallel--and had contracted a warm friendship for certain members of his family, in particular for the Queen, Marie Amélie, for the widowed Duchess of Orleans, a maternal cousin of Prince Albert, and for the perfect Louise, the truthful, unselfish second wife of Leopold, King of the Belgians, and daughter of the King of the French. It was a rude shock to all the warm feelings which our Queen, herself transparently honest, had learnt to cherish for her royal friends when the French King and his Minister, Guizot, entered into that fatal intrigue of theirs, "the Spanish marriages." Isabella, the young Queen of Spain, and her sister and heiress presumptive, Louisa, were yet unmarried at the time of the visit to the Château d'Eu; and about that time an undertaking was given by the French to the English Government that the Infanta Louisa should not marry a French prince until her sister, the actual Queen, "should be married and have children." The possible union of the crowns of France and Spain was known for a dream of French ambition, and was equally well known to be an object of dislike and dread to other European Powers. The engagement which the French King had now given seemed therefore well calculated to disarm suspicion and promote peace; but the one was reawakened and the other endangered when it became known that he had so used his power over the Spanish court as to procure that the royal sisters of Spain should be married on one day--Isabella, the Queen, to the most unfit and uncongenial of all the possible candidates for her hand; Louisa to King Louis Philippe's son, the Duke of Montpensier. The transaction on the face of it was far from respectable, since the credit and happiness of the young Spanish Queen seemed to have hardly entered into the consideration of those who arranged for her the _mariage de convenance_ into which she was led blindfold; but when regarded as a violation of good faith it was additionally displeasing. Queen Victoria, to whom the scheme was imparted only when it was ripe for execution, through her personal friend Louise, Queen of the Belgians, replied to the communication in a tone of earnest, dignified remonstrance; but apparently the King was now too thoroughly committed to his scheme to be deterred by any reasoning or reproaches, and the tragical farce was played out. It had no good results for France; England was chilled and alienated, but the Spanish crown never devolved on the Duchess of Montpensier. Within two little years from her marriage that princess and all the French royal family fled from France, so hastily that they had scarcely money enough to provide for their journey, and appeared in England as fugitives, to be aided and protected by the Queen, who forgot all political resentment, and remembered only her personal regard for these fallen princes. The overthrow of the Orleans dynasty in 1848 was a complete surprise, and men have never ceased to see something disgraceful in its amazing suddenness. Here was a great king, respected for wisdom and daring, and supposed to understand at every point the character of the land he ruled, his power appearing unshaken, while it was known to be backed with an army one hundred thousand strong. And almost without warning a whirlwind of insurrection against this solid power and this able ruler broke out, and in a few wild hours swept the whole fabric into chaos. Nothing caused more surprise at the moment than the extreme bitterness of animosity which the insurgents manifested towards the king's person, unless it were the tameness with which he submitted to his fate and the precipitancy of his flight. There was something rotten in the state of things, men said, which could thus dissolve, crushed like a swollen fungus by a casual foot. And indeed, whether with perfect justice or not, Louis Philippe's Administration had come to be deemed corrupt some time ere his fall. The free-spoken Parisians had openly flouted it as such: witness a mock advertisement placarded in the streets: "_A nettoyer, deux Chambres et une Cour_": "Two _Chambers_ and a _Court_ to clean." A French Government that had been crafty, but not crafty enough to conceal the fact, that was rather contemned for plotting than dreaded for unscrupulous energy, was already in peril. The still unsubdued revolutionary spirit, working under the smooth surface of French society, was the element which accomplished the destruction of this discredited Government. The outbreak in France acted like a spark in a powder magazine; ere long great part of Europe was shaken by the second great revolutionary upheaval, when potentates seemed falling and ancient dynasties crumbling on all sides--a period of eager hope to many, followed by despair when the reaction set in, accompanied in too many places by repressive measures of pitiless severity. The contemptuous feeling with which many Englishmen were wont to view such Continental troubles is well embodied in the lines which Tennyson put into the mouth of one of his characters, speaking of France: "Yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat, The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, The king is scared, the soldier will not fight. The little boys begin to shoot and stab, A kingdom topples over with a shriek Like an old woman, and down rolls the world In mock-heroics-- Revolts, republics, revolutions, most No graver than a schoolboy's barring out; Too comic for the solemn things they are, Too solemn for the comic touches in them." In this wild year 1848, which saw Revolution running riot on the Continent, England too had its share of troubles not less painfully ridiculous; the insurrection headed by Smith O'Brien, a chief of the "Young Ireland" party, coming to an inglorious end in the affray that took place at "the widow McCormick's cabbage-garden, Ballingarry," in the month of July; the greatly dreaded Chartist demonstration at Kennington Common on April 10th by its conspicuous failure having done much to damp the hopes and spirits of the party of disorder generally. It would be easy now to laugh at the frustrated designs of the Chartist leaders and at the sort of panic they aroused in London: the vast procession, which was to have marched in military order to overawe Parliament, resolving itself into a confused rabble easily dispersed by the police, and the monster petition, that should have numbered six million signatures, transported piecemeal to the House, and there found to have but two million names appended, many fictitious; the Chartist leader, completely cowed, thanking the Home Office for its lenient treatment; or, on the other hand, London and its peaceful inhabitants, distracted with wild rumours of combat and bloodshed, apprehending a repetition of Parisian madnesses, and unaware how thoroughly the Duke of Wellington, entrusted with the defence of the capital and its important buildings, had carried out all needful arrangements. The two hundred thousand special constables sworn in to aid in maintaining law and order on that day were visible enough, and had their utility in conveying a certain impression of safety; the troops whom the veteran commander held in readiness were kept out of sight till wanted. These rebellious spirits imagining themselves formidable and free, when caught in an invisible iron network--these terrified citizens, protected all unconsciously to themselves against the impotent foe whom they dreaded--might furnish food for mirth if we did not remember the real, deep, and widespread misery which found inarticulate but piteous expression in the movement now coming to confusion under the firm assertion of necessary authority. The disturbances must needs be quieted; but hitherto it has been the glory of our Victorian statesmen to have understood that the grievances which caused them must also be dealt with. Now that all which could be deemed wise and good in Chartist demands has been conceded, orderly and quietly, the name "Chartism" has utterly lost its dread significance. [Illustration: Napoleon III.] No cruelly vindictive measures of reprisal followed the collapse of the agitation; none indeed were needed. The revolutionary epidemic, which had spread hitherward from France, found our body politic in too sound a condition, and could not fasten on it; and the subsequent convulsions which shook our great neighbour hardly called forth an answering thrill in England. The strange transactions of December 1851, by means of which Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, Prince-President of the new French republic, succeeded in overthrowing that republic and replacing it by an empire of which he was the head, did indeed excite displeasure and distrust in many minds; and though it was believed that his high-handed proceedings had averted much disorder, the English Government was not prepared at once to accept all the proffered explanations of French diplomacy; but the then foreign Secretary, Lord Palmerston, by the rash proclamation of his individual approval, committed the Ministry of which he was one to a recognition of the _de facto_ Monarch of France. This step was but the last of many instances in which Palmerston had acted without due reference to the premier's or the Sovereign's opinion--a course of conduct which had justly displeased the Queen, and had drawn from her grave and pointed remonstrances. The final transgression led to his resignation; but its effects on our relations with France remained. Meanwhile the Emperor's consistent and probably sincere display of goodwill towards England, the apparent complacency with which the French nation acquiesced in his rule, and the outward prosperity accompanying it, did their natural work in conciliating approval, and in making men willing to forget the obscure and tortuous steps by which he had climbed to power. One day he and France were to pay for these things; but meanwhile he was a popular ruler, accepted and approved by the nation he governed, anxious for its prosperity, and earnest in keeping it friendly with Great Britain, which he had found a hospitable home in the days of his obscurity, which was again to offer an asylum to him in a day of utter disaster and overthrow, and where his life, chequered by vicissitudes stranger than any known to romance, was to come to a quiet close. It has been the singular fortune of Her Majesty to receive into the sacred shelter of her realm two dethroned monarchs, two fallen fortunes, two dynasties cast out from sovereign power, while her own throne, "broad-based upon her people's will, and compassed by the inviolate sea," has stood firm and unshaken, even by a breath. And it has been her special honour to cherish with affection, even warmer in their adversity, the friends who had gained her regard when their prosperity seemed as bright and their great position as assured as her own. Visiting the Emperor Napoleon in his splendid capital, fêted and welcomed by him and his Empress with every flattering form of honour that his ingenuity could devise or his power enable him to show, she did not forget the Orleans family and their calamities, but frankly urged on her host the injustice of the confiscations with which he had requited the supposed hostility of those princes, and endeavoured to persuade him to milder measures. She visited in his company the tomb of the lamented Duke of Orleans; and her first care on returning to England was to show some kindly attention to the discrowned royalties who were now her guests. In the same spirit, in after years, she extended a friendly hand to the exiled Empress Eugénie, escaping from new revolutionary perils to English safety, and altogether declined to consider her personal regard for the lady, whose attractions had deservedly gained it in brighter days, as being in any sense complicated with matters political. The resolute loyalty with which she at once maintained her private friendships and kept them entirely apart from her public action compelled toleration from the persons most inclined to take umbrage at it. An instance of successful and courageous enterprise on Her Majesty's part may well close this brief notice of the internal and external convulsions which for a time shook, though they did not shatter, the peace of our realm. In the late summer of 1849 a royal visit to Ireland, now just reviving from its misery, was planned and carried out with complete success; the wild Irish enthusiasm blazed up into raptures of a loyal welcome, and the Sovereign, who played her part with all the graceful perfection that her compassionate heart and quick intelligence suggested, was delighted with the little tour, from which those who shared in it prophesied "permanent good" for Ireland. At least it had a healing, beneficial effect at the moment; and perhaps more could not have been reasonably hoped. Later royal visits to the sister isle have been less conspicuous, but all fairly successful. CHAPTER IV. THE CRIMEAN WAR. [Illustration: The Crystal Palace, 1851.] The "Exhibition year," 1851, appears to our backward gaze almost like a short day of splendid summer interposed between two stormy seasons; but at the time men were more inclined to regard it as the first of a long series of halcyon days. Indeed, the unexampled number and success of the various efforts to redress injury and reform abuses, which had signalised the new reign, might almost justify those sanguine spirits, who now wrote and spoke as though wars and oppression were well on their way to the limbo of ancient barbarisms, and who looked to unfettered commerce as the peace-making civiliser, under whose influence the golden age--in more senses than one might revisit the earth. [Illustration: Lord Ashley.] We have already referred to certain of the new transforming forces whose action tended to heighten such hopes; there are two reforms as yet unnamed by us, distinguishing these early years, which are particularly significant; though one at least was stoutly opposed by a special class of reformers. We refer to the legislation dealing with mines and factories and those employed therein, with which is inseparably connected the venerable name of the late Lord Shaftesbury; and to the abolition of duelling in the army, secured by the untiring efforts of Prince Albert, who had enlisted on his side the immense influence of the Duke of Wellington. That peculiar modern survival of the ancient trial by combat, the duel, was still blocking the way of English civilisation when Her Majesty assumed the sceptre. A palpable anachronism, it yet seemed impossible to make men act on their knowledge of its antiquated and barbarous character; legislation was fruitless of good against a practice consecrated by false sentiment and false ideas of honour; but when dislodged from its chief stronghold, the army, it became quickly discredited everywhere, with the happy result noted by a contemporary historian, that _now_ "a duel in England would seem as absurd and barbarous as an ordeal by touch or a witch-burning." Militarism, that mischievous counterfeit of true soldierly spirit, could not thrive where the duel was discountenanced; and the friends of peace might rejoice with reason. But those peaceful agitators, the sagacious, energetic Cobden and his allies, resented rather sharply the interference of the Lord Ashley of that day with the "natural laws" of the labour market--laws to whose operation some of the party attributed the cruelly excessive hours of work in factories, and the indiscriminate employment of all kinds of labour, even that of the merest infants. Undeterred by these objections, convinced that no law which sanctioned and promoted cruelty did so with true authority, Lord Ashley persisted in the struggle on which he had entered 1833; in 1842 he scored his first great success in the passing of an Act that put an end to the employment of women and children in mines and collieries; in 1844 the Government carried their Factories Act, which lessened and limited the hours of children's factory labour, and made other provisions for their benefit. It was not all that he had striven for, but it was much; he accepted the compromise, but did not slacken in his efforts still further to improve the condition of the children. His career of steady benevolence far outstretched this early period of battle and endurance; but already his example and achievement were fruitful of good, and his fellow-labourers were numerous. Nothing succeeds like success: people had sneered at the mania for futile legislation that possessed the "humanity-monger" who so embarrassed party leaders with his crusade on behalf of mere mercy and justice; they now approved the practical philanthropist who had taken away a great reproach from his nation, and glorified the age in which they lived because of its special humaneness, while they exulted not less in the brightening prospects of the country. Sedition overcome, law and order triumphant, the throne standing firm, prosperity returning--all ministered to pride and hope. In 1850 there had been some painful incidents; the death by an unhappy accident of Sir Robert Peel, and the turbulent excitement of what are known as the "No Popery" disturbances, being the most notable: and of these again incomparably the most important was the untimely loss to the country of the great and honest statesman who might otherwise have rendered still more conspicuous services to the Sovereign and the empire. The sudden violent outburst of popular feeling, provoked by a piece of rash assumption on the part of the reigning Pope, was significant, indeed, as evidencing how little alteration the "Catholic revival" had worked in the temper of the nation at large; otherwise its historic importance is small. At the time, however, the current of agitation ran strongly, and swept into immediate oblivion an event which three years before would have had a European importance--the 'death of Louis Philippe, whose strangely chequered life came to an end in the old palace of Claremont, just before the "papal aggressions"--rash, impolitic, and mischievous, as competent observers pronounced it, but powerless to injure English Protestantism--had thrown all the country into a ferment, which took some months to subside. We are told that Her Majesty, though naturally interested by this affair, was more alive to the quarter where the real peril lay than were some of her subjects; but in the universal distress caused by the death of Peel none joined more truly, none deplored that loss more deeply, than the Sovereign, who would willingly have shown her value for the true servant she had lost by conferring a peerage on his widow--an honour which Lady Peel, faithful to the wishes and sharing the feeling of her husband, felt it necessary to decline. [Illustration: Earl of Derby.] Amid these agitations, inferior far to many that had preceded them, the year 1850 ran out, and 1851 opened--the year in which Prince Albert's long-pursued project of a great International Exhibition of Arts and Industries was at last successfully carried out. The idea, as expounded by himself at a banquet given by the Lord Mayor, was large and noble. "It was to give the world a true test, a living picture, of the point of industrial development at which the whole of mankind had arrived, and a new starting-point from which all nations would be able to direct their further exertions." The magnificent success, unflawed by any vexatious or dangerous incident, with which the idea was carried out, had made it almost impossible for us to understand the opposition with which the plan was greeted, the ridicule that was heaped upon it, the foolish fears which it inspired; while the many similar Exhibitions in this and other countries that have followed and emulated, but never altogether equalled, the first, have made us somewhat oblivious of the fact that the scheme when first propounded was an absolute novelty. It was a fascination, a wonder, a delight; it aroused enthusiasm that will never be rekindled on a like occasion. Paxton's fairy palace of glass and iron, erected in Hyde Park, and canopying in its glittering spaces the untouched, majestic elms of that national pleasure-ground as well as the varied treasures of industrial and artistic achievement brought from every quarter of the globe, divided the charmed astonishment of foreign spectators with the absolute orderliness of the myriads who thronged it and crowded all its approaches on the great opening day. Perhaps on that day the Queen touched the summit of her rare happiness. It was the 1st of May--her own month--and the birthday of her youngest son, the godchild and namesake of the great Duke. She stood, the most justly popular and beloved of living monarchy, amid thousands of her rejoicing subjects, encompassed with loving friends and happy children, at the side of the beloved husband whose plan was now triumphantly realised; and she spoke the words which inaugurated that triumph and invited the world to gaze on it. "The sight was magical," she says, "so vast, so glorious, so touching...God bless my dearest Albert! God bless my dearest country, which has shown itself so great to-day! One felt so grateful to the great God, Who seemed to pervade all and to bless all. The only event it in the slightest degree reminded me of was the coronation, but this day's festival was a thousand times superior. In fact, it is unique, and can bear no comparison, from its peculiar beauty and combination of such striking and different objects. I mean the slight resemblance only as to its solemnity; the enthusiasm and cheering, too, were much more touching, for in a church naturally all is silent." The Exhibition remained open from the 1st of May to the 11th of October, continuing during all those months to attract many thousands of visitors. It had charmed the world by the splendid embodiment of peace and peaceful industries which it presented, and men willingly took this festival as a sign bespeaking a yet longer reign of world-tranquillity. It proved to be only a sort of rainbow, shining in the black front of approaching tempest. When 1854 opened, the third year from the Exhibition year, we were already committed to war with Russia; and the forty years' peace with Europe, finally won at Waterloo, was over and gone. [Illustration: Duke of Wellington.] In the interval another great spirit had passed away. The Duke of Wellington died, very quietly and with little warning, at Walmer Castle, on the 14th of September, 1852, "full of years and honours." He was in his eighty-fourth year, and during the whole reign of Queen Victoria he had occupied such a position as no English subject had ever held before. At one time, before that reign began, his political action had made him extraordinarily unpopular, in despite of the splendid military services which no one could deny; now he was the very idol of the nation, and at the same time was treated with the utmost respect and reverent affection by the Sovereign--two distinctions how seldom either attained or merited by one person! But in Wellington's case there is no doubt that the popular adoration and the royal regard were worthily bestowed and well earned. He had never seemed stirred by the popular odium, he never seemed to prize the popular praise, which he received; it was not for praise that he had worked, but for simple duty; and his experience of the fickleness of public favour might make him something scornful of it. To the honours which his Sovereign delighted to shower on him--honours perhaps never before bestowed on a subject by a monarch--he _was_ sensitive. The Queen to him was the noblest personification of the country whose good had ever been, not only the first, but the only object of his public action: and with this patriotic loyalty there mingled something of a personal feeling, more akin to romance in its paternal tenderness than seemed consistent with the granite-hewn strength and sternness of his general character. A thorough soldier, with a soldier's contempt for fine-spun diplomacy, he had been led into many a blunder when acting as a chief of party and of State; but his absolute single-minded honesty had more than redeemed such errors; "integrity and uprightness had preserved him," and through him the land and its rulers, amid difficulties where the finest statecraft might have made shipwreck of all. He had his human failings; yet the moral grandeur of his whole career cast such faults into the shade, and justified entirely the universal grief at his not untimely death. The Queen deplored him as "our immortal hero"--a servant of the Crown "devoted, loyal, and faithful" beyond all example; the nation endeavoured by a funeral of unprecedented sumptuousness to show its sense of loss; the poet laureate devoted to his memory a majestic Ode, hardly surpassed by any in the language for its stately, mournful music, and finely faithful in its characterisation of the dead hero-- "The man of long-enduring blood, The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, Whole in himself, a common good;... ...The man of amplest influence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime, Our greatest yet with least pretence, Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving common-sense. And, as the greatest only are. In his simplicity sublime;... Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, Nor paltered with Eternal God for power; Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow Through either babbling world of high and low; Whose life was work, whose language rife With rugged maxims hewn from life; Who never spoke against a foe; Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke All great self-seekers trampling on the right: Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named; Truth-lover was our English Duke; Whatever record leap to light He never shall be shamed." When, within so short a period after Wellington's death, the nation once more found itself drawn into a European war, there were many whose regret for his removal was quickened into greater keenness. "Had we but the Duke to lead our armies!" was the common cry; but even _his_ military genius might have found itself disastrously fettered, had he occupied the position which his ancient subordinate and comrade, Lord Raglan, was made to assume. It may be doubted if Wellington could have been induced to assume it. Whether there ever would have been a Crimean war if no special friendliness had existed between France and England may be fair matter for speculation. The quarrel issuing in that war was indeed begun by France; but it would have been difficult for England to take no part in it. The apple of discord was supplied by a long-standing dispute between the Greek and Latin Churches as to the Holy Places situated in Palestine--a dispute in which France posed as the champion of the Latin and Russia of the Greek right to the guardianship of the various shrines. The claim of France was based on a treaty between Francis I and the then Sultan, and related to the Holy Places merely; the Russian claim, founded on a treaty between Turkey and Catherine II, was far wider, and embraced a protectorate over all Christians of the Greek Church in Turkey, and therefore over a great majority of the Sultan's European subjects. Such a construction of the treaty in question, however, had always been refused by England whenever Russia had stated it; and its assertion at this moment bore an ominous aspect in conjunction with the views which the reigning Czar Nicholas had made very plain to English statesmen, both when he visited England in 1844 and subsequently to that visit. To use his own well-known phrase, he regarded Turkey as "a sick man"--a death-doomed man, indeed--and hoped to be the sick man's principal heir. He had confidently reckoned on English co-operation when the Turkish empire should at last be dismembered; he was now to find, not only that co-operation would be withheld, but that strong opposition would be offered to the execution of the plan, for which it had seemed that a favourable moment was presenting itself. The delusion under which he had acted was one that should have been dispelled by plain English speech long before; but now that he found it to be a delusion, he did not recede from his demands upon the Porte: he rather multiplied them. The upshot of all this was war, in spite of protracted diplomatic endeavours to the contrary; and into that war French and English went side by side. Once before they had done so, when Philip Augustus and Richard Coeur de Lion united their forces to wrest the Holy Places from the Saracens; that enterprise had been disgraced by particularly ugly scandals from which this was free; but in respect to glory of generalship, or permanent results secured, the Crimean campaign has little pre-eminence over the Fourth Crusade. Recent disclosures, which have shown that Lord Aberdeen's Ministry was not rightly reproached with "drifting" idly and recklessly into this disastrous contest, have also helped to clear the English commander's memory from the slur of inefficiency so liberally flung on him at the time, while it has been shown that his action was seriously hampered by the French generals with whom he had to co-operate. From whatever cause, such glory as was gained in the Crimea belongs more to the rank and file of the allied armies than to those highest in command. The first success won on the heights of the Alma was not followed up; the Charge of the Six Hundred, which has made memorable for ever the Russian repulse at Balaklava, was a splendid mistake, valuable chiefly for the spirit-stirring example it has bequeathed to future generations of English soldiers, for its illustration of death-defying, disciplined courage; the great fight at Inkerman was only converted from a calamitous surprise into a victory by sheer obstinate valour, not by able strategy; and the operations that after Lord Raglan's death brought the unreasonably protracted siege of Sebastopol to a close did but evince afresh how grand were the soldierly qualities of both French and English, and how indifferently they were generalled. If the allies came out of the conflict with no great glory, they had such satisfaction as could be derived from the severer losses and the discomfiture at all points of the foe. The disasters of the war had been fatal to the Czar Nicholas, who died on March 2nd, 1855, from pulmonary apoplexy--an attack to which he had laid himself open, it was said, in melancholy recklessness of his health. His was a striking personality, which had much more impressed English imaginations than that of Czar or Czarina since the time of Peter the Great; and the Queen herself had regarded the autocrat, whose great power made him so lonely, with an interest not untouched with compassion at the remote period when he had visited her Court and had talked with her statesmen about the imminent decay of Turkey. At that time the austere majesty of his aspect, seen amid the finer and softer lineaments of British courtiers, had been likened to the half-savage grandeur of an emperor of old Rome who should have been born a Thracian peasant. It proved that the contrast had gone much deeper than outward appearance, and that his views and principles had been as opposed to those of the English leaders, and as impossible of participation by such men as though he had been an imperfectly civilised contemporary of Constantine the Great. Since then he had succeeded in making himself more heartily hated, by the bulk of the English nation, than any sovereign since Napoleon I; for the war, into which the Government had entered reluctantly, was regarded by the people with great enthusiasm, and the foe was proportionately detested. Many anticipated that the death of the Czar would herald in a triumphant peace; but in point of fact, peace was not signed until the March of 1856. Its terms satisfied the diplomatists both of France and England; they would probably have been less complacent could they have foreseen the day when this hard-won treaty would be torn up by the Power they seemed to be binding hand and foot with sworn obligations of perdurable toughness; least of all would that foresight have been agreeable to Lord Palmerston, Premier of England when the peace was signed, and quite at one with the mass of the people of England in their deep dislike and distrust of Russia and its rulers. The political advantages which can be clearly traced to this war are not many. Privateers are no longer allowed to prey on the commerce of belligerent nations, and neutral commerce in all articles not contraband of war must be respected, while no blockade must be regarded unless efficiently and thoroughly maintained. Such were the principles with which the plenipotentiaries who signed the Treaty of Paris in 1856 enriched the code of international law; and these principles, which are in force still, alone remain of the advantages supposed to have been secured by all the misery and all the expenditure of the Crimean enterprise. [Illustration: Florence Nightingale.] But other benefits, not of a political nature, arose out of the hideous mismanagement which had disgraced the earlier stages of the war. It is a very lamentable fact that of the 24,000 good Englishmen who left their bones in the Crimea, scarce 5,000 had fallen in fair fight or died of wounds received therein. Bad and deficient food, insufficient shelter and clothing, utter disorganisation and confusion in the hospital department, accounted for the rest. These evils, when exposed in the English newspapers, called forth a cry of shame and wrath from all the nation, and stirred noble men and women into the endeavour to mitigate at least the sufferings of the unhappy wounded. Miss Florence Nightingale, the daughter of a wealthy English gentleman, was known to take a deep and well-informed interest in hospital management; and this lady was induced to superintend personally the nursing of the wounded in our military hospitals in the East. Entrusted with plenary powers over the nurses, and accompanied by a trained staff of lady assistants, she went out to wrestle with and overcome the crying evils which too truly existed, and which were the despair of the army doctors. Her success in this noble work, magnificently complete as it was, did indeed "multiply the good," as Sidney Herbert had foretold: we may hope it will continue so to multiply it "to all time." The horrors of war have been mitigated to an incalculable extent by the exertions of the noble men and women who, following in the path first trodden by the Crimean heroines, formed the Geneva Convention, and have borne the Red Cross, its most sacred badge, on many a bloody field, in many a scene of terrible suffering--suffering touched with gleams of human pity and human gratitude; for the courageous tenderness of many a soft-handed and lion-hearted nursing sister, since the days of Florence Nightingale, has aroused the same half-adoring thankfulness which made helpless soldiers turn to kiss that lady's shadow, thrown by her lamp on the hospital wall. The horrors thus mitigated have become more than ever repugnant to the educated perception of Christendom, because of the merciful devotion which, ever toiling to lessen them, keeps them before the world's eye. In every great war that has shaken the civilised world since the strife in the Crimea broke out, the ambulance, its patients, its attendants, have always been in the foreground of the picture. Never have the inseparable miseries of warfare been so well understood and so widely realised, thanks in part to that new literary force of the Victorian age, the _war correspondent_, and chiefly, perhaps, to the new position henceforth assumed by the military medical and hospital service. To the same source we may fairly attribute the great improvements wrought in the whole conduct of that distinctively Christian charity, unknown to heathenism, the hospital system: the opening of a new field of usefulness to educated and devoted women of good position, as nurses in hospitals and out; and the vast increase of public interest in and public support of such agencies. Even the Female Medical Mission, now rising into such importance in the jealous lands of the East, may be traced not very indirectly to the same cause. The Queen, whose enthusiasm for her beloved army and navy was very earnest, and frankly shown, who had suffered with their sufferings and exulted in their exploits, followed with a keen, personal, unfaltering interest the efforts made for their relief. "Tell these poor, noble wounded and sick men that _no one_ takes a warmer interest, or feels more for their sufferings, or admires their courage and heroism more than their Queen. So does the Prince," was the impulsive, heart-warm message which Her Majesty sent for transmission through Miss Nightingale to her soldier-patients. Her deeds proved that these words were words of truth. Not content with subscribing largely to the fund raised on behalf of those left orphaned and widowed by the war, she took part in the work of providing fitting clothing for the men exposed to all the terrors of a Russian winter; and her daughters, enlisted to aid in this pious work, began that career of beneficence which two of them were to pursue afterwards to such good purpose, amid the ravages of wars whose colossal awfulness dwarfed the Crimean campaign in the memories of men. Many of the injured being invalided home while the war was in progress, Her Majesty embraced the opportunity to testify her sympathy and admiration, giving to them in public with her own hands the medals for service rendered at Alma, at Balaklava, and at Inkerman. It would not be easy to say whether the Sovereign or the soldiers were more deeply moved on this occasion. Conspicuous among the maimed and feeble heroes was the gallant young Sir Thomas Troubridge, who, lamed in both feet by a Russian shot at Inkerman, had remained at his post, giving his orders, while the fight endured, since there was none to fill his place. He appeared now, crippled for life, but declared himself "amply repaid for everything," while the Queen decorated him, and told him he should be one of her aides-de-camp. Her own high courage and resolute sense of duty moved her with special sympathy for heroism like this; and she obeyed the natural dictates of her heart in conspicuously rewarding it. With a similar impulse, on the return of the army, she made a welcoming visit to the sick and wounded at Chatham, and testified the liveliest appreciation of the humane services of Miss Nightingale, to whom a jewel specially designed by the Prince was presented, in grateful recognition of her inestimable work. The new decoration of the Victoria Cross, given "for valour" conspicuously shown in deeds of self-devotion in war time, further proved how keenly the Queen and her consort appreciated soldierly virtue. It was the Prince who first proposed that such a badge of merit should be introduced, the Queen who warmly accepted the idea, and in person bestowed the Cross on its first wearers, thereby giving it an unpurchasable value. CHAPTER V. INDIA. Lord Aberdeen, who did not hope very great things from the war which had initiated during his Ministry, had yet deemed it possible that Eastern Europe might reap from it the benefit of a quarter of a century's peace. He was curiously near the mark in this estimate; but neither he nor any other English statesman was unwary enough to risk such a prophecy as to the general tranquillity of the Continent. In fact, the peace of Europe, broken in 1853, has been unstable enough ever since, and from time to time tremendous wars have shaken it. Into none of these, however, has Great Britain been again entrapped, though the sympathies of its people have often been warmly enlisted on this side and that. A war with China, which began in 1857, and cannot be said to have ended till 1860, though in the interim a treaty was signed which secured just a year's cessation of hostilities, was the most important undertaking in which the allied forces of France and England took part after the Crimea. In this war the allies were victorious, as at that date any European Power was tolerably certain to be in a serious contest with China. The closing act of the conflict--the destruction of the Summer Palace at Pekin, in retaliation for the treacherous murder of several French and English prisoners of distinction--was severely blamed at the time, but defended on the ground that only in this way could any effectual punishment of the offence be obtained. That act of vengeance and the war which it closed have an interest of their own in connection with the late General Gordon, who now entered on that course of extraordinary achievement which lacks a parallel in this century, and which began, in the interests of Chinese civilisation, shortly after he had taken a subordinate officer's part in the work of destruction at Pekin. From this date England did not commit itself to any of the singular series of enterprises which our good ally, the French Emperor, set on foot. A feeling of distrust towards that potentate was invading the minds of the very Englishmen who had most cordially hailed his successes and met his advances. "The Emperor's mind is as full of schemes as a warren is full of rabbits, and, like rabbits, his schemes go to ground for the moment to avoid notice or antagonism," were the strong words of Lord Palmerston in a confidential letter of 1860; and when he could thus think and write, small wonder if calmer and more unprejudiced minds saw need for standing on their guard. Amid all the flattering demonstrations of friendship of which the French court had been lavish, and which had been gracefully reciprocated by English royality, the Prince Consort had retained an undisturbed perception of much that was not quite satisfactory in the qualifications of the despotic chief of the French State for his difficult post. Thus it is without surprise that we find the Queen writing in 1859, as to a plan suggested by the Emperor: "The whole scheme is the often-attempted one, that England should take the chestnuts from the fire, and assume the responsibility of making proposals which, if they lead to war, we should be in honour bound to support by arms." The Emperor had once said of Louis Philippe, that he had fallen "because he was not sincere with England"; it looked now as though he were steering full on the same rock, for his own sincerity was flawed by dangerous reservations. England remained an interested spectator, but a spectator only, while the French ruler played that curiously calculated game of his, which did so much towards insuring the independence of Italy and its consolidation into one free monarchy. It was no disinterested game, as the cession of Nice and Savoy to France by Piedmont would alone have proved. It was daring to the point of rashness; for as a French general of high rank said, there needed but the slightest check to the French arms, and "it was all up with the dynasty!" Yet the "idea" which furnished the professed motive for the Emperor's warlike action was one dear to English sympathies, and many an English heart rejoiced in the solid good secured for Italy, though without our national co-operation. There was a proud compensating satisfaction in the knowledge that, when a crisis of unexampled and terrible importance had come in our own affairs, England had perforce dealt with it single-handed and with supreme success. Those who can remember the fearful summer of 1857 can hardly recall its wild events without some recurrence of the thrill of horror that ran through the land, as week after week the Indian news of mutiny and massacre reached us. It was a surprise to the country at large, more than to the authorities, who were informed already that a spirit of disaffection had been at work among our native troops in Bengal, and that there was good reason to believe in the existence of a conspiracy for sapping the allegiance of these troops. Later events have left little doubt that such a conspiracy did exist, and that its aim was the total subversion of British power. Our advance in Hindostan had been rapid, the changes following on it many, and not always such as the Oriental mind could understand or approve. Early in the reign, in 1847, an energetic Governor-General, Lord Dalhousie, went out to India, who introduced railways, telegraphs, and cheap postage, set on foot a system of native education, and vigorously fought the ancient iniquities of suttee, thuggee, and child-murder. Perhaps his aggressive energy worked too fast, too fierily; perhaps his peremptory reforms, not less than his high-handed annexations of the Punjaub, Oude, and other native States, awakened suspicion in the mind of the Hindoo, bound as he was by the immemorial fetters of caste, and dreading with a shuddering horror innovations that might interfere with its distinctions; for to lose caste was to be outlawed among men and accursed in the sight of God. [Illustration: Lord Canning.] Lord Canning, the successor of Lord Dalhousie, entered on his governor-generalship at a moment full of "unsuspected peril"; for the disaffected in Hindostan had so misread the signs of the times as to believe that England's sun was stooping towards its setting, and that the hour had come in which a successful blow could be struck, against the foreign domination of a people alien in faith as in blood from Mohammedan and Buddhist and Brahmin, and apt to treat all alike with the scorn of superiority. A trivial incident, which was held no trifle by the distrustful Sepoys, proved to be the spark that kindled a vast explosion. The cartridges supplied for use with the Enfield rifle, introduced into India in 1856, were greased; and the end would have to be bitten off when the cartridge was used. A report was busily circulated among the troops that the grease used was cow's fat and hog's lard, and that these substances were employed in pursuance of a deep-laid design to deprive every soldier of his caste by compelling him to taste these defiling things. Such compulsion would hardly have been less odious to a Mussulman than to a Hindoo; for swineflesh is abominable to the one, and the cow a sacred animal to the other. Whoever devised this falsehood intended to imply a subtle intention on the part of England to overthrow the native religions, which it was hoped the maddened soldiery would rise to resist. The mischief worked as was desired. In vain the obnoxious cartridges were withdrawn from use; in vain the Governor-General issued a proclamation warning the army of Bengal against the falsehoods that were being circulated. Mysterious signals, little cakes of unleavened bread called _chupatties_, were being distributed, as the spring of 1857 went on, throughout the native villages under British rule, doing the office of the _Fiery Cross_ among the Scotch Highlanders of an earlier day; and in May the great Mutiny broke out. Some of the Bengal cavalry at Meerut had been imprisoned for refusing to use their cartridges; their comrades rose in rebellion, fired on their officers, released the prisoners, and murdered some Europeans. The British troops rallied and repulsed the mutineers, who fled to Delhi, unhappily reached it in safety, and required and obtained the protection of the feeble old King, the last of the Moguls, there residing. Him they proclaimed their Emperor, and avowed the intention of restoring his dynasty to its ancient supremacy. The native troops in the city and its environs at once prepared to join them; and thus from a mere mutiny, such as had occurred once and again before, the rising assumed the character of a vast revolutionary war. For a moment it seemed that our hard-won supremacy in the East was disappearing in a sea of blood. The foe were numerous, fanatical, and ruthless; we ourselves had trained and disciplined them for war; the sympathies of their countrymen were very largely with them. Yet, with incredible effort and heroism more than mortal, the small and scattered forces of England again snatched the mastery from the hands of the overwhelming numbers arrayed against them. [Illustration: Sir Colin Campbell.] One name has obtained an immortality of infamy in connection with this struggle--that of the Nana Sahib, who by his hideous treachery at Cawnpore took revenge on confiding Englishmen and women for certain wrongs inflicted on him in regard to the inheritance of his adopted father by the last Governor-General. But many other names have been crowned with deathless honour, the just reward of unsurpassed achievement, of supreme fidelity and valour, at a crisis under which feeble natures would have fainted and fallen. Of these are Lord Canning himself, the noble brothers John and Henry Lawrence, the Generals Havelock, Outram, and Campbell, and others whom space forbids us even to name. The Governor-General remained calm, resolute, and intrepid amidst the panic and the rage which shook Calcutta when the first appalling news of the Mutiny broke upon it. He disdained the cruel counsels of fear, and steadily refused to confound the innocent with the guilty among the natives; but he knew where to strike, and when, and how. On his own responsibility he stayed the British troops on their way to the scene of war in China, and made them serve the graver, more immediate need of India, doing it with the concurrence of Lord Elgin, the envoy responsible for the Chinese business; and he poured his forces on Delhi, the heart of the insurrection, resolving to make an end of it there before ever reinforcement direct from England could come. After a difficult and terrible siege, the place was carried by storm on September 20th, 1857--an achievement that cost many noble lives, and chief among them that of the gallant Nicholson, a soldier whose mind and character seem to have made on all who knew him an impression as of supernatural grandeur. Five days later General Havelock and his little band of heroes--some one thousand Englishmen who had marched with him from Allahabad, recaptured by Neill for England, and on to ghastly Cawnpore--arrived at Lucknow, and relieved the slender British force which since May had been holding the Residency against the fierce and ever-renewed assaults of the thousands of rebels who poured themselves upon it. He came in time to save many a brave life that should yet do good service; but the noblest Englishman of them all, the gentle, dauntless, chivalrous Sir Henry Lawrence, Governor of Oude, had died from wounds inflicted by a rebel shell many weeks before, and lay buried in the stronghold for whose safe keeping he had continued to provide in the hour and article of death. His spirit, however, seemed yet to actuate the survivors. Havelock's march had been one succession of victories won against enormous odds, and half miraculous; but even he could work no miracle, and his troops might merely have shared a tragic fate with the long-tried defenders of Lucknow, but for the timely arrival of Sir Colin Campbell with five thousand men more, to relieve in his turn the relieving force and place all the Europeans in Lucknow in real safety. The news was received in England with a delight that was mingled with mourning for the heroic and saintly Havelock, who sank and died on November 24th. A soldier whose military genius had passed unrecognised and almost unemployed while men far his inferiors were high in command, he had so more than profited by the opportunity for doing good service when it came, that in a few months his name had become one of the dearest in every English home, a glory and a joy for ever. It is rarely that a career so obscured by adverse fortune through all its course blazes into such sunset splendour just at the last hour of life's day. [Illustration: Henry Havelock.] Those months which made the fame of Havelock had been filled with crime and horror. The first reports of Sepoy outrages which circulated in England were undoubtedly exaggerated, but enough remains of sickening truth as to the cruelties endured by English women and children at the hand of the mutineers to account for the fury which filled the breasts of their avenging countrymen, and seemed to lend them supernatural strength and courage, and, alas! in some instances, to merge that courage in ferocity. Delhi had been deeply guilty, when the mutineers seized it, in respect of inhuman outrage on the helpless non-combatants; but the story of Cawnpore is darker yet, and is still after all these years fresh in our memories. A peculiar blackness of iniquity clings about it. That show of amity with which the Nana Sahib responded to the summons of Sir Hugh Wheeler, the hard-pressed commanding officer in the city, only that he might act against him; those false promises by which the little garrison, unconquerable by any force, was beguiled to give itself up to mere butchery; the long captivity of the few scores of women and children who survived the general slaughter, only, after many dreary days of painful suspense, to be murdered in their prison-house as Havelock drew near the gates of Cawnpore: all these circumstances of especial horror made men regard their chief instigator rather as one of the lower fiends masquerading in human guise than as a fellow-creature moved by any motives common to men. It was perhaps well for the fair fame of Englishmen that the Nana never fell into their hands, but saved himself by flight before the soldiers of Havelock had looked into the slaughter-house all strewn with relics of his victims and grimly marked with signs of murder, or had gazed shuddering at the dreadful well choked up with the corpses of their countrywomen. It required more than common courage, justice, and humanity, to withstand the wild demand for mere indiscriminating revenge which these things called forth. Happily those highest in power did possess these rare qualities. Lord Canning earned for himself the nickname of "Clemency Canning" by his perfect resoluteness to hold the balance of justice even, and unweighted by the mad passion of the hour. Sir John (afterwards Lord) Lawrence, the Chief Commissioner of the Punjaub, who, with his able subordinates, had saved that province at the very outset, and thereby in truth saved India, was equally firm in mercy and in justice. The Queen herself, who had very early appreciated the gravity of the situation and promoted to the extent of her power the speedy sending of aid and reinforcement from England, thoroughly endorsed the wise and clement policy of the Governor-General. Replying to a letter of Lord Canning's which deplored "the rabid and indiscriminate vindictiveness abroad," Her Majesty wrote these words, which we will give ourselves the pleasure to quote entire:-- [Illustration: Sir John Lawrence.] "Lord Canning will easily believe how entirely the Queen shares his feelings of sorrow and indignation at the unchristian spirit, shown, alas! also to a great extent here by the public, towards Indians in general, and towards Sepoys _without discrimination!_ It is, however, not likely to last, and comes from the horror produced by the unspeakable atrocities perpetrated against the innocent women and children, which make one's blood run cold and one's heart bleed! For the perpetrators of these awful horrors no punishment can be severe enough; and sad as it is, _stern_ justice must be dealt out to all the guilty. "But to the nation at large, to the peaceable inhabitants, to the many kind and friendly natives who have assisted us, sheltered the fugitive, and been faithful and true, there should be shown the greatest kindness. They should know that there is no hatred to a brown skin--none; but the greatest wish on their Queen's part to see them happy, contented, and flourishing." These words well became the sovereign who, by serious and cogent argument, had succeeded in inducing her Ministers to strike strongly and quickly on the side of law and order, they having been at first inclined to adopt a "step-by-step" policy as to sending out aid, which would not have been very grateful to the hard-pressed authorities in India; while the Queen and the Prince shared Lord Canning's opinion, that "nothing but a long continued manifestation of England's might before the eyes of the whole Indian empire, evinced by the presence of such an English force as should make the thought of opposition hopeless, would re-establish confidence in her strength." The necessary manifestation of strength was made; the reputation of England--so rudely shaken, not only in the opinion of ignorant Hindoos, but in that of her European rivals--was re-established fully, and indeed gained by the power she had shown to cope with an unparalleled emergency. The counsels of vengeance were set aside, in spite of the obloquy which for a time was heaped on the true wisdom which rejected them. We did not "dethrone Christ to set up Moloch"; had we been guilty of that sanguinary folly, England and India might yet be ruing that year's doing. On the contrary, certain changes which did ensue in direct consequence of the Mutiny were productive of undoubted good. It was recognised that the "fiction of rule by a trading company" in India must now be swept away; one of the very earliest effects of the outbreak had been to open men's eyes to the weak and sore places of that system. In 1858 an "Act for the better Government of India" was passed, which transferred to Her Majesty all the territories formerly governed by the East India Company, and provided that all the powers it had once wielded should now be exercised in her name, and that its military and naval forces should henceforth be deemed her forces. The new Secretary of State for India, with an assistant council of fifteen members, was entrusted with the care of Indian interests here; the Viceroy, or Governor-General, also assisted by a council, was to be supreme in India itself. The first viceroy who represented the majesty of England to the Queen's Indian subjects was the statesman who had safely steered us through the imminent, deadly peril of the Mutiny, and whom right feeling and sound policy alike designated as the only fit wearer of this honour. Under the new regime race and class prejudices have softened, education is spreading swiftly, native oppression is becoming more difficult, as improved communications bring the light of day into the remoter districts of the immense peninsula. The public mind of England has never quite relapsed into its former scornful indifference to the welfare of India; rather, that welfare has been regarded with much keener interest, and the nation has become increasingly alive to its duty with regard to that mighty dependency, now one in allegiance with ourselves. There was much of happy omen in the reception accorded by loyal Hindoos to the Queen's proclamation when it reached them in 1858. While the mass of the people gladly hailed the rule of the "Empress," by whom they believed the Company "had been hanged for great offences," there were individuals who were intelligent enough to recognise with delight that noble character of "humanity, mercy, and justice," which was impressed by the Queen's own agency on the proclamation issued in her name. We may say that the joy with which such persons accepted the new reign has been justified by events, and that the same great principles have continued to guide all Her Majesty's own action with regard to India, and also that of her ablest representatives there. We may not leave out of account, in reckoning the loss and gain of that tremendous year, the extraordinary examples of heroism called forth by its trials, which have made our annals richer, and have set the ideal of English nobleness higher. The amazing achievements and the swiftly following death of the gallant Havelock did not indeed eclipse in men's minds the equal patriotism and success of his noble fellows, but the tragic completeness of his story and the antique grandeur of his character made him specially dear to his countrymen; and the fact that he was already in his grave while the Queen and Parliament were busy in assigning to him the honours and rewards which his sixty years of life had hitherto lacked, added something like remorse to the national feeling for him. But the heart of the people swelled high with a worthy pride as we dwelt on his name and those of the Lawrences, the Neills, the Outrams, the Campbells, and felt that all our heroes had not died with Wellington. Other anxieties and misfortunes had not been lacking while the fate of British India still hung in the balance. The attitude of some European Powers, whom the breaking forth of the Mutiny had encouraged in the idea that England's power was waning, was full of menace, especially in view of what the Prince Consort justly called "our pitiable state of unpreparedness" for resisting attack. Prompted by him, the Queen caused close inquiry to be made into the state of our home defences and of the navy--the first step towards remedying the deficiencies therein existing. Also a "cold wave" seemed to be passing over the commercial community in England; the year 1857 being marked by very great financial depression, which affected more or less every department of our industries. In connection with this calamity, however, there was at least one hopeful feature: the very different temper which the working classes, then, as always, the greatest sufferers by such depression, manifested in the time of trial. They showed themselves patient and loyal, able to understand that their employers too had evils to endure and difficulties to surmount; they no longer held all who were their superiors in station for their natural enemies: a happy change, testifying to the good worked by the new, beneficent spirit of legislation and reform. It is under the date of this year that we find Mr. Greville, on the authority of Lord Clarendon, thus describing the very thorough and "eminently useful" manner in which the Queen, assisted by the Prince, was exercising her high functions:-- "She held each Minister to the discharge of his duty and his responsibility to her, and constantly desired to be furnished with accurate and detailed information about all important matters, keeping a record of all the reports that were made to her, and constantly referring to them; _e.g._, she would desire to know what the state of the navy was, and what ships were in readiness for active service, and generally the state of each, ordering returns to be submitted to her from all the arsenals and dockyards, and again, weeks or months afterwards, referring to these returns, and desiring to have everything relating to them explained and accounted for, and so throughout every department....This is what none of her predecessors ever did, and it is, in fact, the act of Prince Albert." We turn from this picture of the Sovereign's habitual occupations to her public life, and we find it never more full of apparently absorbing excitements--splendid hospitalities exchanged with other Powers, especially with Imperial France, alternating with messages of encouragement, full of cordiality and grace, to her successful commander-in-chief in India, Sir Colin Campbell, with plans for the conspicuous rewarding of the Indian heroes at large, with public visits to various great English towns, and with preparations for the impending marriage of the Princess Royal; and we realise forcibly that even in those sunny days, when the Queen was surrounded with her unbroken family of nine blooming and promising children, and still had at her right hand the invaluable counsellor by whose aid England was governed with a wisdom and energy all but unprecedented, her position was so far from a sinecure that no subject who had his daily bread to gain by his wits could have worked much harder. CHAPTER VI. THE BEGINNINGS OF SORROWS. [Illustration: Windsor Castle.] IT has been the Queen's good fortune to see her own true-love match happily repeated in the marriages of her children. One would almost say that the conspicuous success of that union, the blessing that it brought with it to the nation, had set a new fashion to royalty. There is quite a romantic charm about the first marriage which broke the royal home-circle of England--that of the Queen's eldest child and namesake, Victoria, Princess Royal, with Prince Frederick William, eldest son of the then Prince of Prussia, whose exaltation to the imperial throne of Germany lay dimly and afar--if not altogether undreamed of by some prophetic spirits--in the future. The bride and bridegroom had first met, when the youth was but nineteen and the maiden only ten, at the great Peace Festival, the opening of the first Exhibition. Already the charming grace and rare intelligence of the Princess had attracted attention; and it is on record that at this early period some inkling of a possible attraction between the two had entered one observer's mind, who also notes that the young Prince, greatly interested by all he saw of free England and its rulers, was above all taken with the "perfect domestic happiness which he found pervading the heart, and core, and focus of the greatest empire in the world." Four years later the Prince was again visiting England, a guest of the royal family in its Scottish retreat of Balmoral, where they had just been celebrating with beacon fires and Highland mirth and music the glad news of the fall of Sebastopol. He had the full consent of his own family for his wooing, but the parents of his lady would have had him keep silence at least till the fifteen-year-old maiden should be confirmed. The ease and unconstraint of that mountain home-life, however, were not very favourable to reserve and reticence; a spray of white heather, offered and received as the national emblem of good fortune, was made the flower symbol of something more, and words were spoken that effectually bound the two young hearts, though the formal betrothal was deferred until some time after the Princess, in the following March, had received the rite of Confirmation; and "the actual marriage," said the Prince Consort, "cannot be thought of till the seventeenth birthday is past." "The secret must be kept _tant bien que mal_," he had written, well knowing that it would be a good deal of an open secret. [Illustration: Prince Frederick William.] [Illustration: Princess Royal.] The engagement was publicly announced in May, 1857, and though, when first rumoured, it had been coldly looked on by the English public, now it was accepted with great cordiality. The Prince was openly associated with the royal family; he and his future bride appeared as sponsors at the christening of our youngest Princess, Beatrice; he rode with the Prince Consort beside the Queen when she made the first distribution of the Victoria Cross, and was a prominent and heartily welcomed member of the royal group which visited the Art Treasures Exhibition of Manchester. The marriage, which was in preparation all through the grim days of 1857, was celebrated with due splendour on January 25th, 1858, and awakened a universal interest which was not even surpassed when, five years later, the heir to the throne was wedded. "Down to the humblest cottage," said the Prince Consort, "the marriage has been regarded as a family affair." And not only this splendid and entirely successful match, but every joy or woe that has befallen the highest family in the land, has been felt as "a family affair" by thousands of the lowly. This is the peculiar glory of the present reign. [Illustration: Charles Kingsley. _From a Photograph by_ Elliott & Fry.] Happy and auspicious as this marriage was, it was nevertheless the first interruption to the pure home bliss that hitherto had filled "the heart of the greatest empire in the world." The Princess Royal, with her "man's head and child's heart," had been the dear companion of the father whose fine qualities she inherited, and had largely shared in his great thoughts. Nor was she less dear to her mother, who had sedulously watched over the "darling flower," admiring and approving her "touching and delightful" filial worship of the Prince Consort, and who followed with longing affection every movement of the dear child now removed from her sheltering care, and making her own way and place in a new world. There she has indeed proved herself, as she pledged herself to do, "worthy to be her mother's child," following her parents in the path of true philanthropy and gentle human care for the suffering and the lowly. So far the ancient prophecy has been well fulfilled which promised good fortune to Prussia and its rulers when the heir of the reigning house should wed a princess from sea-girt Britain. But the wedding so propitious for Germany seemed almost the beginning of sorrows for English royalty. Other betrothals and marriages of the princes and princesses ensued; but the still lamented death of the Prince Consort intervened before one of those betrothals culminated in marriage. Another event which may be called domestic belongs to the year following this marriage--the coming of age of the Prince of Wales, fixed, according to English use and wont, when the heir of the crown completes his eighteenth year. Every educational advantage that wisdom or tenderness could suggest had been secured for the Prince. We may note in passing that one of his instructors was the Rev. Charles Kingsley, whom Prince Albert had engaged to deliver a series of lectures on history to his son. This honour, as well as that of his appointment as one of Her Majesty's chaplains, was largely due to royal recognition of the practical Christianity, so contagious in its fervour, which distinguished Mr. Kingsley, not less than his great gifts; of his eagerness "to help in lifting the great masses of the people out of the slough of ignorance and all its attendant suffering and vice"--an object peculiarly dear to the Queen and to the Prince, as had been consistently shown on every opportunity. When the time came that the youth so carefully trained should be emancipated from parental control, it was announced to him by the Queen in a letter characterised by Mr. Greville or his informant as "one of the most admirable ever penned. She tells him," continues the diarist, "that he may have thought the rule they adopted for his education a severe one, but that his welfare was their only object; and well knowing to what seductions of flattery he would eventually be exposed, they wished to prepare and strengthen his mind against them; that he was now to consider himself his own master, and that they should never intrude any advice upon him, although always ready to give it him whenever he thought fit to seek it. It was a very long letter, all in that tone; and it seems to have made a profound impression on the Prince.... The effect it produced is a proof of the wisdom that dictated its composition." We have chosen this as a true typical instance of the blended prudence and tenderness that have marked the relations between our Sovereign and her children. Aware what a power for good or evil the characters of those children must have on the fortunes of very many others, she and her husband sedulously surrounded them with every happy and healthy influence, never forgetting the supreme need of due employment for their energies. "Without a vocation," said the Prince Consort, "man is incapable of complete development and real happiness": his sons have all had their vocation. It was the same period, marked by these domestic passages of mingled joy and sorrow, that became memorable in another way, through the various troublous incidents which gave an extraordinary impetus to our national Volunteer movement, which were not remotely connected with the War of Italian Independence, and for a short time overthrew the popular Ministry of Lord Palmerston, who was replaced in office by Lord Derby. The futile plot of Felice Orsini, an Italian exile and patriot, against the life of Louis Napoleon, provoked great anger among the Imperialists of France against England, the former asylum of Orsini. A series of violent addresses from the French army, denouncing Great Britain as a mere harbour of assassins, did but give a more exaggerated form to the representations of French diplomacy, urging the amendment of our law, which appeared incompetent to touch murderous conspirators within our borders so long as their plots regarded only foreign Powers. The tone of France was deemed insolent and threatening; Lord Palmerston, who, in apparent deference to it, introduced a rather inefficient measure against conspiracy to murder, fell at once to the nadir of unpopularity, and soon had no choice but to resign; and the Volunteer movement in England--which had been begun in 1852, owing to the sinister changes that then took place in the French Government--now at once assumed the much more important character it has never since lost. The immense popularity of this movement and its rapid spread formed a significant reply to the insensate calls for vengeance on England which had risen from the French army, and which seemed worthy of attention in view of the vast increase now made in the naval strength of France, and of other preparations indicating that the Emperor meditated a great military enterprise. That enterprise proved to be the war with Austria which did so much for Italy, and which some observers were disposed to connect with the plot of Orsini--a rough reminder to the Emperor, they said, that he was trifling with the cause of Italian unity, to which he was secretly pledged. But Englishmen were slow to believe in such designs on the part of the French ruler. "How should a despot set men free?" was their thought, interpreted for them vigorously enough by an anonymous poet of the day; and they enrolled themselves in great numbers for national defence. With this movement there might be some evils mixed, but its purely defensive and manly character entitles it on the whole to be reckoned among the better influences of the day. [Illustration: Lord Palmerston.] Palmerston's discredit with his countrymen was of short duration, as was his exile from office; he was Premier again in the June of 1859, and was thenceforth "Prime Minister for life." His popularity, which had been for some time increasing, remained now quite unshaken until his death in 1865. Before Lord Derby's Government fell, however, a reform had been carried which could not but have been extremely grateful to Mr. Disraeli, then the Ministerial leader of the House of Commons. The last trace of the disabilities under which the Jews in England had laboured for many generations was now removed, and the Baron Lionel de Rothschild was able quietly to take his seat as one of the members for the City of London. The disabilities in question had never interfered with the ambition or the success of Mr. Disraeli, who at a very early age had become a member of the Christian Church. But his sympathies had never been alienated from the own people, with whom indeed he had always proudly identified himself by bold assertion of their manifold superiority. There are still, undoubtedly, persons in this country whose convictions lead them to think it anything but a wholesome change which has admitted among our legislators men, however able and worthy, who disclaim the name of _Christian_. But the change was brought about by the conviction, which has steadily deepened among us, that oppression of those of a different faith from our own, either by direct severities or by the withholding of civil rights, is a singularly poor weapon of conversion, and that the adversaries of Christianity are more likely to be conciliated by being dealt with in a Christlike spirit; further, that religious opinion may not be treated as a crime, without violation of God's justice. On the point as to the claim of _irreligious_ opinion to similar consideration, the national feeling cannot be called equally unanimous. In the case of the English Jews, it may be said that the tolerant and equal conduct adopted towards them has been well requited; the ancient people of God are not here, as in lands where they are trampled and trodden down, an offence and a trouble, the cause of repeated violent disturbance and the object of a frenzied hate, always deeply hurtful to those who entertain it. Other changes and other incidents that now occurred engrossed a greater share of the public attention than this measure of relief. The rapid march of events in Italy had been watched with eager interest, divided partly by certain ugly outbreaks of Turkish fanaticism in Syria, and by our proceedings in the Ionian islands, which finally resulted in the quiet transfer of those isles to the kingdom of Greece. The commercial treaty with France effected, through the agency of Mr. Cobden, on Free Trade lines, and Mr. Gladstone's memorable success in carrying the repeal of the paper duty, and thereby immensely facilitating journalistic enterprise, were hailed with great delight as beneficial and truly progressive measures. But events of a more gigantic character now took place, which at the moment affected our prosperity more directly than any fiscal reform, and appealed more powerfully to us than the savagery of our Turkish _protégés_ or even than the union of Italy under Victor Emmanuel into one free and friendly State. The long-smouldering dissensions between the Northern and Southern States of the American Union at last broke into flame, and war was declared between them, in 1861. The burning question of slavery was undoubtedly at the bottom of this contest, which has been truly described as a struggle for life between the "peculiar institution" and the principles of modern society. The nobler and more enthusiastic spirits in the Northern States beheld in it a strife between Michael and Satan, the Spirit of Darkness hurling himself against the Spirit of Light in a vain and presumptuous hope to overpower him; and their irritation was great when an eminent English man of letters was found describing it scornfully as "the burning of a dirty chimney," and when English opinion, speaking through very many journalists and public men, appeared half hostile to the Northern cause. Indeed, it might have been thought that opinion in England--England, which at a great cost had freed its own slaves, and which had never ceased by word and deed to attack slavery and the slave-trade--would not have faltered for a moment as to the party it would favour, but would have declared itself massively against the slave-holding South. But the contest at its outset was made to wear so doubtful an aspect that it was possible, unhappily possible, for many Englishmen of distinction to close their eyes to the great evils championed by the Southern troops. The war was not avowedly made by the North for the suppression of slavery, but to prevent the Southern States from withdrawing themselves from the Union: the Southerners on their side claimed a constitutional right so to withdraw if it pleased them, and denounced the attempt to retain them forcibly as a tyranny. [Illustration: Abraham Lincoln and his son.] This false colouring at first given to the contest had mischievous results. English feeling was embittered by the great distress in our manufacturing districts, directly caused up the action of the Northern States in blockading the Southern ports, and thus cutting off our supply of raw material in the shape of cotton. On its side the North, which had calculated securely on English sympathy and respect, and was profoundly irritated by the many displays of a contrary feeling; and the exasperation on both sides more than once reached a point which made war appear almost inevitable--a war above all others to be deprecated. First came the affair of the _Trent_--the English mail-steamer from which two Southern envoys were carried off by an American naval commander, in contempt of the protection of the British flag. The action was technically illegal, and on the demand of the English Government its illegality was acknowledged, and the captives were restored; but the warlike and threatening tone of England on this occasion was bitterly resented at the North, and this resentment was greatly increased when it became known that various armed cruisers, in particular the notorious _Alabama_, designed to prey on the Northern commerce, were being built and fitted by English shipbuilders in English dockyards under the direction of the Southern foe, while the English Government could not decide if it were legally competent for Her Majesty's Ministers to interfere and detain such vessels. The tardy action at last taken just prevented the breaking out of hostilities. Out of these unfortunate transactions a certain good was to ensue at a date not far distant, when, after the restoration of peace, America and England, disputing as to the compensation due from one to the other for injuries sustained in this matter, gave to the world the great example of two nations submitting a point so grave to peaceful arbitration, instead of calling in the sword to make an end of it--an example more nearly pointing to the possible extinction of war than any other event of the world's history. Yet another hopeful feature may be noted in connection with this time of trouble. While the Secession war lasted, "the cotton famine" had full sway in Lancashire; unwonted and unwelcome light and stillness replaced the dun clouds of smoke and the busy hum that used to tell of fruitful, well-paid industry; and the patient people, haggard and pale but sadly submissive, were kept, and just kept, from starving by the incessant charitable effort of their countrymen. Never had the attitude of the suffering working classes shown such genuine nobility; they understood that the calamity which lay heavy on them was not brought about by the careless and selfish tyranny of their worldly superiors, but came in the order of God's providence; and their conduct at this crisis proved that an immense advance had been made in kindliness between class and class, and in true intelligence and appreciation of the difficulties proper to each. It was significant of this new temper that when at last peace returned, bringing some gleam of returning prosperity, the workers, who greeted with joyful tears the first bales of cotton that arrived, fell on their knees around the hopeful things and sang hymns of thanksgiving to the Author of all good. Such were the fruits of that new policy of care and consideration for the toilers and the lowly which had increasingly marked the new epoch, and which had been sedulously promoted by the Queen, in association with her large-thoughted and well-judging husband. It was in the midst of the troubles which we have just attempted to recall that a new and greater calamity came upon us, affecting the royal family indeed with the sharpest distress, but hardly less felt, even at the moment, by the nation. The year 1861 had already been darkened for Her Majesty by the death in the month of March, of her mother, the Duchess of Kent, to whose wise guardianship of the Queen's youth the nation owed so much, and who had ever commanded the faithful affection of this her youngest but greatest child, and of all her descendants. This death was the first stroke of real personal calamity to the Queen; it was destined to be followed by another bereavement, even severer in its nature, before the year had closed. The Prince Consort's health, though generally good, was not robust, and signs had not been wanting that his incessant toils were beginning to tell upon him. There had been illnesses, transitory indeed, but too significant of "overwork of brain and body." In addition to personal griefs, such as the death of the Duchess of Kent and of a beloved young Coburg prince and kinsman, the King of Portugal, which had been severely felt, there were the unhappy complications arising out of "the affair of the _Trent_," which the Prince's statesmanlike wisdom had helped to bring to a peaceful and honourable conclusion. That wisdom, unhappily, was no longer at the service of England when a series of negligences and ignorances on the part of England's statesmen had landed us in the _Alabama_ difficulty. All these agitations had told upon a frame which was rather harmoniously and finely than vigorously constituted. "If I had an illness," he had been known to say, "I am sure I should not struggle for life. I have no tenacity of life." And in the November of 1861 an illness came against which he was not able to struggle, but which took all the country by surprise when, on December 14th, it terminated in death. Very many had hardly been aware that there was danger until the midnight tolling of the great bell of St. Paul's startled men with an instant foreboding of disaster. _What_ disaster it was that was thus knelled forth they knew not, and could hardly believe the tidings when given in articulate words. At first it had been said, the Prince had a feverish cold; presently the bulletin announced "fever, unattended with unfavourable symptoms." It was gastric fever, and before long there _were_ unfavourable symptoms--pallid changes in the aspect, hurried breathing, wandering senses--all noted with heart-breaking anxiety by the loving nurses, the Queen and Princess Alice--the daughter so tender and beloved, the "dear little wife," the "good little wife," whose ministerings were so comfortable to the sufferer overwearied with the great burden of life. He was released from it at ten minutes to eleven on the night of Saturday, December 14th; and there fell on her to whom his last conscious look had been turned, his last caress given, a burden of woe almost unspeakable, and for which the heart of the nation throbbed with well-nigh unbearable sympathy. Seldom has the personal grief of a sovereign been so keenly shared by subjects. Indeed, they had cause to lament; the removal of the Prince Consort, just when his faculties seemed ripest and his influence most assured, left a blank in the councils of the nation which has never been filled up. "We have buried our _king_" said Mr. Disraeli, regretting profoundly this national loss; but for once the English people forgot the public deprivation in compassionating her who was left more conspicuously lonely, more heavily burdened, than even the poor bereaved colliers' wives in the North for whom _her_ compassion was so quick and so sharply sympathetic. Something remorseful mingled then, and may mingle now, with the affection felt for this lost benefactor, who had not only been somewhat jealously eyed by certain classes on his first coming, but who had suffered much silently from misunderstanding and also from deliberate misrepresentation, and only by patient continuance in well-doing had at last won the favour which was his rightful due. "That which we have we prize not to the worth While we enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours." A peculiar tenderness was ever after cherished for Princess Alice, who in this dark hour rose up to be her mother's comforter, endeavouring in every way possible to save her all trouble--"all communications from the Ministers and household passed through the Princess's hands to the Queen, then bowed down with grief.... It was the very intimate intercourse with the sorrowing Queen at that time which called forth in Princess Alice that keen interest and understanding in politics for which she was afterwards so distinguished. The gay, bright girl suddenly developed into a wise, far-seeing woman, living only for others." [Illustration: Princess Alice.] This ministering angel in the house of mourning had been already betrothed, with her parents' full approval, to Prince Louis of Hesse; and to him she was married on July 1st, 1862, at Osborne, very quietly, as befitted the mournful circumstance of the royal family. Many a heartfelt wish for her happiness followed "England's England-loving daughter" to her foreign home, where she led a beautiful, useful life, treading in her father's footsteps, and continually cherished by the love of her mother; and the peculiarly touching manner of her death, a sort of martyrdom to sweet domestic affections, again stirred the heart of her own people to mournful admiration. A cottager's wife might have died as Princess Alice died, through breathing in the poison of diphtheria as she hung, a constant, loving nurse, over the pillows of her suffering husband and children. This beautiful _homeliness_ that has marked the lives of our Sovereign and her children has been of inestimable value, raising simple human virtues to their proper pre-eminence before the eyes of the English people of to-day, who are very materially, if often unconsciously, swayed by the example set them in high places. In the May after Prince Consort's death the second International Exhibition was opened, amid sad memories of the first, so joyful in every way, and a certain sense of discouragement because the golden days of universal peace seemed farther off than ten years before. "Is the goal so far away? Far, how far no tongue can say; Let us dream our dream to-day." Far indeed it seemed, with the fratricidal contest raging in America, and shutting out all contributions to this World's Fair from the United States. [Illustration: The Mausoleum.] The Queen had betaken herself that May to her Highland home, whose joy seemed dead, and where her melancholy pleased itself in the erection of a memorial cairn to the Prince on Craig Lorigan, after she had returned from Princess Alice's wedding. But in May she had sent for Dr. Norman Macleod, who was not only distinguished as one of her own chaplains, but was also a friend already endeared to the Prince and herself; and she found comfort in the counsels of that faithful minister and loyal man, who has left some slight record of her words. "She said she never shut her eyes to trials, but liked to look them in the face; she would never shrink from duty, but all was at present done mechanically; her highest ideas of purity and love were obtained from the Prince, and God could not be displeased with her love.... There was nothing morbid in her grief.... She said that the Prince always believed he was to die soon, and that he often told her that he had never any fear of death." It seemed that in this persuasion the Prince had made haste to live up to the duties of his difficult station to the very utmost, and "being made perfect in a short time fulfilled a long time [Footnote]." [Footnote: Inscription on the cairn on Craig Lorigan.] "The more I learn about the Prince Consort," continues Dr. Macleod, "the more I agree with what the Queen said to me about him: 'that he really did not seem to comprehend a selfish character, or what selfishness was.' And on whatever day his public life is revealed to the world, I feel certain this will be recognised." [Illustration: Dr. Norman Macleod.] The Queen, by revealing to the world, with a kind of holy boldness, what the Prince's public and private life was, has justified this confidence of her faithful friend. Early in 1863, Dr. Macleod was led by the Queen into the mausoleum she had caused to be raised for her husband's last resting-place. Calm and quiet she stood and looked on the beautiful sculptured image of him she had lost: having "that within which passeth show," her grief was tranquil. "She is so true, so genuine, I wonder not at her sorrow; it but expresses the greatest loss that a sovereign and wife could sustain," said the deeply moved spectator. An event was close at hand which was to mingle a little joy in the bitter cup so long pressed to our Sovereign's lips. The Prince of Wales had formed an attachment to the Princess Alexandra of Denmark, a singularly winning and lovely lady, whose popularity, ever since her sweet face first shone on the surging crowds that shouted her welcome into London, has seemed always at flood-tide. Faithful to her experience and convictions, the Queen smiled gladly on the marriage of affection between this gentle princess and the heir to the throne, and was present as a spectator, though still wearing her sombre weeds, at the splendid show of her son's wedding on March 10th, 1863. "Two things have struck me much," writes Dr. Macleod, from whose Journal we again quote: "one was the whole of the royal princesses weeping, though concealing their tears with their bouquets, as they saw their brother, who was to them but their 'Bertie' and their dear father's son, standing alone waiting for his bride. The other was the Queen's expression as she raised her eyes to heaven while her husband's _Chorale_ was sung. She seemed to be with him alone before the throne of God." [Illustration: Prince of Wales. _From a Photograph by W. & D. Downey, Ebury Street, W._] "No possible favour can the Queen grant me, or honour bestow," said the manly writer of these words, "beyond what the poor can give the poor--her friendship." It is rarely that one sitting amid "the fierce light that beats upon the throne" has been able to enjoy the simple bliss of true, disinterested friendship with those of kindred soul but inferior station. Such rare fortune, however, has been the Queen's; and it is worthy of note that her special regard has been won by persons distinguished not less by loftiness and purity of character than by mental power or personal charm. She has not escaped the frequent penalty of strong affection, that of being bereaved of its objects. She has outlived earlier and later friends alike--Lady Augusta Stanley and her husband, the beloved Dean of Westminster; the good and beautiful Duchess of Sutherland; the two eminent Scotchmen, Principal Tulloch and Dr. Macleod himself; and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Tait, with his charming wife. To these might be added, among the more eminent objects of her regard, the late poet laureate, who shared with Macaulay the once unique privilege of having been raised to the peerage more for transcendent ability than for any other motive--a distinction that never would have been so bestowed by our early Hanoverian kings, and which offers a marked contrast to the sort of patronage with which later sovereigns have distinguished the great writers of their time. A new spirit rules now; of this no better evidence could be given than this recently published testimony to the relations between Queen and poet: "Mrs. Tennyson told us that the poet laureate likes and admires the Queen personally very much, and enjoys conversation with her. Mrs. Tennyson generally goes too, and says the Queen's manner towards him is childlike and charming, and they both give their opinions freely, even when those differ from the Queen's, which she takes with perfect good humour, and is very animated herself [Footnote]." [Footnote: "Anne Gilchrist: her Life and Writings." London: 1887.] [Illustration: Princess of Wales. _From a Photograph by Walery._] CHAPTER VII. CHANGES GOOD AND EVIL. With the death of Lord Palmerston in 1865, a sort of truce in the strife of parties, which his supremacy had secured, came to an end. That supremacy had been imperilled for a moment when the Government declined to make an armed intervention in the struggle between Denmark and the German Powers in 1864. Such an intervention would have been very popular with the English people, who could hardly know that "all Germany would rise as one man" to repel it if it were risked. But the English Premier's rare command of his audience in Parliament enabled him to overcome even this difficulty; and the gigantic series of contests on the Continent which resulted in the consolidation of the German empire, the complete liberation of Italy, the overthrow of Imperialism in France and of the temporal power of the Pope even in Rome itself, went on its way without our interference also, which would hardly have been the case had we intermeddled in the ill-understood contention between Denmark and its adversaries as to the Schleswig-Holstein succession. [Illustration: Sir Robert Napier.] That strange crime, the murder of President Lincoln, in America just when the long contest between North and South had ended and the cause of true freedom had triumphed, was actually fruitful of good as regarded this country and the United States. A cry of horror went up from all England at the news of that "most accursed assassination," which seemed at the moment to brand the losing cause, whose partisan was guilty of it, with the very mark of Cain. Expressions of sympathy with the outraged country and of admiring regret for its murdered head were lavished by every respectable organ of opinion; while the Queen, by writing in personal sympathy, as one widow to another, to the bereaved wife of Lincoln, made herself, as she has often done, the mouthpiece of her people's best feeling. Again and again has it been manifested that America and England are in more cordial relations with each other since the tremendous civil war than before it. It is no matter of statecraft, but a better understanding between two great English-speaking peoples, drawn into closer fellowship by far more easy communication than of old. A little war with Ashantee, not too successful, a difficulty with Japan, some more serious troubles with New Zealand, exhaust the list of the warlike enterprises of England in the last years of Palmerston. In a year or two after his death we were engaged in a brief and entirely successful campaign against the barbaric King Theodore of Abyssinia, "a compound of savage virtue and more than savage ambition and cruelty," who, imagining himself wronged and slighted by England, had seized a number of British subjects, held them in hard captivity, and treated them with such capricious cruelty as made it very manifest that their lives were not worth an hour's purchase. It fell to the Ministry of Mr. Disraeli, Premier on the resignation of his colleague Lord Derby, who had displaced Earl Russell in that office, to bring this strange potentate to reason by force of arms. Under Sir Robert Napier's management the work was done with remarkable precision; no English life was lost; and but few of our soldiers were wounded; Magdala, the mountain eyrie of King Theodore, was stormed and destroyed, and the captives, having been surrendered under dread of the British arms, were restored to freedom and safety. The honour of our land, imperilled by the oppression of our subjects was triumphantly vindicated; other good was not achieved. Theodore, unwilling to survive defeat, was found dead by his own hand when Magdala was carried, and he was afterwards succeeded on the Abyssinian throne by a chief who had more than all his predecessor's vices and none of his virtues. For this well-managed campaign Sir Robert Napier was raised to the peerage as Lord Napier of Magdala. The swift success, the brilliant promptitude, of his achievement are almost painful to recall to-day, in face of another enterprise for the rescue of a British subject, conducted by a commander not less able and resolute, at the head of troops as daring and as enthusiastic, which was turned into a conspicuous failure by unhappy delayings on the part of the civil authorities, in the fatal winter of 1884-5. [Illustration: Mr. Gladstone.] Turning our eyes from foreign matters to the internal affairs of the United Kingdom, we see two great leaders, Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone--whose "long Parliamentary duel" had begun early in the fifties of this century--outbidding each other by turns for the public favour, and each in his different way ministering to the popular craving for reform. With Mr. Disraeli's first appearance as leader of the house of Commons, this rivalry entered on its most noticeable stage; it only really ceased with the life of the brilliant, versatile, and daring _litterateur_ and statesman who died as Earl Beaconsfield, not very long after his last tenure of office expired in 1880. In 1867 Mr. Disraeli, as Leader of the Lower House, carried a measure for the reform of the franchise in England, and the year following similar measures with regard to Ireland and Scotland. In 1869 it was Mr. Gladstone's turn, and he introduced and carried two remarkable Bills--one for the disestablishment of the Irish Church, and one for the amendment of land tenure in Ireland, the latter passing into law in August, 1870. It had long been felt as a bitter grievance by the mass of Irishmen that the Church established in their country should be one which did not command the allegiance of one-sixth of its people and though opinion in England was sharply divided as to the question of Irish disestablishment, the majority of Englishmen undoubtedly considered the grievance to be something more than a sentimental one, and deserving of removal. Another startling measure of reform was the abolition of purchase in the army, carried in the face of a reluctant House of Lords by means of a sudden exercise of royal prerogative under advice of the Government; the Premier announcing "that as the system of purchase was the creation of royal regulation, he had advised the Queen to take the decisive step of cancelling the royal warrant which made purchase legal"--a step which, however singular, was undoubtedly legal, as was proved by abundant evidence. A measure which may not improbably prove to have affected the fortunes of this country more extensively than any of those already enumerated was the Education Bill introduced by Mr. Forster in 1870, and designed to secure public elementary education for even the humblest classes throughout England and Wales. Hitherto the teaching of the destitute poor had been largely left to private charity or piety, and in the crowded towns it had been much neglected, with the great exception of the work done in Ragged Schools--those gallant efforts made by unpaid Christian zeal to cope with the multitudinous ignorance and misery of our overgrown cities. It was very slowly that the national conscience was aroused to the peril and sin of allowing the masses to grow up in heathen ignorance; but at last the English State shook off its sluggish indifference to the instruction of its poor, and became as active as it had been supine. Mr. Forster's Bill is the measure which indicates this turning of the tide. We do not propose now to discuss the provisions of this Act, which were sharply canvassed at the time, and which certainly have not worked without friction; but we may say that the stimulus then given to educational activity, if judged by subsequent results, must be acknowledged to have been advantageous. The system of schools under the charge of various religious bodies, which existed before the Education Act, has not been superseded; that indeed would have been a deep misfortune, for it is more needed than ever; the masses of the population have been, to an appreciable extent, reached and instructed; and we shall not much err in connecting as cause and effect the wider instruction with the diminution of pauperism and crime which the statistics of recent years reveal. The same member who honoured himself and benefited his country by this great effort to promote the advance of the "angel Knowledge" also introduced, in 1871, the Ballot Bill, designed to do away with all the violence and corruption that had long disgraced Parliamentary elections in this free land, and that showed no symptom of a tendency to reform themselves. The new system of secret voting which was now adopted has required, it is true, to be further purified by the recent Corrupt Practices Bill and its stringent provisions; but no one, whose memory is long enough to recall the tumultuous and discreditable scenes attendant on elections under the old system, will be inclined to deny that much that was flagrantly disgraceful as well as dishonest has been swept away by the reforming energy of our own day. It is to the same period, made memorable by these internal reforms, that we have to refer the final settlement of the long-standing controversy between Great Britain and the United States as to the _Alabama_ claims. We have already referred to these claims and the peaceful though very costly manner of their adjustment. That the award on the whole should go against us was not very grateful to the English people; but when the natural irritation of the hour had time to subside, the substantial justice of the decision was little disputed. While England was thus busied in strengthening her walls and making straight her ways, her great neighbour and rival was passing through a very furnace of misery. The colossal-seeming Empire, whose head was rather of strangely mingled Corinthian metal than of fine gold, and whose iron feet were mixed with miry clay, was tottering to its overthrow, and fell in the wild days of 1870 with a world-awakening crash. Again it was a dispute concerning the throne of Spain which precipitated the fall of a French sovereign. It would seem as if interference with the affairs of its Southern neighbour was ever to be ominous of evil to France. The first great Napoleon had had to rue such interference; it had been disastrous to Louis Philippe; now Louis Napoleon, making the candidature of Leopold of Hohenzollern for the Spanish crown a pretext for war with Prussia, forced on the strife which was to dethrone himself, to cast down his dynasty, and to despoil France of two fair provinces, Alsace and Lorraine, once taken from Germany, now reconquered for United Germany. With that strife, which resulted in the exaltation of the Prussian King, our Princess Royal's father-in-law, as German Emperor, England had absolutely nothing to do, except to pity the fallen and help the suffering as far as in her lay; but it awakened profoundest interest, especially while the long siege of Paris dragged on through the hard winter of 1870-71; hardly yet is the interest of the subject exhausted. A certain fleeting effect was produced in England by the erection of a New Republic in France in place of the fallen Empire, while the family of the defeated ruler--rejected by his realm more for lack of success than for his bad government--escaped to the safety of this country from the angry hatred of their own. A few people here began to talk republicanism in public, and to commend the "logical superiority" of that mode of government, oblivious of the fact that practical Britain prefers a system, however illogical, that actually works well, to the most beautifully reasoned but untested paper theory. But the wild excesses of the Commune in Paris, outdoing in horror the sufferings of the siege, quickly produced the same effect here that was wrought in the last century by the French Reign of Terror, and English republicanism relapsed into the dormant state from which it had only just awakened. The dangerous illness that attacked the Prince of Wales in the last days of 1871, calling forth such keen anxiety throughout the land that it seemed as if thousands of families had a son lying in imminent peril of death, showed at once that the nation was yet loyal to the core. True prayers were everywhere offered up in sympathy with the mother, the sister, the wife, who watched at the bedside of the heir to the throne; and when, on the very anniversary of the Prince Consort's death, the life that had seemed ebbing away turned to flow upward again; a sort of sob of relief rose from the heart of the people, who rejoiced to be able, at a later day, to share with their Queen her solemn act of thanksgiving for mercy shown, as she went with her restored son, her son's wife, and her son's sons, to worship and give praise in the great cathedral of St. Paul's. Princess Alice, who had shared and softened the grief of her mother ten years before, had been again at her side during all the protracted anxiety of this winter, and had helped to nurse her brother. The Princess's experience of nursing had been terribly increased during the awful wars, when she had been incessantly busied in hospital organisation and work, suffering from the sight of suffering as a sensitive nature must, but ever toiling to lighten it; and she had come with her children to recover a little strength in her mother's Highland home. Thus it was that she was found at Sandringham when her brother's illness declared itself, "fulfilling the same priceless offices" of affection as in her maiden days, and endearing herself the more to the English people, who grieved for her when, in the ensuing year, a mournful accident robbed her of one darling child, and who felt it like a personal domestic loss when in 1878 the beautiful life ended. Other royal marriages have from time to time awakened public interest, and one, celebrated between the Princess Louise and the Marquis of Lorne, heir of the dukedom of Argyll, had just preceded the illness of the Prince and was regarded with much more attention because no British subject since the days of George II's legislation as to royal alliances had been deemed worthy of such honour. But not even the more outwardly splendid match between the Queen's sailor son, Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, and the daughter of the Czar Alexander, could eclipse in popularity the quiet marriage, overclouded with sorrow, and the tranquil, hard-working life of the good and gifted lady who was to die the martyr of her true motherly and wifely devotion. [Illustration: Lord Beaconsfield.] [Illustration: Lord Salisbury.] From these glimpses of the joys and troubles affecting the household that is cherished in the heart of England, we return to the more stormy records of our public doings. A sort of link between the two exists in the long and very successful tour which the Prince of Wales, some time after his restoration to health, made of the vast Indian dominions of the crown. Extensive travels and wide acquaintance with the great world to which Britain is bound by a thousand ties have entered largely into the royal scheme of education for the future King. No princes of England in former days have seen so much of other lands as the sons of Queen Victoria; and this particular journey is understood to have had an excellent political effect. Mr. Gladstone's five years' lease of power, which had been signalised by so many important changes, came to an end in 1874, just before the time when Sir Garnet Wolseley, sent to bring the savage King of Ashantee to reason, returned successful to England, having snatched a complete victory "out of the very jaws of approaching sun and fever" on the pestilent West Coast of Africa in the early days of 1874. The last Ministry of Mr. Disraeli, who now assumed office, was marked by several noticeable events: the proclamation of the Queen as "Empress of India," in formal definite recognition of the new relation between little England and the gigantic, many-peopled realm which through strange adventure has come directly under our Sovereign's sway; the Russo-Turkish war, following on the evil doings in Turkey known as the "Bulgarian atrocities," and terminating in a peace signed at Berlin, with which the English Premier, now known as Lord Beaconsfield, had very much to do; and the acquisition by England of the 176,000 shares in the Suez Canal originally held by the Khedive of Egypt--a transaction to which France, also largely interested in the Canal, was a consenting party. To this period belong the distressful Afghan and Zulu wars, the latter unhappily memorable by the tragic fate that befell the young son of Louis Napoleon, a volunteer serving with the English army. Deep sympathy was felt for his imperial mother, widowed since 1873, and now bereaved of her only child; and by none was her sorrow more keenly realised than by the Queen, who herself had to mourn the loss of the beloved Princess Alice, the first of her children to follow her father into the silent land. The death of the Prince Louis Napoleon at the hands of savage Zulus was severely felt by the still strong Bonapartism of France; but Englishmen, remembering the early melancholy death of the heir of the first Napoleon, were struck by the fatal coincidence, while they could honestly deplore the premature extinction of so much youth, gallantry, and hope-fulness, cast away in our own ill-starred quarrel. An agitation distinctly humanitarian and domestic had been going on during the early years of this Ministry, which resulted in the passing of the Merchant Shipping Bill, intended to remedy the many wrongs to which our merchant seamen were subject, a measure almost entirely procured by the fervent human sympathy and resoluteness of one member of Parliament, Samuel Plimsoll; and other measures belonging to this period, and designed to benefit the toilers of the land principally, were initiated by the energy of the Home Secretary, Mr. Cross. But neither the imposing foreign action of Lord Beaconsfield's Government, nor the domestic improvements wrought during its period of power, could maintain it in public favour. There was great and growing distress in the country; depression of trade, severe winters, sunless summers, all produced suffering, and suffering discontent. An appeal to the country, made in the spring of 1880, shifted the Parliamentary majority from the Conservative to the Liberal side. Lord Beaconsfield resigned, and Mr. Gladstone returned to power. The history of the Gladstone Ministry does not come well within the scope of this work. Certain very memorable events must be touched upon; there are dark chapters of our national story, stains and blots on our great name, which force themselves upon us. But to follow the Government through its years of struggle with the ever-growing bulk of Irish difficulty, and to track it through its various enactments designed still further to improve the condition of the English people, would require a small volume to itself. England still remembers the thrill, half fury, half anguish, which ran through her at the tidings that the new Chief Secretary for Ireland, charged with a message of peace and conciliation, had been stabbed to death within twenty-four hours of his landing on that unhappy shore. She cannot forego the deep instinctive feeling--so generally manifested at the time of Lincoln's murder--that the lawless spilling of life for any cause dishonours and discredits that cause; nor have various subsequent efforts made to terrorise public opinion here been differently judged. But it was a far more cruel shock that was inflicted through the series of ill-advised proceedings that brought about the great disaster of Khartoum. Before we deal with these, we must glance at the African and Afghan troubles, again breaking out and again quieted, the first by a peace with the Boers of the Transvaal that awakened violent discussion not yet at an end, and the second, after some successes of the British arms, by a judicious arrangement designed to secure the neutrality of Afghanistan, interposed by nature as a strong, all but insurmountable, barrier between India and Central Asia. These transactions, the theme of sharp contention at the time, were cast into the shade by events in which we were concerned in Egypt, our newly acquired interests in the Suez Canal making that country far more important to us than of yore. Its condition was very wretched, its government at once feeble and oppressive, and, despite the joint influence which France and England had acquired in Egyptian councils, an armed rebellion broke out, under the leadership of Arabi Pasha. France declining to act in this emergency, the troops and fleet of England put down this revolt single-handed; and in their successes the Queen's third son, Arthur, Duke of Connaught, took his part, under the orders of Sir Garnet (afterwards Lord) Wolseley. There were again rejoicings in Balmoral, where the Queen, with her soldierly son's young wife beside her, was preparing to receive another bride--Princess Helen of Waldeck, just wedded to our youngest Prince, Leopold, Duke of Albany. But this gleam of brightness was destined to be followed by darker disaster far than that which seemed averted for the moment. A mightier rebellion was arising in the Soudan, a vast tract of country annexed by the ambition of Ismail, the former Khedive of Egypt, to be ill governed by his officials and ravaged by the slave-trade. These evils were checked for a few years by the strong hand of Charles George Gordon, already famous through his achievements in China, and invested with unlimited power by Ismail; but, that potentate being overthrown, the great Englishman left his thankless post, no longer tenable by him. Then it seemed that chaos had come again; and a bold and keen, though probably hypocritical, dervish, self-styled the _Mahdi_, or Mohammedan Messiah, was able to kindle new flames of revolt, which burned with the quenchless fury of Oriental fanaticism. His Arab and negro soldiers made short work of the poor Egyptian fellaheen sent to fight them, though these were under the command of Englishmen. The army led by Hicks Pasha utterly vanished in the deserts, as that of Cambyses did of old. The army under Baker Pasha did not, indeed, disappear in the same mysterious manner, but it too was routed with great slaughter. The English Government, willing to avoid the vast task of crushing the revolt, had counselled the abandonment of the Soudan, and the Khedive's Ministers reluctantly acquiesced. But there were Egyptian garrisons scattered throughout the Soudan which must not be abandoned with the country. Above all, there was Khartoum, an important town at the junction of the Blue and the White Nile, with a large European settlement and an Egyptian garrison, all in pressing danger, loyal as yet, but full of just apprehension. These troops, these officials, these women and children, who only occupied their perilous position through the action of the Khedive's Government, had a right to protection--a right acknowledged by Her Majesty's Ministers; but they wished to avoid hostilities. General Graham, left in command on the Red Sea littoral, was allowed to take action against the Mahdi's lieutenant who was threatening Suakim, and who was driven back with heavy loss; but he might not follow up the victory. [Illustration: General Gordon.] The English Government hoped to withdraw the garrisons in safety, without force of arms. They had been for some time urging on the Khedive that the marvellous influence which Gordon was known to have acquired in his old province should now be utilised, and that to _him_ should be entrusted the herculean task of tranquillising the Soudan, by reinstating its ancient dynasties of tribal chiefs and withdrawing all Egyptian and European troops and officials. Their plan was at last accepted; then Gordon, hitherto unacquainted, like the public at large, with the Government designs, was informed of them and invited to carry them out. He consented; and, with the chivalric promptitude which essentially belonged to his character, he departed the same night on his perilous errand. Passing through Cairo, he received plenary powers from the Khedive, and went on almost alone to Khartoum, where he was received with an overflowing enthusiasm. But, with all his eager haste, he was too late to bring about the desired results by peaceful means. "He should have come a year ago," muttered his native well-wishers. Week after week and month after month, his position in Khartoum became more perilous; the Mahdi's power waxed greater, and his hordes drew round the city, which long defied them, while garrison after garrison fell into their hands elsewhere. It was in vain that General Gordon urged the despatch of British troops, a few hundred of whom would at one time have sufficed to turn the tide, and insure success in his enterprise. They were still withheld; and he would not secure his own safety by deserting the people whom his presence had induced to stand out against the impostor and his hosts. The city endured a long, cruel siege, and fell at last, reduced by hunger and treachery, just as a tardily despatched British force was making its way to relieve it--a force commanded by Lord Wolseley, who half a year before had been protesting against the "indelible disgrace" of leaving Gordon to his fate. He was not able even to bury his friend and comrade, slain by the fanatic enemy when they broke into the city in the early morning of January 26th, 1885. [Illustration: Duke of Albany. _From a Photograph by A. BASSANO, Bond Street, W._] "I have done my best for the honour of our country," were the parting words of the dead hero. His country felt itself profoundly dishonoured by the manner in which it had lost this its famous son--a man distinguished at once by commanding ability, unsullied honour, heroic valour; a man full of tenderest beneficence towards his fellows, and of utter devotion to his God; "the grandest figure," said an American admirer, "that has crossed the disc of this planet for centuries." Him England had fatally delayed to help, withheld by the dread of costly and cruel warfare; and then just failed to save him by a war enormously costly and cruelly fatal indeed. A general lamentation, blent with cries of anger, rose up from the land. Her Majesty shared the common sorrow, as her messages of sympathy to the surviving relations of Gordon testified. Various charitable institutions, modelled on the lines which he had followed in his work among the poor, rose to keep his memory green; and thus the objects of his Christlike care during his life are now profiting by the world-famous manner of his death. But there is still a deep feeling that even time itself can hardly efface the stain that has been left on our national fame. An English expedition, well commanded, full of ardour and daring, sent to accomplish a specific object, and failing in that object; its commander, entirely guiltless of blame, having to abandon the scene of his triumphs to a savage, fanatic foe as was now the case--this was evil enough; but that our beloved countryman, a true knight without fear and without reproach, should have been betrayed to desertion and death through his own magnanimity and our sluggishness, added a rankling, poisonous sense of shame to our humiliation. That the same year saw further electoral privileges extended to the humble classes in England, beyond what even the last Reform Bill had conferred, which might prove of advantage afterwards, but was an imperfect consolation at the time. Another grief fell upon the Queen in this year in the early death of Leopold, Duke of Albany, a Prince whose intellectual gifts were nearly allied to those of his father, but on whom lifelong delicacy of health had enforced a life of comparative quietude. His widowed bride and infant children have ever since been cared for tenderly by his royal mother. [Illustration: Duchess of Albany. _From a Photograph by A. BASSANO, Bond Street, W._] CHAPTER VIII. OUR COLONIES. [Illustration: Sydney Heads.] If now we turn our eyes a while from the foreign and domestic concerns of Great Britain proper, and look to the Greater Britain beyond the seas, we shall find that its progress has nowise lagged behind that of the mother Isle. To Lord Durham, the remarkable man sent out in 1838 to deal with the rebellion in Lower Canada, we owe the inauguration of a totally new scheme of colonial policy, which has been crowned with success wherever it has been introduced. It has succeeded in the vast Canadian Dominion, now stretching from ocean to ocean, and embracing all British North America, with the single exception of the Isle of Newfoundland. In 1867 this Federation was first formed, uniting then only the two Canadas with New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, under a constitution framed on Lord Durham's plan, and providing for the management of common affairs by a central Parliament, while each province should have its own local legislature, and the executive be vested in the Crown, ruling through its Governor General. It had been made competent for the other provinces of British North America to join this Federation, if they should so will; and one after another has joined it, with the one exception mentioned above, which may or may not be permanent. The population of the Dominion has trebled, and its revenues have increased twenty-fold, since its constitution was thus settled. The same system, it may be hoped, will equally succeed in that wonderful Australasia where our colonists now have the shaping of their destinies in their own hands, amid the yet unexplored amplitude of a land where "in the softest and sweetest air, and in an unexhausted soil, the fable of Midas is reversed; food does not turn to gold, but the gold with which the land is teeming converts itself into farms and vineyards, into flocks and herds, into crops of wild luxuriance, into cities whose recent origin is concealed and compensated by trees and flowers." In such terms does a recent eye-witness describe the splendid prosperity attained within the last two or three decades by that Australia which our fathers thought of chiefly as a kind of far-off rubbish-heap where they could fling out the human garbage of England, to rot or redeem itself as it might, well out of the way of society's fastidious nostril, and which to our childhood was chiefly associated with the wild gold-fever and the wreck and ruin which that fever too often wrought. The transportation system, so far as Australia was concerned, came virtually to an end with the discovery of gold in the region to which we had been shipping off our criminals. The colonists had long been complaining of this system, which at first sight had much to recommend it, as offering a fair chance of reformation to the convict, and providing cheap labour for the land that received him. But it was found, as a high official said, that convict labour was far less valuable than the uncompelled work of honest freemen; and the contagious vices which the criminal classes brought with them made them little welcome. When to these drawbacks were added the difficulties and dangers with which the presence of the convict element in the population encumbered the new gold-mining industry, the question reached the burning stage. The system was modified in 1853, and totally abolished in 1857. Transports whose sentence were unexpired lingered out their time in Tasmania, whence the aborigines have vanished under circumstances of cruelty assuredly not mitigated by the presence of convicts in the island; but Australia was henceforth free from the blight. The political life of these colonies may be said to have begun in the same year--1853--when the importation of criminals received its first check. New South Wales, the eldest of the Australian provinces, received a genuine constitution of its own; Victoria followed in 1856--Victoria, which is not without its dreams of being one day "the chief State in a federated Australia," an Australia that may then rank as "a second United States of the Southern Hemisphere." Western Australia, South Australia, Queensland, Tasmania, and New Zealand, one after another, attained the same liberties; all have now representative governments, modelled on those of the mother country, but inevitably without the aristocratic element. Such an aristocracy as that of England is the natural growth of many centuries and of circumstances hardly likely to be duplicated--a fact which the Prince Consort once had occasion to lay very clearly before Louis Napoleon, anxious to surround himself with a similar nobility, if only he could manage it. But though the aristocratic element be lacking, the patriotic passion and the sentiment of loyalty are abundantly present; nor has the mother country any intellectual pre-eminence over her colonies, drawn immeasurably nearer to her in thought and feeling as communication has become rapid and easy. There is something almost magical at first sight in the transformation which the Australian colonies have undergone in a very limited space of time; yet it is but the natural result of the untrammelled energy of a race sovereignly fitted to "subdue the earth." It is curious to read how in 1810 the convict settlement at Botany Bay--name of terror to ignorant home criminals, shuddering at the long, dreadful voyage and the imagined horrors of a savage country--was almost entirely nourished on imported food, now that the vast flocks and herds of Australia and New Zealand contribute no inconsiderable proportion of the food supply of Britain. The record of New Zealand is somewhat less brilliant than that of its gigantic neighbour. This is due to somewhat less favourable circumstances, to a nobler and less manageable race of aborigines; the land perhaps more beautiful, is by the very character of its beauty less subduable. Its political life is at least as old as that of the old Australian colony, its constitution being granted about the same time; but this colony has needed, what Australia has not, the armed interference of the Home Government in its quarrels with the natives--a race once bold and warlike, able to hold their own awhile even against the English soldiers, gifted with eloquence, with a certain poetic imagination, and no inconsiderable intelligence. It seemed, too, at one moment as if these Maoris would become generally Christianised; but the kind of Christianity which they saw exemplified in certain colonists, hungry for land and little scrupulous as to the means by which they could gratify that hunger, largely undid the good effected through the agency of missionaries, the countrymen of these oppressors, whose evil deeds they were helpless to hinder. A superstition that was nothing Christian laid hold of many who had once been altogether persuaded to embrace the teachings of Jesus, and the relapsed Maoris doubtless were guilty of savage excesses; yet the original blame lay not chiefly with them; nor is it possible to regard without deep pity the spectacle presented at the present day of "the noblest of all the savage races with whom we have ever been brought in contact, overcome by a worse enemy than sword and bullet, and corrupted into sloth and ruin, ...ruined physically, demoralised in character, by drink." Nobler than other aborigines, who have faded out before the invasion of the white man, as they may be, their savage nobility has not saved them from the common fate; they too have "learned our vices faster than our virtues," aided by the speculative traders in alcoholic poison, who have followed on the track of the colonist, and who, devil's missionaries as they are, have counteracted too quickly the work of the Christian evangelists who preceded them. The extraordinary natural fertility of the country, whose volcanic nature was very recently terribly demonstrated, is yet very far from being utilised to the utmost, the population of the islands, not inferior in extent to Great Britain, being yet a long way below that of London. Probably this "desert treasure-house of agricultural wealth" may, under wise self-government, yet rise to a position of magnificent importance. Of all our colonies that in Southern Africa has the least reason to be proud of its recent history, which has not been rendered any fairer by the discovery of the great Diamond Fields, and the rush of all sorts and conditions of men to profit thereby. Into the entangled history of our doings in relation to Cape Colony--originally a Dutch settlement--and all our varied and often disastrous dealings with the Dutch-descended Boers and the native tribes in its neighbourhood, we cannot well enter. Our missionary action has the glory of great achievement in Southern Africa; of our political action it is best to say little. A more encouraging scene is presented if we turn to the Fijian Isles, whose natives, once a proverb of cannibal ferocity, have been humanised and Christianised by untiring missionary effort, and by their own free-will have passed under British domination and are ruled by a British governor. The extraordinary change worked in the people of these isles, characterised now, as even in their heathen days, by a certain bold manliness, that hitherto has escaped the usual deterioration, is so great and unmistakable that critics predisposed to unfriendliness do not try to deny it. In consequence of the immensely increased facilities of communication that we now enjoy, our own great food-producing dependencies and the vast corn-growing districts of other lands can pour their stores into our market--a process much aided by the successive removal of so many restrictions on commerce, and by the practical science which has overcome so many difficulties connected with the transport of slain meat and other perishable commodities. England seems not unlikely to become a wonderfully cheap country to live in, unless some new turn of events interferes with the processes which during the last two decades have so increased the purchasing power of money that, as is confidently stated, fifteen shillings will now buy what it needed twenty shillings to purchase twenty years ago. To this result, as a matter of course, the enormous development of our manufacturing and other industries has also contributed. There is another side to the medal, and not so fair a one. The necessaries of life are cheaper; wages are actually higher, when the greater value of money is taken into account; more care is taken as to the housing of the poor; the workers of the nation have more leisure, and spend not a little of it in travelling, being now by far the most numerous patrons of the railway; the altered style of the conveyances provided for them is a sufficient testimony to their higher importance. All this is to the good; so, too, is the diminution in losses by bankruptcy and in general pauperism, the increasing thrift shown by the records of savings banks, the lengthening of life, the falling off in crime, which is actually--not proportionally--rarer than ten years ago, to go no further back. Against this we have to set the facts that the terrible malady of insanity is distinctly on the increase--whether due to mere physical causes, to the high pressure at which modern society lives, or to the prevalent scepticisms which leave many wretched men so little tranquillising hope or faith, who shall say?--that all trades and professions are more or less overcrowded; and that there is a terrible amount, not of pauperism, but of hard-struggling poverty, massed up in the crowded, wretched, but high-priced tenements of great towns, and maintaining a forlorn life by such incessant, cruel labour as is not exacted from convicted criminals in any English prison. London, where this kind of misery is inevitably at its height, receives every week an accession of a thousand persons, who doubtless, in a great majority of cases, simply help to glut the already crowded labour market and still further lower the wages of the workers; and the other great towns in like manner grow, while the rural population remains stagnant or lessens. Agricultural distress, which helps to keep the tide of emigration high, also accounts in part for this singular, undesirable displacement of population; while recent testimony points to the fact that the terribly unsanitary and inefficient housing of the rural poor does much to drive the best and most laborious members of that class away from the villages and fields which might otherwise be the homes of happy and peaceful industry. For this form of evil, in town and country, private greed--frequently shown by small proprietors, who have never learnt that property has duties as well as rights--is very largely responsible; for how many other of the evils we have to deplore is not the greed of gain responsible? The sins of the age are still much the same sins that the Laureate roughly arraigned when the Crimean war broke our long peace; denouncing the race for riches which turned men into "pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own;" denouncing the cruel selfishness of rich and poor as the vilest kind of civil war, being "underhand, not openly bearing the sword." We had made the blessings of peace a curse, he told us, in those days, "when only the ledger lived, and when only not all men lied; when the poor were hovelled and hustled together, each sex, like swine; when chalk and alum and plaster were sold to the poor for bread, and the spirit of murder worked in the very means of life." Yet those very days saw the uprising of a whole generation of noble servants of humanity, resolute to tight and overcome the rampant evils that surrounded them. And though we would avoid the error of praising our own epoch as though it alone were humane, as though we only, "the latest seed of Time, have loved the people well," and shown our love by deeds; though we would not deny that to-day has its crying abuses as well as yesterday; yet it is hardly possible to survey the broad course of our history during the past sixty years, and not to perceive, amid all the cross-currents--false ambitions, false pretences, mammon-worship, pitiless selfishness, sins of individuals, sins of society, sins of the nation--an ever-widening and mastering stream of beneficent energy, which has already wonderfully changed for the better many of the conditions of existence, and which, since its flow shows no signs of abating, we may hope to see spreading more widely, and bearing down in its great flood the wrecks of many another oppression and iniquity. CHAPTER IX. INTELLECTUAL AND SPIRITUAL PROGRESS. [Illustration: Robert Southey.] "Man doth not live by bread alone." The enormous material progress of this country during the last sixty years--imperfectly indicated by the fact that during the last forty years the taxable income of the United Kingdom has been considerably more than doubled--would be but a barren theme of rejoicing, if there were signs among us of intellectual or spiritual degeneracy. The great periods of English history have been always fruitful in great thinkers and great writers, in religious and mental activity. Endeavouring to judge our own period by this standard, and making a swift survey of its achievements in literature, we do not find it apparently inferior to the splendours of "great Elizabeth" or of the Augustan age of Anne. Our fifth Queen-regnant, whose reign, longer than that of any of her four predecessors, is also happier than that of the greatest among them, can reckon among her subjects an even larger number of men eminent in all departments of knowledge, though perhaps we cannot boast one name quite equal to Newton in science, and though assuredly neither this nor any modern nation has yet a second imaginative writer whose throne may be set beside that of Shakespeare. [Illustration: William Wordsworth.] [Illustration: Alfred Tennyson. _From a Photograph by Elliott & Fry_] We excel in quantity, indeed; for while, owing to the spread of education, the number of readers has been greatly increased, the number of writers has risen proportionately; the activity of the press has increased tenfold. Journalism has become a far more formidable power in the land than in the earlier years when, as our domestic annals plainly indicate, the _Times_ ruled as the Napoleon of newspapers. This result is largely due to the removal of the duties formerly imposed both on the journals themselves and on their essential paper material; and it would indeed "dizzy the arithmetic of memory" should we try to enumerate the varied periodicals that are far younger than Her Majesty's happy reign. Of these a great number are excellent in both intention and execution, and must be numbered among the educating, civilising, Christianising agencies of the day. They are something more and higher than the "savoury literary _entremets_" designed to please the fastidious taste of a cultured and leisured class, which was the just description of our periodical literature at large not so very long ago. The number of our imaginative writers--poets and romancers, but especially the latter--has been out of all proportion great. We give the place of honour, as is their due, to the singers rather than to the story-tellers, the more readily since the popular taste, it cannot be denied, chooses its favourites in inverse order as a rule. [Illustration: Robert Browning. _From a Photograph by Elliott & Fry_.] When Her Majesty ascended the throne, one brilliant poetical constellation was setting slowly, star by star. Keats and Shelley and Byron, none of them much older than the century, had perished in their early prime between 1820 and 1824; Scott had sunk under the storms of fortune in 1832; the fitful glimmer of Coleridge's genius vanished in 1834, and a year later "the gentle Elia" too was gone. Southey, who still held the laureate-ship in 1837, had faded out of life in 1843, and was succeeded in his once-despised office by William Wordsworth, who, with Rogers and Leigh Hunt and Moore, lived far into the new reign, uniting the Georgian and the Victorian school of writers. Thomas Hood, the poet of the poor and oppressed, whose too short life ended in 1845, gives in his serious verse such thrilling expression to the impassioned, indignant philanthropy, which has actuated many workers and writers of our own period, that it is not easy to reckon him with the older group. His song rings like that of Charles Kingsley, poet, novelist, preacher, and "Christian socialist," who did not publish his "Saint's Tragedy" till three years after Hood was dead. There has, indeed, been no break in the continuity of our great literary history; while one splendid group was setting, another as illustrious was rising. Tennyson, who on Wordsworth's death in 1850 received at Queen Victoria's hand the "laurel greener from the brows of him that uttered nothing base," had published his earliest two volumes of poems some years before Her Majesty's accession; and of that rare poetic pair, the Brownings, each had already given evidence of the great powers they possessed, Robert Browning's tragedy of "Strafford" being produced on the stage in 1837, while his future wife's translation of the "Prometheus Bound" saw the light four years earlier. The Victorian period can boast no greater poetic names than these, each of which is held in highest reverence by its own special admirers. The patriotic fervour with which Lord Tennyson has done almost all his laureate work, the lucid splendour of his style, the perfect music of his rhythm, and the stinging sharpness with which he has sometimes chastised contemporary sins, have all combined to win for him a far wider popularity than even that accorded to the fine lyrical passion of Mrs. Browning, or to the deep-thoughted and splendid, but often perplexing and ruggedly phrased, dramatic and lyric utterances of her husband. All three have honoured themselves and their country by a majestic purity of moral and religious teaching--an excellence shared by many of their contemporaries, whose powers would have won them a first place in an age and country less fruitful of genius; but not so conspicuous in some younger poets, later heirs of fame, whose lot it may be to carry on the traditions of Victorian greatness into another reign. There are not a few writers of our day whose excellent prose work has won more of popular favour than their verse, which notwithstanding is of high quality. Such was the "unsubduable old Roman," Walter Savage Landor, a contemporary of Byron and Wordsworth, who long outlived them, dying in 1864. Such--to bring two extremes together--are the critic and poet Matthew Arnold, the poet and theologian John Henry Newman. Intimately associated in our thought with the latter, who has enriched our devotional poetry with one touching hymn, is Keble, the singer _par excellence_ of the "Catholic revival," and the most widely successful religious poet of the age, though only very few of his hymns have reached the heart of the people like the far more direct and fervent work of the Wesleys and their compeers. He is even excelled in simplicity and passion, though not in grace and tenderness, by two or three other workers in the same field, who belong to our day, and whose verse is known more widely than their names. We have several women-poets who are only less beloved and less well known than Mrs. Browning; but so far the greatest literary distinction gained by the women of our age and country, notwithstanding the far wider and higher educational advantages enjoyed by them to-day, has been won, as of yore, in the field of prose fiction. More than a hundred years ago a veteran novelist, whose humour and observation, something redeeming his coarseness, have ranked him among classic English authors, referred mischievously to the engrossing of "that branch of business" by female writers, whose "ease, and spirit, and delicacy, and knowledge of the human heart," have not, however, availed to redeem their names from oblivion. For some of their nineteenth-century successors at least we may expect a more enduring memory. Numerous as are our poets, they are far outnumbered by the novelists, whose works are poured forth every season with bewildering profusion; but as story-tellers have always commanded a larger audience than grave philosophers or historians, and as our singers deal as much in philosophy as in narrative, perhaps in seeking for the cause of this overrunning flood of fiction we need go no further than the immensely increased number of readers--a view in which the records of some English public libraries will bear us out. We may therefore be thankful that, on the whole, such literature has been of a vastly purer and healthier character than of yore, reflecting that higher and better tone of public feeling which we may attribute, in part at least, to the influence of the "pure court and serene life" of the Sovereign. [Illustration: Charles Dickens. _From a Photograph by Elliott & Fry_.] [Illustration: W.M. Thackeray. _From a Drawing by Samuel Lawrence_.] This nobler tone is not least perceptible in the eldest of the great masters of fiction whom we can claim for our period--Dickens, who in 1837 first won by his "Pickwick Papers" that astonishing popularity which continued widening until his death; Thackeray, who in that year was working more obscurely, having not yet found a congenial field in the humorous chronicle that reflects for us so much of the Victorian age, for _Punch_ was not started till 1841, and Thackeray's first great masterpiece of pathos and satire, "Vanity Fair," did not begin to appear till five years later. Each of these writers in his own way held "the mirror up" to English human nature, and showed "the very age and body of the time his form and pressure," with manly boldness indeed, but with due artistic reticence also; each knew how to be vivid without being vicious, to be realistic without being revolting; and despite the sometimes offensive caricature in which the one indulged, despite the seeming cynicism of the other their influence must be pronounced healthy. Thackeray did not, like Dickens, use his pen against particular glaring abuses of the time, nor insist on the special virtues that bloom amid the poor and lowly; but he attacked valiantly the crying sins of society in all time--the mammon-worship and the mercilessness, the false pretences and the fraud--and never failed to uphold for admiration and imitation "whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honourable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever thing are pure, whatsoever things are lovely." And though both writers were sometimes hard on the professors of religion, neither failed in reverence of tone when religion itself was concerned. [Illustration: Charlotte Brontë.] The sudden death of both these men, in the very prime of life and in the fulness of power, was keenly felt at the time: each had a world-wide fame, and each awakened a blank, distressful sense of personal loss in his many admirers as he was suddenly called away from incomplete work and faithful friendship. Contemporary literature has not benefited by the removal of these two men and the gradual diminishing of the influence they so strongly exerted while yet they "stood up and spoke." The work of Charlotte Brontë--produced under a fervent admiration for "the satirist of Vanity Fair," whom she deemed "the first social regenerator of his day"--is, with all its occasional morbidness of sensitive feeling, far more bracing in moral tone, more inspiring in its scorn of baseness and glorifying of goodness, than is the work of recent Positivist emulators of the achievements of George Eliot. Some romances of this school are vivid and highly finished pictures of human misery, unredeemed by hope, and hardly brightened by occasional gleams of humour, of the sardonic sort which may stir a mirthless smile, but never a laugh. Herein they are far inferior to their model, whose melancholy philosophy is half hidden from her readers by the delightful freshness and truth of her "Dutch painter's" portraying of every-day humanity, by her delicately skilful reproduction of its homely wit and harmless absurdity. Happily neither these writers, nor the purveyors of mere sensation who cannot get on without crime and mystery, exhaust the list of our romancers, many of whom are altogether healthful, cheerful, and helpful; and it is no unreasonable hope that these may increase and their gloomier rivals decrease, or at least grow gayer and wiser. [Illustration: Lord Macauley.] There are many other great writers, working in other fields, whom we may claim as belonging altogether or almost to the Victorian age. Within that period lies almost entirely the brilliantly successful career of Macaulay, essayist, poet, orator, and historian. For the last-named _rôle_ Macaulay seemed sovereignly fitted by his extraordinary faculty for assimilating and retaining historical knowledge, and by the vividness of imagination and mastery of words which enabled him to present his facts in such attractive guise as made them fascinating far beyond romance. His "History of England from the Accession of James II," whereof the first volumes appeared in 1849, remains a colossal fragment; the fulness of detail with which he adorned it, the grand scale on which he worked, rendered its completion a task almost impossible for the longest lifetime; and Macaulay died in his sixtieth year. Despite the defects of partisanship and exaggeration freely and not quite unjustly charged upon his great work, it remains a yet unequalled record of the period dealt with, just as his stirring ballads, so seemingly easy of imitation in their ringing, rolling numbers, hold their own against very able rivals and are yet unequalled in our time. [Illustration: Thomas Carlyle.] Macaulay was not the first, and he is not the last, of our picturesque historians. It was in 1837 that Carlyle, who four years before had startled the English-reading public by his strangely worded, bewildering "Sartor Resartus," brought out his astonishing "History of the French Revolution"--a prose poem, an epic without a hero, revealing as by "flashes of lightning" the ghastly tragedy and comedy of that tremendous upheaval; and in 1845 he followed up the vein thus opened by his lifelike study of "Oliver Cromwell," which was better received by his English readers than the later "History of Friedrich II," marvel of careful research and graphic reproduction though it be. To Carlyle therefore and to Macaulay belongs the honour of having given a new and powerful impulse to the study they adorned; dissimilar in other respects, they are alike in their preference for and insistent use of original sources of information, in their able employment of minute detail, and in the graphic touch and artistic power which made history very differently attractive in their hands from what it had ever been previously. Mr. Froude and Mr. Green may be ranked as their followers in this latter respect; hardly so Mr. Freeman or the philosophic Buckle, Grote, and Lecky, who by their style and method belong more to the school of Hallam, however widely they may differ from him or from each other in opinion. But in thoroughness of research and in resolute following of the very truth through all mazes and veils that may obscure it, one group of historians does not yield to the other. [Illustration: William Whewell, D.D.] [Illustration: Sir David Brewster.] And the same zealous passion for accuracy that has distinguished these and less famous historians and biographers has shown itself in other fields of intellectual endeavour. Our Queen in her desire "to get at the root and reality of things" is entirely in harmony with the spirit of her age. In scientific men we look for the ardent pursuit of difficult truth; and it would be thankless to forget how numerous beyond precedent have been in the Victorian period faithful workers in the field of science. Though some of our _savants_ in later years have injured their renown by straying outside the sphere in which they are honoured and useful and speaking unadvisedly on matters theological, this ought not to deter us from acknowledging the value of true service rendered. The Queen's reign can claim as its own such men as John Herschel, worthy son of an illustrious father, Airy, Adams, and Maxwell, Whewell and Brewster and Faraday, Owen and Buckland and Lyell, Murchison and Miller, Darwin and Tyndall and Huxley, with Wheatstone, one of the three independent inventors of telegraphy, and the Stephensons, father and son, to whose ability and energy we are indebted for the origination and perfection of our method of steam locomotion; it can boast such masters in philosophy as Hamilton and Whately and John Stuart Mill, each a leader of many. It has also the rare distinction of possessing one lady writer on science who has attained to real eminence--eminence not likely soon to be surpassed by her younger sister-rivals--the late Mrs. Mary Somerville, who united an entirely feminine and gentle character to masculine powers of mind. [Illustration: Sir James Simpson.] [Illustration: Michael Faraday.] Only to catalogue the recent discoveries and inventions we owe to men of science, from merciful anæsthetics to the latest applications of electric power, would occupy more space than we ought here to give. All honour to these servants of humanity! We rejoice to find among them many who could unite the simplest childlike faith with a wide and grand mental outlook; we exult not less to find in many Biblical students and commentators the same patience, thoroughness, and resolute pursuit of the very truth as that exemplified by the devotees of physical science. God's Word is explored in our day--the same clay which has seen the great work of the Revised Version of the Scriptures begun and completed--with no less ardour than God's world. And what vast additions have been made to our knowledge of this earth! We have seen Nineveh unburied, the North-West Passage explored, and the mysterious Nile stream at last tracked to its source. To compare a fifty-years-old map of Africa with one of the present day will a little enable us to estimate the advances made in our acquaintance with the Dark Continent alone; similar maps including the Polar regions of North America will testify also to a large increase of hard-won knowledge. [Illustration: David Livingstone.] [Illustration: Sir John Franklin.] Exploration--Arctic, African, Oriental and Occidental--has had its heroic devotees, sometimes its martyrs. Witness Franklin, Burke and Wills, and Livingstone. The long uncertainty overhanging the fate of the gallant Franklin, after he and the expedition he commanded had vanished into the darkness of Arctic winter in 1845, and the unfaltering faithfulness with which his widow clung to the search for her lost husband, form one of the most pathetic chapters of English story. The veil was lifted at last and the secret of the North-West Passage, to which so many lives had been sacrificed, was brought to light in the course of the many efforts made to find the dead discoverer. As Franklin had disappeared in the North, so Livingstone was long lost to sight in the wilds of Africa, and hardly less feverish interest centred round the point, so long disputed, of his being in life or in death--interest freshly awakened when the remains of the heroic explorer, who had been found only to be lost again, were brought home to be laid among the mighty dead of England. The fervent Christian philanthropy of Livingstone endeared him yet more to the national heart; and we may here note that very often, as in his case, the missionary has served not only Christianity, as was his first and last aim, but also geographical and ethnological science and colonial and commercial development. We have briefly referred already to some of the struggles, the sufferings, and the triumphs of missionary enterprise in our day: to chronicle all its effort and achievement would be difficult, for these have been world-wide, and often wonderfully successful. Nor has much less success crowned other agencies for meeting the ever-increasing need for religious knowledge, which multiply and grow in number and in power. Witness, among many that might be named, the continuous development of the Sunday School system and the immensely extended operations of the unsectarian Bible Society. [Illustration: John Ruskin. _From a Photograph by Elliott & Fry_.] Great advances have been made during this reign in English art and art-criticism, and more particularly in the extension of real artistic education to classes of the community who could hardly attain it before, though it was perhaps more essential to them than to the wealthy and leisurely who had previously monopolised it. The multiplication of Schools of Design over the country, intended to promote the tasteful efficiency of those engaged in textile manufactures and in our decorative and constructive art generally, is one remarkable feature of the time, and the sedulous cultivation of music by members of all classes of society is another, hardly less hopeful. In all these efforts for the benefit and elevation of the community the Prince Consort took deep and active interest, and the royal family themselves, from Her Majesty downwards, highly cultured and accomplished, have not failed to act in the same spirit. But the history of English nineteenth-century art would be incomplete indeed without reference to two powerful influences--the rise and progress of the new art of photography, which has singularly affected other branches of graphic work; and the career, hitherto unexampled in our land, of the greatest art-critic of this, perhaps of any, age--John Ruskin, the most eminent also of the many writers and thinkers who have been swayed by the magic spell of Carlyle, whose fierce and fervid genius, for good or for evil, told so strongly on his contemporaries. Ruskin is yet more deeply imbued with his master's philosophy than those other gifted and widely influential teachers, Maurice and Kingsley; and yet perhaps he is more strongly and sturdily independent in his individuality than either, while the unmatched English of his prose style differs not less widely from the rugged strength of Carlyle than from the mystical involution of Maurice and the vehement and, as it were, breathless, yet vivid and poetic, utterance of Kingsley. When every defect has been admitted that is chargeable against one or all of this group of sincere and stalwart workers, it must be allowed that their power on their countrymen has been largely wielded for good. Particularly is this the case with Ruskin, whose influence has reached and ennobled many a life that, from pressure of sordid circumstances, was in great need of such help as his spirituality of tone, and deeply felt reverential belief in the Giver of all good and Maker of all beauty, could afford. [Illustration: Dean Stanley.] [Illustration: "I was sick, and ye visited me."] We have preferred not to dwell on one department of literature which, like every other, has received great additions during our period--that of religious controversy. A large portion of such literature is in its very nature ephemeral; and some of the disputes which have engaged the energies even of our greatest masters in dialectics have not been in themselves of supreme importance; but many points of doctrine and discipline have been violently canvassed among professing Christians, and attacks of long-sustained vigour and virulence have been made on almost every leading article of the Christian creed by the avowed enemies or the only half-hostile critics of the Church, which the champions of Scripture truth have not been backward to repel. Amid all this confusion and strife of assault and resistance one thing stands out clearly: Christianity and its progress are more interesting to the national mind than ever before. It has been well, too, that through all those fifty years a large-minded and fervent but most unobtrusive and practical piety has been enthroned in the highest places of the land--a piety which will escape the condemnation of the King when He shall come in His glory, and say to many false followers, "I was an hungred, and ye gave Me no meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave Me no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took Me not in; naked, and ye clothed Me not; sick, and in prison, and ye visited Me not." These dread words are not for those who have cared as our Sovereign Lady and her beloved ones have cared for the sick and the suffering and the sad; who have bound up the heart-wounds of the widow and the orphan and ministered to their earthly needs; who, like our lost Princess Alice and her royal elder sister, have tended the victims of war, shrinking from no ghastliness or repulsiveness, no horrors of the hospital where victor and vanquished lay moaning in common misery; or, like their queenly mother, have shed the sunshine of royal smiles and soothing words and helpful alms upon the obscurer but hardly less pitiable patients who crowd our English infirmaries. In her northern and southern "homes" of Osborne and Balmoral the Queen, too, has been able to share a true, unsophisticated friendship with her humble neighbours, to rejoice in their joys and lighten their griefs with gentle, most efficient sympathy. It was of a Highland cottage that Dr. Guthrie wrote that "within its walls the Queen had stood, with her kind hands smoothing the thorns of a dying man's pillow. There, left alone with him at her own request, she had sat by the bed of death--a Queen ministering to the comfort of a saint." It was in a cottage at Osborne that the same gentle and august almsgiver was found reading comfortable Scripture words to a sick and aged peasant, quietly retiring upon the entrance of the clerical visitant, that _his_ message of peace might be freely given, and thus allowing the sufferer to disclose to the pastor that the lady in the widow's weeds was Victoria of England. These are examples, which it would be easy to multiply, of that true oneness of feeling between the lofty and the lowly which is the special, the unique glory of Christ's kingdom. May our land never lack them; may they multiply themselves to all time. The best evidence of the truth of the Gospel is admittedly its unequalled power of lifting up humanity to higher and yet higher levels. In many and mighty instances of that power our age is not barren. And in despite of the foes without and within that have wrought her woe--of the Pharisaism that is a mask for fraud, of the mammon-worship cloaked as respectability, of scepticism lightly mocking, of the bolder enmity of the blasphemer--we cannot contemplate the story of Christianity throughout our epoch, even in these islands and this empire, without seeing that the advance of the Faith is real and constant, the advance of the rising tide, and that her seeming defeats are but the deceptive reflux of the ever-mounting waves. CHAPTER X. PROGRESS OF THE EMPIRE FROM 1887 TO 1897. [Illustration: Duke of Connaught.] Resuming our pen after an interval of ten years, we have thought it well, not only to carry on our story of the Sovereign and her realm to the latest attainable point, but also to give some account of the advance made and the work accomplished by the Methodist Church, which, youngest of the greater Nonconformist denominations, has acted more powerfully than any other among them on the religious and social life, not only of the United Kingdom and the Empire, but of the world. This account, very brief, but giving details little known to outsiders, will form a valuable pendant to the sketch of the general history of Victoria's England that we are now about to continue. [Illustration: The Imperial Institute.] Many thousands who rejoiced in the Queen's Jubilee of 1887 are glad to-day that the close of the decade should find the beloved Lady of these isles, true woman and true Queen, still living and reigning. On September 23, 1896, Queen Victoria had reigned longer than any other English monarch, and the desire was general for some immediate celebration of the event; but, by the Queen's express wish, all recognition of the fact was deferred until the sixtieth year should be fully completed, and the nation prepared to celebrate the "Diamond Jubilee" on June 22, 1897, with a fervour of loyalty that should far outshine that of the Jubilee year of 1887. In the personal history of our Queen during those ten years we may note with reverent sympathy some events that must shadow the festival for her. The calm and kindly course of her home-life has again been broken in upon by bereavement. All seemed fair in the Jubilee year itself, and the Queen was appearing more in public than had been her wont--laying the foundations of the Imperial Institute; unveiling in Windsor Park a statue of the Prince Consort, Jubilee gift of the women of England; taking part in a magnificent naval review at Spithead. But a shadow was already visible to some; and early in 1888 sinister rumours were afloat as to the health of the Crown Prince of Germany, consort of the Queen's eldest daughter. Too soon those rumours proved true. Even when the prince rode in the splendid Jubilee procession, a commanding figure in his dazzling white uniform, the cruel malady had fastened on him that was to slay him in less than a year, proving fatal three months after the death of his aged father had called him to fill the imperial throne. The nation followed the course of this tragedy with a feverish interest never before excited by the lot of any foreign potentate, and deeply sympathised with, the distress of the Queen and of the bereaved empress. [Illustration: Duke of Clarence. _From a Photograph by Lafayette, Dublin_.] But the year 1892 held in store a blow yet more cruelly felt. The English people were still rejoicing with the Queen over the betrothal of the Duke of Clarence, eldest son of the Prince of Wales, to his kinswoman Princess May of Teck, when the death of the bridegroom elect in January plunged court and people into mourning. That the Queen was greatly touched by the universal sympathy with her and hers was proved by the pathetic letter she wrote to the nation, and by the frank reliance on their affection which marked the second letter in which, eighteen months later, she asked them to share her joy in the wedding of the Duke of York, now heir-presumptive, to the bride-elect of his late brother. This union has been highly popular, and the Queen's evident delight in the birth of the little Prince Edward of York in June, 1894, touched the hearts of her subjects, who remembered the deep sorrow of 1892. [Illustration: Duke of York. _From a Photograph by Russell & Sons, Baker Street, W_.] [Illustration: Duchess of York. _From a Photograph by Russell & Sons, Baker Street, W_.] Once more they were called to grieve with her, when the husband of her youngest daughter Beatrice, Prince Henry of Battenberg, who for years had formed part of her immediate circle, died far from home and England, having fallen a victim to fever ere he could distinguish himself, as he had hoped, in our last expedition to Ashanti. The pathos of such a death was deeply felt when the prince's remains were brought home and laid to rest, in the presence of his widow and her royal mother, in the very church at Whippingham that he had entered an ardent bridegroom. Not all gloom, however, has been Her Majesty's domestic life in these recent years; she has taken joy in the marriages of many of her descendants; and the visits of her grandchildren--of whom one, Princess Alice of Hesse, daughter of the well-beloved Alice of England, became Czarina of Russia only the other day--are a source of keen interest to her. [Illustration: Princess Henry of Battenberg. _From a Photograph by Hughes & Mullins, Ryde, Isle of Wight_.] [Illustration: Prince Henry of Battenberg. _From a Photograph by Hughes & Mullins, Ryde, Isle of Wight_.] [Illustration: The Czarina of Russia.] But there is no selfish absorption in her own family affairs, no neglect of essential duty. The Prince of Wales and "the Princess" relieve the Queen of many irksome social functions; but she does not shun these when it is clear to her that her people wish her to undertake them. Witness her willingness to take part in the Jubilee Thanksgiving services and pageant, despite the feebleness of her advanced age. We need not dwell long on the rather stormy Parliamentary history of the last decade, on the divisions and disappointments of the Irish Home Rule party, once so powerful, or on the various attacks aimed at the Welsh and Scottish Church establishments and at the principle of "hereditary legislation" as embodied in the House of Lords. Some useful legislation has been accomplished amid all the strife. We may instance the Act in 1888 creating the new system of County Councils, the Parish Councils Act, the Factory and Workshops Amendment Act, and the Education Act of 1891--measures designed to protect the toiling millions from the evils of "sweating," and to assure their children of practically free education. Substantial good has been done, whether the reins of power have been held by Mr. Gladstone or by Lord Salisbury--whose long tenure of office expiring in 1892, the veteran statesman whom he had displaced again took the helm--or by Lord Rosebery, in whose favour the great leader finally withdrew in 1894 into private life, weary of the burden of State. In 1897 we again see Lord Salisbury directing the destinies of the mighty empire--a task of exceptional difficulty, now that the gravest complications exist in Europe itself and in Africa. The horrors suffered by the Armenian subjects of the Turk have called for intervention by the great powers; but no sooner had Turkish reforms been promised in response to the joint note of Great Britain, France, and Russia, than new troubles began in Crete, its people rising in arms to shake off the Turkish yoke. Meanwhile our occupation of Egypt is compelling us to use armed force against the wild, threatening dervishes in the Soudan, and well-grounded uneasiness is felt as to the position and action of our countrymen in Southeastern Africa in connexion with the Boer republic of the Transvaal. The British South Africa Chartered Company, formed in 1889, adventurous and ambitious, loomed large in men's eyes during 1896, when the historic and disastrous raid of Dr. Jameson and his followers startled the civilised world. The whole story of that enterprise is yet to unfold; but it has added considerably to the embarrassments of the British government. Hopes were entertained in 1890 that the British East Africa Company, by the pressure it could put on the Sultan of Zanzibar, had secured the cessation of the slave trade on the East African shore; these hopes are not yet fulfilled, but it may be trusted that a step has been taken towards the mitigation of the evil--the "open sore of the world." If we turn to India, we see it in 1896-7 still in the grip of a cruel famine, aggravated by an outbreak of the bubonic plague too well known to our fathers, which, appearing three years ago at Hong-Kong, has committed new ravages at Bombay. Government is making giant efforts to meet both evils, and is aided by large free-will offerings of money, sent not only from this country, but also from Canada. "Ten years ago such a manifestation would have been unlikely. The sense of kinship is stronger, the imperial sentiment has grown deeper, the feeling of responsibility has broadened." Kinship with a starving race is felt and shown by the Empress on her throne, and her subjects learn to follow her example. But the sense of brotherhood seems somewhat deficient when we look at the continual labour wars that mark the period in our own land. From the Hyde Park riots of socialists and unemployed, in the end of 1887, to the railway strikes of 1897, the story is one of strikes among all sorts and conditions of workers, paralysing trade, and witnessing to strained relations between labour and capital; the great London strike of dock labourers, lasting five weeks, and keeping 2,500 men out of work, may yet be keenly remembered. There seems an imperative need for the wide diffusion of a true, practical Christianity among employers and employed; some signs point to the growth of that healing spirit: and we may note with delight that while never was there so much wealth and never such deep poverty as during this period, never also were there so many religious and charitable organisations at work for the relief of poverty and the uplifting of the fallen; while not a few of the wealthy, and even one or two millionaires, have shown by generous giving their painful sense of the contrast between their own wealth and the destitution of others. It has been a period of sharp religious disputes, and every religious and benevolent institution is keenly criticised; but great good is being done notwithstanding by devoted men and women. The centenary of the Baptist Missionary Society, observed in 1892, recalled to mind the vast work accomplished by missions since that pioneer society sent out the apostolic "shoemaker" Carey, to labour in India, and reminds us of the great change wrought in public opinion since he and his enterprise were so bitterly attacked. The heroic missionary spirit is still alive, as is proved by the readiness of new evangelists to step into the place of the missionaries to China, cruelly murdered at Ku-Cheng in 1895 by heathen fanatics. The immense development of our colonies during the reign has already been noticed; some of them have made surprising advances during the last ten years. In southern and eastern Africa British enterprise has done much to develop the great natural wealth of the land; but the frequent troubles in Matabeleland and the complications with the Transvaal since the discovery of gold there may be regarded as counterbalancing the material advantages secured. Ceylon has a happier record, having more than regained her imperilled prosperity through the successful enterprise of her settlers in cultivating the fine tea which has almost displaced China tea in the British market, Ceylon exporting 100,000,000 lbs. in 1895 as against 2,000,000 lbs. ten years previously. Canada also now takes rank as a great maritime state, and the fortunes of Australia, though much shaken a few years ago by a great financial crisis, are again brilliant; in the world of social progress and democracy it is still the colonial marvel of our times. [Illustration: H. M. Stanley.] The last census, taken in 1891, in Great Britain and Ireland showed a vast increase of population, sixty-two towns in England and Wales returning more than 50,000 inhabitants, and the total population of the United Kingdom being 38,104,975. Alarmists warned us that, with the ratio of increase shown, neither food nor place would soon be found for our people; and a great impetus being given to emigration, our colonies benefited. But despite such alarms, articles of luxury were in greater demand than ever, the tobacco duty reaching in 1892 the sum of £10,135,666, half a million, more than in the previous year; and the consumption of tea and spirits increased in due proportion. The same year saw great improvements in sanitation put into practice as the result of an alarm of cholera, that plague ravaging Hamburg. [Illustration: Dr. Fridtjof Nansen.] [Illustration: Miss Kingsley.] Vast engineering works, of which the Manchester Ship Canal is the most familiar instance, have been carried on. This great waterway, thirty-five miles long, and placing an inland town in touch with the sea, was begun in 1887 and finished in 1894. Numerous exhibitions, at home and abroad, have stimulated industrial and æsthetic progress; and science has continued to advance with bewildering rapidity, developing chiefly in practical directions. The bacteriologist has unveiled much of the mystery of disease, showing that seed-germs produce it; the photographer comes in aid of surgery, for the discovery of the X or Röntgen rays, by the German professor whose name is associated with them, now enables the surgeon to discover foreign bodies lodged within the human frame, and to decide with authority their position and the means of removing them. Burial reforms, in the interests of health and economy, have been introduced, and nursing, elevated into a science, has become an honourable profession for cultured women. In 1894 that eminent _savant_ Lord Rayleigh brought before the British Association his discovery of a hitherto unknown constituent in the atmosphere. The use of steam as a motive power, almost contemporaneous with the Queen's reign, has bound our land in a network of railways: now it is electricity which is being utilised in the same sense, and to the telephone and the telegraph as means of verbal communication is added the motorcar as a means of rapid progression, 1896 seeing its use in streets sanctioned by Parliament. It may not yet supersede the bicycle, which in ten years has greatly increased in favour. Electric lighting, in the same period, has become very general; and further adaptations of this mysterious force to man's service are in the air. [Illustration: J. M. Barrie.] [Illustration: Richard Jefferies.] This is an age of great explorers. Stanley has succeeded to Livingstone, Nansen to Franklin; but it has been only within comparatively recent years that women have emulated men in penetrating to remote regions. Within the decade we have seen Mrs. Bishop a veteran traveller, visiting south-west Persia; Mrs. French Sheldon has shown how far beyond the beaten track a woman's adventurous spirit may lead her; and Miss Mary Kingsley, a niece of the late Charles Kingsley, has intrepidly explored the interior of Africa, her scientific observations being welcomed by British _savants_. In 1896 women, who had long sought the privilege, were permitted to compete for the diploma of the Royal College of Surgeons, and in many other walks of usefulness the barriers excluding women have been removed, with benefit to all concerned. It is not other than natural that under the reign of a noble woman there should arise women noble-minded as herself, cherishing ideas of life and duty lofty as her own, and that their greatest elevation of purpose should tent to raise the moral standard among the men who work with them for the uplifting of their fellow subjects. Such signs of the times may be noticed now, more evident than even ten years ago. [Illustration: Professor Huxley. _From a Photograph by the London Stereoscopic Co_.] [Illustration: Professor Tyndall. _From a Photograph by Alexander Bassano, Ltd_.] The educational progress of the last decade has been very great, especially as regards the instruction of women; yet the period has not been noticeably fruitful of literature in the highest sense. In the world of fiction there is much that looks like degeneration; the lighter magazines and serials have multiplied past computation, and form all the reading of not a few persons. To counteract the unhealthy "modern novel" has arisen the Scottish school, the "literature of the kailyard," as it has been termed in scorn; yet a purer air breathes in the pages of J. M. Barrie, "Ian Maclaren," and Crockett. Their many imitators are in some danger of impairing the vogue of these masters, but still the tendency of the school is wholesome. Other artists in fiction assume the part of censors of society, and write of its doings with a bitterness that may or may not profit; the unveiling of cancerous sores is of doubtful advantage to health. [Illustration: C. H. Spurgeon.] [Illustration: Dr. Horatius Bonar.] The death-roll from 1887 to 1897 is exceptionally heavy; in every department of science, art, literary and religious life, the loss has been great. Many musicians have been taken from us since the well-beloved Jenny Lind Goldschmidt; Canon Sir E. A. Gore Ouseley, Sir G. Macfarren, Principal of the Royal Academy of Music, Rubinstein, Carrodus, and others. [Illustration: Rev. J. G. Wood.] [Illustration: Dean Church.] English letters have suffered by the removal of many whose services in one way or another have been great: the prose-painter Richard Jefferies; the pure and beneficent Mrs. Craik, better known as Miss Muloch; Matthew Arnold, poet, educationalist, critic, whose verse should outlive his criticisms; the noble astronomer Richard Proctor; Gustave Masson, the careful biographer of Milton; Laurence Oliphant, gifted and eccentric visionary; the naturalist J. G. Wood; the explorer and orientalist Burton; the historians Kinglake, Froude, and Freeman; the great ecclesiastics Bishop Lightfoot, Canon Liddon, Archbishop Magee of York, Dean Church, Dean Plumptre, and the Cardinals Newman and Manning; Tennyson and Browning, poets whose mantle has yet fallen on none; Huxley and Tyndall, eminent in science; the justly popular preacher and writer Charles H. Spurgeon; the orator and philanthropist John Bright, whose speeches delight many in book-form; and Robert Louis Stevenson, novelist, essayist, poet. To these we may add Eliza Cook and Martin Tapper, widely popular a generation ago, and surviving into our own day; Lord Lytton, known as "Owen Meredith," a literary artist, before he became viceroy of India and British ambassador at Paris; and Professor Henry Drummond, dead since 1897 began, and widely known by his "Natural Law in the Spiritual World." Even so our list is far from complete. [Illustration: J. E. Millais, P.R.A. _From a Photograph by Elliott & Fry_.] Of painters and sculptors we have lost since 1887 Frank Holl; Sir Edgar Boehm, buried in St. Paul's by express wish of the Queen; Edwin Long; John Pettie; Sir Noel Paton; Sir Frederick Leighton; and Sir J. E. Millais. The last two illustrious painters were successively Presidents of the Royal Academy, Millais, who followed Leighton in that office, surviving him but a short time. Sir Frederick had been raised to the peerage as Lord Leighton only a few days before he died, the patent arriving too late for him to receive it. [Illustration: Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A. _From a Photograph by J. R. Mayall, Piccadilly, W_.] The English world is the poorer for these many losses, some of which took place under tragic circumstances; yet hope may well be cherished that amongst us are those, not yet fully recognised, who will nobly fill the places of the dead. Some hymn-writer may arise whose note will be as sweet as that of the much loved singer, Dr. Horatius Bonar, some painter as spiritual and powerful as Paton, some poet as grandly gifted as the late laureate and his compeer Browning. We do not at once recognise our greatest while they are with us; therefore we need not think despairingly of our age because the good and the great pass away, and we see not their place immediately filled. Nor, though there be great and crying evils in our midst, need we tremble lest these should prevail, while there is so much earnest and energetic endeavour to cope with and overcome them. CHAPTER XI. PROGRESS OF WESLEYAN METHODISM UNDER QUEEN VICTORIA, 1837-1897. [Footnote] PART I. [Illustration: Wesley preaching on his father's tomb.] When the Queen ascended the throne Wesleyan Methodism in this country was recovering from the effects of the agitation occasioned by Dr. Warren, who had been expelled from its ministry; the erection of an organ in a Leeds chapel had caused another small secession. But the Conference of 1837, assembled in Leeds under the presidency of the Rev. Edmund Grindrod, with the Rev. Robert Newton as secretary, had no reason to be discouraged. Faithful to the loyal tradition of Methodism, it promptly attended to the duty of congratulating the young Sovereign who had ascended the throne on June 20, a few weeks before. [Footnote: The writer desires to acknowledge special obligation to the Rev. J. Wesley Davies for invaluable aid rendered by him in collecting and arranging the material embodied in this chapter.] We may read in its Minutes of the vote in favour of an address, which should assure the Queen of the sincere attachment cherished by her Methodist subjects for her person and government, and of their fervent prayers to Almighty God "for her personal happiness and the prosperity of her reign." By a singular coincidence, it will probably be one of the first acts of a Leeds Conference in 1897 to forward another address, congratulating Her Majesty on the long and successful reign which has realised these aspirations of unaffected devotion. The address of 1837 had gracious acknowledgment, conveyed through Lord John Russell. [Illustration: Group of Presidents Number One] At this time Methodism had spread throughout the world. Its membership in Great Britain and Ireland numbered 318,716; in foreign mission stations 66,007; in Upper Canada 14,000; while the American Conferences had charge of 650,678 members; thus the total for the world, exclusive of ministers, was 1,049,401. Of ministers there were 1,162 in the United Kingdom and 3,316 elsewhere. It will be obvious that British and Irish Methodism even then formed a body whose allegiance was highly valuable. The 1837 Conference had to discuss the subject of the approaching Centenary of Methodism, which had for years been anticipated with great interest. With Mr. Butterworth--a Member of Parliament and a loyal Methodist and generous supporter of our funds--originated the idea of commemorating God's goodness in a fitting manner, not in a boastful spirit; a committee which had been appointed reported to the next Conference "that the primary object of the said celebration should be the religious and devotional improvement of the centenary"; and that there should also be "thank-offering to Almighty God" in money contributions for some of the institutions of the Church. The Conference approved these suggestions, and appointed a day of united prayer in January, 1839, "for the outpouring of the Holy Spirit" on the Connexion during the year. [Illustration: Centenary meeting at Manchester.] There had been some difficulty in fixing the date of the birth of Methodism; but 1739 was determined on, because then the first class-meetings were held, the first chapel at Bristol was opened, the first hymn-book published; then the United Societies were formed, then field-preaching began, and then Whitefield, Charles Wesley, and others held that historic lovefeast in Fetter Lane when the Holy Spirit came so mightily on them that all were awed into silence, some sank down insensible, and on recovering they sang with one voice their Te Deum of reverent praise. The centenary year being decided, a three days' convention of ministers and laymen was held at Manchester to make the needful arrangements; its proceedings were marked by a wonderful enthusiasm and liberality. The Centenary Conference assembled at Liverpool in 1839. It could report an increase of 13,000 members. On August 5 it suspended its ordinary business for the centenary services--a prayer-meeting at six in the morning being followed by sermons preached by the Rev. Thomas Jackson and the President, the Rev. Theophilus Lessey. A few weeks later came the festal day, October 25, morning prayer-meetings and special afternoon and evening services being held throughout the country. Never had there been such large gatherings for rejoicing and thanksgiving; there were festivities for the poor and for the children of the day and Sunday schools. These celebrations, in which the whole Methodist Church joined, aroused the interest of the nation, and called forth appreciative criticism from press and pulpit. [Illustration: Wesleyan Centenary Hall.] When the idea of this first great Thanksgiving Fund was originally contemplated, the most hopeful only dared look for £10,000; but when the accounts were closed the treasurers were in possession of £222,589, one meeting at City Road having produced £10,000; and the effort was made at a time of great commercial depression. This remarkable liberality drew the attention of the Pope, who said in an encyclical that _the heretics were putting to shame the offerings of the faithful_. Not a few meetings took the form of lovefeasts, where generous giving proved the reality of the religious experiences; for there has ever been an intimate connexion between the fellowship and the finance of Methodism. Part of the great sum raised went to the Theological Institution, part to Foreign Missions; Wesleyan education was helped by a grant, £1,000 were paid over to the British and Foreign Bible Society; and the laymen desiring to help the worn-out ministers and their widows and children, £16,000 were set aside to form the Auxiliary Fund for this purpose. It was now that the Missionary Committee were enabled to secure the Centenary Hall, the present headquarters of the Missionary Society. The remaining sums were given to other useful purposes. Methodism in 1839 in all its branches [Footnote] reckoned more than 1,400,000 members, with 6,080 itinerant preachers and 350 missionaries; 50,000 pupils were instructed in the mission schools, and there were upwards of 70,000 communicants and at least 200,000 hearers of the gospel in Methodist mission chapels. In England alone the Wesleyan Methodists owned 3,000 chapels, and had many other preaching places; there were 3,300 Sunday schools, 341,000 scholars, and 4,000 local preachers. These figures, when, compared with those given at the end of our sketch, will furnish some idea of the numerical advance of Methodism throughout the world during the Queen's reign. [Footnote: "Methodism in all its branches" must be understood of _all_ bodies bearing the name of Methodist, including the New Connexion and the Primitive Methodists. The membership of Wesleyan Methodism alone throughout the world, according to the _Minutes of Conference_ for 1839, was 1,112,519; and the total ministry, including 335 missionaries, 4,957.] The centenary celebrations marked the high flood-tide of spiritual prosperity for many ensuing years, for a time of great trial followed. Gladly would we forget the misunderstandings of our fathers; yet this sketch would be incomplete without reference to unhappy occurrences which caused the loss of 100,000 members, and allowance must be made for this terrible loss in estimating the progress of Wesleyan Methodism. The troubles began when certain anonymous productions, known as "Fly Sheets," severely criticised the administration of Methodism and libellously assailed the characters of leading ministers, especially Dr. Bunting, who stood head and shoulders above all others in this Methodist war. He was chosen President when only forty-one, and on three other occasions filled the chair of the Conference. He became an authority on Methodist government and policy. Dr. Gregory says, "As an administrator, he was unapproached in sagacity, aptitude, personal influence, and indefatigability... his character was spotless." He was a born commander. The "Liverpool Minutes," describing the ideal Methodist preacher, are his work. Dr. Bunting volunteered to be tried by the Conference as to the anonymous charges against him, but no one came forward with proofs to sustain them. Three ministers, Messrs. Everett, Dunn, and Griffiths, supposed to be the chief movers of this agitation, refused to be questioned on the matter, and defying the Conference, were expelled. Thereafter the agitation was kept up, and caused great disaffection in the Societies, resulting in the loss we have referred to. The seceders called themselves "Reformers"; many of them eventually joined similar bodies of seceders, forming with them the "United Methodist Free Churches." These in 1857 reported a membership of 41,000, less than half that which was lost to Wesleyan Methodism. But now they may be congratulated on better success, the statistics for 1896 showing, at home and abroad, a total of nearly 90,000 members, with 1,622 chapels, 417 ministers, 3,448 local preachers, 1,350 Sunday schools, and 203,712 scholars. It may be noted with pleasure that the leaders of the movement outlived all hostility to the mother Church; one of them attended the Ecumenical Conference of 1881, and took the sacrament with the other delegates. With great regret we speak of this painful disruption, now that so much better feeling animates the various Methodist Churches. Practically there is no difference of doctrine among them. It has been well said, "Our articles of faith stand to-day precisely as in the last century, which makes us think that, like Minerva from the brain of Jupiter, they were born full-grown and heavily armoured." An influential committee has been appointed to ascertain how concerted action may be taken by the Methodist Churches; and the hope is cherished that their suggestions may lead to the adoption of methods which will prevent strife and friction and unworthy rivalry. The New Connexion and Methodist Free Church Conferences also appointed a joint committee to consider the same subject. The brotherly desire for spiritual fellowship and mutual help and counsel thus indicated must be held as a very hopeful token of something better than numerical advance. [Illustration: Group of Presidents Number Two.] The bitter experiences through which the Church passed called attention to the need for modification and expansion of Wesleyan Methodist polity. The Conference of 1851 appointed a committee of ministers to consider the question; 745 laymen were invited to join them. Their recommendations led Conference to adopt resolutions defining the proper constitution of the quarterly meeting, and to provide for special circuit meetings to re-try cases of discipline, which had been brought before the leaders' meeting, when there was reason to think that the verdict had been given in a factious spirit. The chairman of the district, with twelve elected by the quarterly meeting, formed a tribunal to re-try the case. From this decision there was an appeal to the district synods, and also to the Conference. Provision was made for the trial of trustees, so that every justice should be done them. Local Church meetings were guaranteed the right of appeal to Conference, and circuits were allowed to memorialise Conference on Connexional subjects, within proper limits. The quarterly meetings, having considered these resolutions, gave them a cordial reception, and they were confirmed by the Conference of 1853. No new rule is enforced by Conference until opportunity is given to bring it before all the quarterly meetings, and it is not likely to become Methodist law if the majority object. The enlarged district synods are an additional safeguard for the privileges of the people. By ballot the circuit quarterly meetings may now elect one, or in some cases two gentlemen, who, with the circuit steward, shall represent the circuit in the district synod. In 1889, Conference sanctioned the formation of Methodist councils, composed of ministers and laymen, to consult on matters pertaining to Methodist institutions in the towns. Their decisions of course do not bind any particular Society. The disaffection so fruitful of suffering had been due to a suspicion that men were retained in departmental offices when they no longer had the confidence of the people. Now such officials are only elected for six years, though eligible for re-election. One-sixth of the laymen on Connexional committees retire yearly; they may be re-elected, but must receive a four-fifths vote. Visitors may be present when the President is inducted into office, and during the representative session, when also reporters other than ministers are now allowed to take notes. It was the year 1878 which witnessed that most important development of Methodist economy, the introduction of lay representatives to take part with ministers in the deliberations of Conference. This was no sudden revolution; laymen had long had their share in the work of quarterly meetings, district synods, and great Connexional committees; in 1861 they were admitted to the Committees of Review, which arranged the business of Conference; they sat in the nomination committee each year, and had power to scrutinise, and even to alter, the lists of names for the various committees. Now in natural sequence they were to be endowed with legislative as well as consultative functions; it might be said they had been educated to this end. The committee appointed to consider the matter having done its work, the report was submitted to the district synods and then to Conference. Long, earnest, animated, but loving was the debate that ensued; the assembled ministers, by a large majority, determined that the laity should henceforth share in their deliberations on all questions not strictly pastoral. It was resolved that there should be a representative session of 240 ministers and 240 laymen. The ministerial quota was to consist of President and secretary, members of the Legal Hundred, assistant secretary, chairmen of districts not members of the Hundred, and representatives of the great departments; six ministers stationed in foreign countries, but visiting England at the time; and the remainder elected by their brethren in the district synods; the laymen to be elected in the synods by laymen only. A small proportion at one Conference is chosen to attend the next. Such were the new arrangements that came into force in 1878, causing no friction, since they secured "a maximum of adaptation with a minimum of change"; there was no difficulty in deciding what business should belong to either session of Conference. It is needless to dwell here on minor alterations, introduced in the past, or contemplated for the future, as to the order of the sessions; it may amply suffice us to remark that Wesleyan Methodism, thanks to the modifications of its constitution which we have briefly touched upon, is one of the most truly popular Church systems ever devised. For, as the Pastoral Address of 1896 puts it, "Methodism gives every class, every member, all the rights which can be reasonably claimed, listens to every complaint, asserts no exclusive privilege, but insures that all things are done 'decently and in order.'" The great change just described, being the work of the ministers themselves, and accomplished by them before there was any loud demand for it, was effected with such moderation and discretion as not to entail the loss of a single member or minister. This was justly held a cause for great thankfulness; and it was determined to raise a thanksgiving fund for the relief of the various departments. Great central meetings, extending over two years (1878--1880), were held throughout the country, and were characterised by enthusiasm and wonderful generosity. At a time when the country was suffering almost unheard of commercial depression, the sum of £297,500 was raised, to be apportioned between Foreign Missions, the Extension of Methodism in Great Britain, Education, Home Missions, Methodism in Scotland, the Sunday-school Union, a new Theological College, the "Children's Home," the Welsh and German chapels in London, a chapel at Oxford, the relief of necessitous local preachers, and the promotion of temperance. The missionary debt was paid, and the buildings for soldiers and sailors at Malta and Aldershot were cleared of debt. Such work could not be done if the circuits acted independently; but united as they are, and forming one vast connexion, much which would otherwise be impossible can be achieved by means of the great Connexional funds. Of these funds not a few have been established since 1837; but the most important among them, the Foreign Mission fund, can boast an earlier origin. Wesleyanism, indeed, is essentially missionary in spirit, her original aim being to spread scriptural holiness throughout the world. "The world is my parish," said Wesley though he himself could never visit the whole of that parish, his followers have at least explored the greater part of it, causing the darkness to flee before the radiance of the lamp of truth. British Methodism has now missions in almost every quarter of the globe--in Asia, in Africa, on the Continent of Europe, in the Western Hemisphere. Her mission agencies include medical missions, hospitals, schools for the blind, homes for lepers, orphanages, training and industrial schools, etc. In Europe we have set on foot missions in countries that are nominally Christian, where the people are too often the victims of ignorance, wickedness, vice, scepticism, and superstition; France, Germany, Austria, Italy, Spain, and Portugal have all been objects of our missionary enterprise during the present reign, and in some instances conspicuous success has been attained. Witness the good work still going on in Italy, and the independent position attained by the _Conférence, Méthodiste de France_. In India, Ceylon, China, and Burma, our agents are working amongst races in which they have to combat heathenism strong in its antiquity. The progress is necessarily slow, but a point has been reached where great success may be prophesied, as the result largely of the work of the pioneers. The schools are turning out many who, if they do not all become decided Christians, are intellectually convinced that Christianity is right, and will put fewer difficulties in the way of their children than they themselves had to contend with. This educational work prepares the way for the gospel; observers declare that nearly all converts in Ceylon have been trained in our schools. The important missions in Southern and Western Africa must not be forgotten, nor those in Honduras and the Bahamas. The present policy throughout our actual mission-field is as far as possible to raise up native agents. Probably the heathen lands will be won for the great Captain of salvation by native soldiers; but for a long time they will need officers trained in countries familiar for generations with the blessings of the gospel. The number of our missionaries may be stated at 400, more than half being native agents; there are 2,680 other mission workers, 52,058 Church members; 84,113 children and young people having instruction in the schools. But these figures would give a false idea of the progress of the work if compared with the statistics of 1837; for _then_ our missions included vast regions that have now their own Conferences. When the Queen ascended the throne Fiji was a nation of cannibals. Two years before her accession our Missionary Society commenced operations in those islands. John Hunt laboured with apostolic zeal, and died breathing the prayer, "God, for Christ's sake, bless Fiji, save Fiji." The prayer is already answered. All these islands have been won for Christ, and are trophies of Wesleyan missionary toil. There are 3,100 native preachers under the care of nine white missionaries; 1,322 chapels, 43,339 members and catechumens, and more than 42,000 scholars. Fiji has become almost a nation of Methodists. But it were vain to look for traces of this vast achievement in the "Minutes of Conference" of 1896; for a special feature of our missionary policy is the establishment of affiliated Conferences, which in course of time become self-supporting. In 1883 all the branches of the Canadian Methodists united to form one Canadian Conference. The first French Conference met in 1852. In 1855 the Conference of Eastern British America was formed. The same year the first Australian Conference met, and took charge of the Missions in Fiji, the Friendly Isles, and New Zealand. The first South African Conference met in 1882, and the two West Indian Conferences in 1884. Although more or less independent of the mother Conference, they still retain the characteristics of Methodism. A distinct branch of Mission work, known as the Women's Auxiliary, has been established, and sends forth ladies to engage in educational, zenana, and medical work. They are doing good service in India, China, and other parts of the world. In 1896 they expended more than £10,000. The total expenditure last year (1896) was £124,700, incurred by our own Mission work and by grants to the affiliated Conferences. It is satisfactory to note that in the districts helped, including those covered by these Conferences, an additional £185,000 was raised. We have magnificent opportunities; and with full consecration of our people's wealth there would be glorious successes in the future. Foreign Missions have been the chief honour of Methodism, and it is to be hoped the same affection for them will be maintained; for wherever Methodism is found throughout the world, it is the result of mission work. Meanwhile there has been no sacrificing of home interests. Never were greater efforts made by Methodism for the evangelisation of the masses in Great Britain. The Home Mission Fund, first instituted in 1756, was remodelled in 1856. Its business is to assist the dependent circuits in maintaining the administration of the gospel, to provide means for employing additional ministers, and to meet various contingencies with which the circuits could not cope unassisted. Our needs as a Connexion demand such a Contingent Fund. One-third of the amount raised by the Juvenile Home and Foreign Missionary Association is devoted to Home Missions. The income, which in 1837 was less than £10.000, is now more than £36,000; an increase witnessing to a spirit of aggression and enterprise in modern Methodism. This fund provides for the support of the Connexional evangelists and district missionaries. In the year 1882, under the head "Home Missions," there was a new and important departure, by the appointment of the first "Connexional evangelists," of whom there are now four; they have already been the means of great blessing throughout the country, showing that the old gospel, preached as in the old days, is still mighty to awaken and convert. Under the direction of the Home Mission Committee, commissioners visit certain districts, to give advice and discover the best methods for improving the condition of Methodism where it appears to be low. Special attention is given to the villages. The "Out-and-Out Band" subscribed for four Gospel Mission vans, each carrying two evangelists, and a large quantity of literature, to the villages; the evangelists in charge conducting services in the village chapels and in the open air. The sale of books and the voluntary contributions of the people help to defray the expenses. This agency is now under the direction of the Home Mission committee, and the gospel cars will be known as "Wesleyan Home Mission Cars." Another new movement, helpful to village Methodism, is the "Joyful News" mission, originating with the Rev. Thomas Champness, who has been set free from ordinary circuit work to manage it. He trains lay agents, for whose services there is a great demand in villages where the people are too poor to maintain additional ministers, and where the supply of local preachers is deficient. Some of these agents are at work abroad. The energetic Home Mission Committee has also set on foot missions where Methodism was feeble. Nor are those forgotten who "go down to the sea in ships, and do business in great waters." As far as means permit, efforts are made for the spiritual benefit of our sailors in all the great ports of the world; our soldiers, too, are equally cared for. Methodism has always been interested in the army, in which some of Wesley's best converts were found; yet there was no systematic work in it before 1839, when an order by the commander-in-chief permitted every soldier to attend the church of his choice. Some years afterwards, the Rev. Dr. Rule strove hard to secure the recognition of the rights of Wesleyans, and after much struggle the War Office recognised Wesleyan chaplains. The work and position of Wesleyan Methodism are now thoroughly organised throughout the world. The government allows a capitation grant for all declared Wesleyans, and it amounts to a large sum of money every year. In 1896 there were, including the Militia, 22,663 declared Wesleyans in the army and 1,485 Church members. There are 28 Sailors' and Soldiers' Homes, providing 432 beds, and these Homes have been established at a cost of £35,000. In them are coffee bars, libraries, lecture halls, and, what is most appreciated by Christian soldiers, rooms for private prayer. The officiating ministers, who give the whole or part of their time to the soldiers and their families, number 195. There are many local preachers among the soldiers, and at least two have left the ranks to become ministers. On the Mission field, soldiers render valuable aid to the missionary in building chapels, distributing tracts, and often teaching and preaching to the natives and others. Thus, whilst helping to hold the empire for their Queen, they are hastening on the day when all the kingdoms of the world shall be the kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ. This deeply interesting work in the Army and Royal Navy is appropriately mentioned in connexion with our Home and Foreign Missions, both intimately concerned in its maintenance and management. It is right to mention that the Soldiers' and Sailors' Homes described are free to all members of H.M.'s sea and land forces, irrespective of religious denomination. PART II. One great event in Methodist history since 1837 now calls for notice--the assembling of the first Oecumenical Conference in Wesley's Chapel, City Road, London, in 1861. This idea was in strict keeping with the spirit Wesley discovered when, five weeks before his death, he wrote to his children in America: "See that you never give place to one thought of separating from your brethren in Europe. Lose no opportunity of declaring to all men that the Methodists are one people in all the world, and that it is their full determination so to continue, "'Though mountains rise, and oceans roll, To sever us in vain.'" The growing affection among Methodists of all branches made the idea of an Oecumenical Conference practicable. [Illustration: Sir Francis Lycett.] The suggestion took form at the Joint Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church of America in 1876. The American Methodists sent a delegate to the British Conference, proposing a United Conference which should demonstrate to the world the essential oneness in doctrine, spirit, and principle of all the Churches which historically trace their origin to John Wesley; such a manifestation, it was hoped, would strengthen and perpetuate that unity. Further, the Conference was to discover how to adjust our mission work so as to prevent waste and friction; suggesting also modes and agencies for the most successful work of evangelisation. Nor was this all; its promoters trusted to gain light on the relation of universal Methodism to education, civil government, other Christian bodies, and missionary enterprise at large, and looked for a vast increase in spiritual power and intelligent, enthusiastic activity among the various branches of Methodism, whose gathering together might well draw "the attention of scholars and reformers and thinkers to the whole Methodist history, work, and mission," while a new impulse should be given to every good work, and a more daring purpose of evangelisation kindled. The British Conference pointed out the need of frankly recognising the not unimportant differences amongst the various Methodist bodies, so as to rule out of discussion any points which had a suggestion of past controversies. The American Conference accepted this. [Illustration: The Methodist Settlement, Bermondsey, London, S.E.] The smaller Methodist bodies being invited to join, the four hundred delegates were sent up by the various branches of the Methodist Church as nearly as possible in proportion to their numerical strength; seven sections of British Methodism and thirteen from the United States and the Mission fields, numbering probably twenty millions, were represented. It was fitting that the first Oecumenical Conference should meet in City Road, the cathedral of Methodism. Bishop Simpson preached the opening sermon; the delegates then partook of the sacrament together, and Dr. Osborn, President of the Conference, gave the opening address. The Oecumenical Conference did not aim at determining any debated condition of Church membership, or at defining any controverted doctrine, or settling any question of ritual; it met for consultative, not legislative purposes. As such, the gathering brought about the thing which is written: "Thy watchmen shall lift up the voice; with the voice together shall they sing... Then thou shalt see, and flow together, and thine heart shall fear, and be enlarged." By a happy coincidence, that largehearted son of Methodism, the late Sir William M'Arthur, was then Lord Mayor of London, and he gave a congratulatory welcome to the delegates at a magnificent reception in the Mansion House. The next important event in Methodist history during the Queen's reign is the rise and progress of the great Wesleyan Missions in the towns--a vast beneficent movement, in which some at least of the aspirations cherished by the promoters of the first Oecumenical Conference appeared to have been realised. The tendency of our day is towards a steady flow of population from the villages to the towns, especially to London. In 1837, there was only one London district, covering a very wide area, and including six circuits, whose total membership was only 11,460, after a hundred years of Methodism. The various branches of the recently established London Mission report more than a third of this number after less than ten years' labour. [Illustration: Theological Institution, Richmond.] The success of London Methodism in late years is largely due to the establishment of the Metropolitan Chapel Building fund in 1862. The late Sir Francis Lycett gave £50,000, on condition that an equal amount should be raised throughout the country, and that ten chapels, each seating at least a thousand persons, should in ten years be built in the metropolitan area. The noble challenge called forth a fit response. In his will he left a large sum to the same fund, so the committee could offer an additional £500 pounds to every chapel commenced before the end of 1898, with a proportionate grant to smaller chapels; aid will also be given by the committee in securing additional ministerial supply. Such offers should stimulate chapel building for the two years. Already, since the establishment of the fund, more than ninety chapels have been built in London at a cost of £630,000, towards which the fund contributed in grants and loans £213,000. Before 1862, there were only three important chapels south of the Thames, and now there are thirty-seven. During the last ten or twelve years unprecedented prosperity has been shown, not only in chapel building, but in chapel filling, and the establishment of successful missions. In 1885 the earnest attention of the Churches was directed to "outcast London." The deepest interest was aroused, especially in Methodist circles; and that year great meetings were held in City Road, to initiate a movement that should benefit London's outcasts. A large sum of money was raised, and the London Mission formed. The West London Mission at St. James's Hall, the East End branch, and the almost deserted chapel in Clerkenwell became notable centres. Thus at one time efforts were put forth to reach the rich, the artisans, and the outcasts. The success has abundantly justified the enterprise. In addition to evangelistic work, the missions make strenuous efforts to improve the social condition of the people, for Methodism realises that she is called to minister not only to the souls, but also to the bodies of men. Already, as a result of the London Mission, a new, fully organised circuit has grown up; the West London Mission alone reporting a membership which is one-tenth of the whole membership of London in 1837. The latest and most novel branch of the work is the "Bermondsey Settlement," established six years ago in the poorest district of south-east London. In this hall of residence live devoted workers who have been trained in our universities or in our high-class schools, and who spend their leisure in benefiting their poor neighbours by religious, educational, and social effort. A home for women, in which about ten ladies reside, is connected with the settlement, which is in special connexion with Wesleyan schools throughout the country. The programme of work is extensive, and in addition the settlement takes an increasing part in local administration and philanthropy, many non-resident workers assisting. [Illustration: Theological Institution, Didsbury.] To support the London Mission, appeal is made to Methodists throughout the country and the world. The meetings held on its behalf in the provinces have greatly blessed the people, stimulating them to fresh efforts in their own localities. Similar agencies had previously been established in various great trading centres, where the tendency is for the people who can afford it to leave the towns and to live in the suburbs. Thus many chapels have become almost deserted. The Conference decided that the best method of filling these chapels would be to utilise them as Mission halls, for aggressive evangelistic and social effort; which has been done with surprising success in Manchester, Leeds, Hull, Birmingham, and many other large towns. In Manchester there are from ten to twelve thousand people reached by the Mission agencies, and already a new circuit has been formed, the members of its Society having been gathered in from the army of distress and destitution. It would be impossible here to enumerate the thousand ways in which the Mission workers toil for the redemption of the downfallen, or to tell half the tale of their success. But all this work could not be so well carried on without the assistance of another important department. The Wesleyan Chapel Building Committee, instituted in 1818, was reconstituted in 1854; it meets monthly in Manchester to dispose of grants and loans, to consider cases of erections, alterations, purchases, and sales of Wesleyan trust property, and to afford advice in difficult cases. It has also to see that all our trust property is duly secured to the Connexion. The erection of the Central Hall in Manchester, to be at once the headquarters of our Chapel Committee and of the great Mission, marked a most important era in Methodist aggressive enterprise. The income of the Chapel Fund from all sources last year was £9,115. It was reported that the entire debt discharged or provided for during the last forty-one years was £2,389,073, and the total debt remaining on trust property is not more than £800,000; while £9,000,000 had been expended on chapel buildings during the thirty years preceding 1893. [Illustration: Theological Institution, Headingley.] The Extension of Methodism Fund was established in 1874, to supplement the ordinary funds of the Connexion and the local resources of the people, by aiding in the increase of chapel accommodation throughout the country, and in the extension of Methodism by Home Mission and similar agencies. At first the building of a thousand chapels was contemplated; but already 1,796 cases have been helped, with grants and loans amounting to £122,999. In 1867 a fund was started for the relief and extension of Methodism in Scotland; a Chapel Fund for the North Wales District was instituted in 1867, and for South Wales in 1873. There are now in Great Britain 10,000 Wesleyan chapels, which will accommodate 2,156,209 hearers, more than four times the number of members returned; for there is something misleading, as far as the general public is concerned, in the published statistics of Methodism, which take account of class-meeting membership only. Estimating the other Methodist bodies at the same rate, Methodist chapels provide accommodation for 3,000,000 people; so that the united Methodist Church in this country is second only to the Established Church of England. The Wesleyan Methodist Trust Assurance Company was established in 1872, for the insurance of Methodist Trust property only. The Board of Trustees for Chapel Purposes was formed in 1866, which undertakes to invest money intended for the chapel trust and for Methodist objects. Seeing that there are so many funds in Methodism, and that while some have a balance, others might be obliged to borrow at a high rate of interest, it was suggested that a Common Cash Fund should be established, making it possible for the committees to borrow from and lend to one another, the borrowers paying the ordinary bank rate of interest, and the profits being equally divided among the funds. [Illustration: Theological Institution, Handsworth.] A passing reference must be made to another committee, instituted in 1803--the Committee of Privileges and Exigency: and in 1845 an acting special committee for cases of great emergency was formed. Between the sessions of the Conference this committee often renders great service, safeguarding Methodist interests when they would be endangered by proposed government measures, or in any other way. At present it is engaged in trying to get through Parliament several measures in the interests of Nonconformity generally. The subject of education drew the anxious attention of Wesley; his followers were less alive to its importance, until just before the Queen came to the throne. The training of the ministry was neglected, and the young ministers had to educate themselves. Though Wesley approved the idea of a seminary for his preachers, it was only three years before the Queen's accession that the first Theological Institution was opened at Hoxton. The Centenary Fund provided for one such institution at Richmond, and another at Didsbury. The Headingley branch was opened in 1868, and the Birmingham branch, built with part of the Thanksgiving Fund, in 1881. Our ministers are now far better trained than were the old Methodist preachers, and, taking them as a whole, they do not come short of their predecessors in any necessary qualification for their work. [Illustration: Kingswood School, Bath.] Their culture must not be judged by the scantiness of their literary production. The empress Catherine once said to a French _savant_, "My dear philosopher, it is not so easy to write on human flesh as on paper." Much more difficult is the task of our ministers, whose religious, social, and financial work leaves them little of that learned leisure enjoyed by Anglican divines, who by their masterly works have made the entire Christian Church their debtor. But in the period we are reviewing, despite the demands made on the time of the ministers, many have written that which will not easily be forgotten. The Church that nurtured Dr. Moulton, whose edition of Winer's "Greek Grammar" is a standard work, used by all the greatest Greek New Testament scholars, need not be ashamed of her learning. Dr. Moulton and Dr. Geden were on the revision committee which undertook the fresh translation of the Old and New Testaments. Other Wesleyan ministers have made their mark as commentators, apologists, scholars, and scientists in the last few decades. The _Fernley Lectures_ have proved the ability of many Methodist preachers; we lack space to refer to the many able writers who have ceased from their labours. The _London Quarterly Review_ has kept up the literary reputation of Methodism: nor are we behind any Nonconformist Church in journalistic matters. Two newspapers represent the varying shades of opinion in Methodism, and give full scope to its expression. A high level of excellence is seen in the publications of the Book Room, and our people when supporting it are also helping important Connexional funds, to which the profits are given. [Illustration: The North House, Leys School, Cambridge.] While increasing care has been taken with the training of the ministry, lay education has not been neglected. Kingswood School, founded by Wesley, continues, as in his day, to give excellent instruction to ministers' sons. In 1837 a Methodist school, Wesley College, was opened at Sheffield, and a few years later one at Taunton, well known as Queen's College. The Leys School at Cambridge, under the head-mastership of Dr. Moulton, was opened in 1874, and has shown "the possibility of reconciling Methodist training with the breadth and freedom of English public school life." There are in Ireland excellent colleges at Belfast and Dublin. In 1875, a scheme for establishing middle-class schools was adopted, resulting in the opening of such schools at Truro, Jersey, Bury St. Edmunds, Woodhouse Grove, Congleton, Canterbury, Folkestone, Trowbridge, Penzance, Camborne, and Queenswood; all report satisfactorily. Elementary education, which has made such great progress during the Queen's reign, engaged the anxious attention of our authorities long before the initiation of the School Board system, under which the average attendance in twenty-five years increased almost fourfold. Methodism has been in the forefront of the long battle with ignorance. The establishment of "week-day schools" in connexion with this great Church owed its origin to the declaration of the Conference in 1833. that "such institutions, placed under an efficient spiritual control, cannot fail to promote those high and holy ends for which we exist as a religious community." The object was to give the scholars "an education which might begin in the infant school and end in heaven," thus subserving the lofty aim of Methodism, "to fill the world with saints, and Paradise with glorified spirits"; a more ambitious idea than that expressed by Huxley when he said, "We want a great highway, along which the child of the peasant as well as of the peer can climb to the highest seats of learning." [Illustration: Queen's College, Taunton.] In 1836 the attention of the Conference was directed to education in general, and especially to Wesleyan day schools; the Pastoral Address of 1837, regretting that children had to be trained outside the Church or be left untaught, expressed the hope that soon, in the larger circuits, schools might be established which would give a scriptural and Wesleyan education. Already some schools had been commenced; and the plan was devised which has been the basis of all subsequent Methodist day-school work. In 1840 it was decided to spend the interest of the £5,000 given from the Centenary Fund for the training of teachers, work which was at first carried on at Glasgow. The determination of Conference to perfect its plan of Wesleyan education was quickened when an unfair Education Bill, not the last of its kind, was introduced into Parliament in 1843, proposing to hand over the children in factory districts to the Church of England. An Education Fund was established. Government, in 1847, offered grants for the training of elementary school teachers; and in 1851 the Westminster Training College was opened, with room for 130 men students. In 1872, in response to an increased demand for Wesleyan teachers, a separate college for mistresses was opened at Southlands, Battersea. Already four thousand have been trained in these institutions. Many hold positions in Board schools. In 1896 the number in Wesleyan and Board schools was 2,400. The system thus inaugurated met a great and real need, and under it excellent work has been done on the lines laid down by the Department at Whitehall; for, receiving State aid, the training colleges and all the schools, like other similar denominational institutions on the same footing, are inspected and in a measure controlled by the national educational authority. In 1837 there were only 31 Wesleyan day schools; to-day there are 753 school departments, and on their books 162,609 scholars. But the introduction of free education has made it difficult for the Methodist Church to maintain her schools, efficient though they be. Since 1870, when school boards were introduced, the number of Wesleyan day schools has only increased by 10, while 9,752 Board schools have arisen, and the Church of England schools have increased from 9,331 to 16,517; the Roman Catholic schools actually trebling in number and attendance. [Illustration: Wesley College, Sheffield.] In view of these changed conditions, Conference has expressed itself anxious for such a complete national system of education as might place a Christian unsectarian school within reasonable distance of every family, especially in rural districts, with "adequate representative public management"; it has most earnestly deprecated the exclusion of the Bible, and suitable religious instruction therefrom by the teachers, from the day schools; but, so long as denominational schools form part of the national system, it is resolved to maintain our schools and Training Colleges, in full vigour. Difficulties, undreamed of sixty years ago, surround this great question; but assuredly Methodism will be true to its trust and its traditions. The cost of Wesleyan schools last year was £215,634, and was met by school fees, subscriptions, and a government grant of £185,780. The Education Fund of 1896, amounting to £7,115, was spent on the Training Colleges, grants to necessitous schools, etc. Wesley approved of Sunday schools as means of giving religious instruction to the children of the poor, and Hannah Ball at High Wycombe, a good Methodist, and Silas Told, teaching at the Foundery, both anticipated the work of Raikes by several years. In 1837 there were already 3,339 Sunday schools, with 341,442 scholars. Today the schools number 7,147, the officers and teachers 131,145, and there are in the schools 965,201 children and young people. The formation in 1869 of the Circuit Sunday-school Union, and in 1874 of the Connexional Sunday-school Union, has done much for the schools, in providing suitable literature for teachers and scholars, and in organising their work. An additional motive to Scripture study is furnished by the "Religious Knowledge Examinations" instituted by Conference; certificates, signed by the President, being granted to teachers and scholars who succeed in passing the examinations. In recognition of the value of so important a department of the Church, adequate representation at the quarterly meetings is now accorded to the Sunday schools. It is not in our day only that the pastoral oversight of the young has been deemed worthy of attention; the duty has always been enforced on ministers; but in 1878 there were first formed junior Society classes, to prepare children for full membership. There are now seventy-two thousand in such classes. In 1896 we note a new effort to bring young people into the kingdom, in the foundation of the "Wesley Guild," of which the President of Conference is the head, with four vice-presidents, two being laymen. The guild is "a union of the young people of a congregation. Its keynote is comradeship, and its aim is to encourage the young people of our Church in the highest aims of life." The story of its origin may be briefly told. The Rev. Charles H. Kelly introduced the subject in the London Methodist Council, and then brought the matter before the Plymouth Conference of 1895, dwelling on the desire existing to form a Wesley Guild that should do for Britain what the Epworth League does for American Methodism, and secure the best advantages not only of that league, but of the Boys' Brigade, Bands of Hope, Christian Endeavour and Mutual Improvement Societies, which it should federate. The Liverpool Conference of 1896 therefore sanctioned the formation of the "Wesley Guild." Its three grades of members include young people already attached to the Church, with others not yet ripe for such identification, and "older people young in heart," who all join in guild friendship, and aid in forming this federation of the existing societies interesting to young people. By periodical meetings, weekly if possible, for devotional, social, and literary purposes, a healthy common life and beneficent activity are stimulated, and the rising generation is happily and usefully drawn into relation with the older Church workers, whom it aids by seeking out the young, lonely, and unattached, and bringing them into the warm circle of youthful fellowship. Such in brief is the programme of the Guild, which may yet greatly enrich the Church with which it is connected. We turn now to one of the most notable changes in Methodism during the Queen's reign--the wonderful advance in the temperance movement. Wesley himself was an ardent temperance reformer, but his preachers were slow to follow him. A few prominent men strove long to induce Conference to institute a temperance branch of our work, and finally succeeded, their efforts having effected a great change in opinion. For many years our theological students, though not compelled thereto, have almost all been pledged abstainers. 1873 saw Conference appoint a temperance committee "to promote legislation for the more effectual control of the liquor traffic--and in general for the suppression of intemperance." In 1879 a scheme was sanctioned for the formation of Methodist Bands of Hope and Circuit Temperance Unions; and a special Sunday, the last in November, is devoted to considering "the appalling extent and dire result" of our national sin, one of the greatest obstacles to that "spread of scriptural holiness" which is the aim of the true Wesleyan Methodist, whose chosen Church, with its manifold organisation, has unequalled facilities for temperance work. In 1896 the report showed 1,374 temperance societies, with 80,000 members--figures that do not include all the abstainers in Methodism; some societies have no temperance association, and some Methodists are connected with other than our own temperance work. The 4,393 Bands of Hope count 433,027 members. [Illustration: Children's Home, Bolton.] We have already spoken of the growth and development of social philanthropic work in connexion with the great Methodist missions in towns; there remains one most important movement in this direction to notice--the establishment of the "Children's Home," which, begun in 1869 by Dr. Stephenson, received Conference recognition in 1871. It has now branches in London, Lancashire, Gravesend, Birmingham, and the Isle of Man, and an emigration depot in Canada. Over 900 girls and boys are in residence, while more than 2,900 have been sent forth well equipped for the battle of life; some of them becoming ministers, local preachers, Sunday-school workers, and in many ways most useful citizens. The committee of management has the sanction of Conference. This "powerful arm of Christian work" not only rescues helpless little ones from degradation and misery; it undertakes the special training of the workers amongst the children in industrial homes and orphanages; and hence has arisen the institution in 1895 of the order of Methodist deaconesses, which is recommended by Conference to Connexional sympathy and confidence, the deaconesses rendering to our Church such services as the Sisters of Mercy give to the Church of Rome. One example may suffice. A London superintendent minister describes the work of one of the Sisters during the past twelvemonth as "simply invaluable. She has visited the poor, nursed the sick, held services in lodging-houses, met Society classes and Bible-classes, gathered round her a godly band of mission-workers, and in a hundred ways has promoted the interests of God's work." Two events made 1891 memorable for Methodists, the centenary of Wesley's death and its commemoration being the first. The Conference decided that suitable memorial services should be held, and an appeal made to Methodists everywhere for funds to improve Wesley's Chapel and the graveyard containing his tomb. Universal interest was aroused; all branches of Methodism were represented; the leading ministers of Nonconformist Churches also shared in the services. Crowded and enthusiastic congregations assembled in City Road when on Sunday, March 1, the Rev. Charles H. Kelly, Ex-President, preached on "The Man, his Teaching, and his Work," and when the Rev. Dr. Moulton delivered the centenary sermon. On March 2, a statue of Wesley was unveiled--exactly one hundred years after his death--Dean Farrar and Sir Henry H. Fowler addressing the meeting. [Illustration: Westminster Training College.] The Allan Library, the gift of the late Thomas R. Allan, containing more than 30,000 books and dissertations, was opened by the President; it has since been enriched by gifts of modern books from the Fernley Trustees and others, and a circulating library is now connected with it. Accessible on easy terms to ministers and local preachers, and within the reach of many others, this library should be a useful stimulus to the taste for study among ministers and people. The other event of the year was the meeting of the second Oecumenical Conference in October, at Washington, in the country where Methodism obtained great triumphs. The Conference lasted twelve days, like its predecessor; the opening sermon, prepared by the Rev. William Arthur, was read for him, Mr. Arthur's voice being too weak to be heard; and the President of the United States gave a reception at the Executive Mansion, and also visited the Conference. Many topics of deep interest were discussed on this occasion, and not the least attractive subject was the statistical report presented. The difficulty of estimating the actual strength and influence of Methodism is very great. In the present year the membership of the Wesleyan Methodists, for Great Britain and Ireland, is estimated at 494,287; of other Methodist bodies in the United Kingdom at 373,700; the affiliated Conferences of Wesleyan Methodists in France, South Africa, the West Indies, and Australasia at 212,849, being 1,942 for France, 62,812 for South Africa, 50,365 for the two West Indian, and 97,730 for the Australasian Conferences. American Methodism in all its branches, white and coloured, returns a membership of 5,573,118, while the united Methodism of Canada shows 272,392, and the foreign missions of British Wesleyan Methodism 52,058 members. These figures, giving a total of 6,978,404 members, exclusive of the ministers, estimated at 43,368, are sufficiently gratifying; yet they do not represent the real strength of the Church at large, and give only a faint idea of its influence. The Oecumenical Report gave the number of Methodist "adherents" as 24,899,421, intending, by the term _adherents_, those whose religious home is the Methodist chapel, though their visits to it be irregular. For the British Wesleyans the two millions of sittings were supposed to represent the number of adherents (yet should all the occasional worshippers wish to attend at once, it may be doubted if they could be accommodated); for the other branches of Methodism in the United Kingdom, four additional persons were reckoned to each member reported. The statistics for Ireland and Canada were checked by the census returns. Probably in the case of missions the adherents would be more than four times the membership. Varying principles were adopted for the United States, and the adherents reckoned at less than four times the members reported. Should we to-day treat the returns of membership on the same principle (Sunday scholars being now as then included in the term "adherents "), we should find nearly thirty millions of persons in immediate touch with Methodism and strongly bound to it. Compare these figures with those of 1837, and we must exclaim, "What hath God wrought!" Estimating the increase of British Methodism, we have to remember that the population has almost doubled in the sixty years, while British Wesleyan Methodism has not doubled; but the great losses occasioned by the agitations must be taken into account, and also the curious fact that the ratio of increase for Methodism at large, in the ten years between the two Oecumenical Conferences, was thirty per cent--twice as great as the increase of population in the countries represented; the Methodist Church in Ireland actually increasing thirteen per cent, while the population of the country was diminishing and the other Protestant Churches reported loss. If the increase in Great Britain be proportionally smaller, this need not cause surprise, in view of that vast development of energy in the Established Church which is really due to the reflex action of Methodism itself; that Church, with all the old advantages of wealth and prestige and connexion with the universities and grammar schools which she possessed in the days of her comparative supine-ness, with her clergy roll of 23,000, and her many voluntary workers, having in twenty-seven years almost doubled the number of her elementary schools, largely attended by Methodist children. But the indirect influence of Methodism is such as cannot be represented in our returns; figures cannot show us the true spiritual status of a Church. The total cost of the maintenance of our work in all its branches can be estimated; and so able an authority as the Rev. Dr. H. J. Pope stated it at from £1,500,000 to £1,750,000 pounds annually, a sum more than equal to a dividend on fifty millions of consols; but it is impossible to compute the profit to the human race from that expenditure and the work it maintains. This may be said with certainty, that other Churches have been greatly enriched thereby. We may just refer to that remarkable religious movement, the Salvation Army, of Methodist origin, though working on new lines; doing such work, social and evangelistic, as Methodism has chosen for its own, and absorbing into its ranks many of our own trained workers. "The Salvationists, taught by Wesley," said the late Bishop of Durham, "have learned and taught to the Church again the lost secret of the compulsion of human souls to the Saviour." "The Methodists themselves," says John Richard Green, "are the least result of the Methodist revival"; the creation of "a large and powerful and active sect," numbering many millions, extending over both hemispheres, was, says Lecky, but one consequence of that revival, which exercised "a large influence upon the Established Church, upon the amount and distribution of the moral forces of the nation, and even upon its political history"; an influence which continues, the sons of Methodism taking their due part in local and imperial government. Eloquent tributes to the work of Wesley are frequent to-day, the _Times_, in an article on the centenary of his death, saying: "The Evangelical movement in the Church of England was the direct result of his influence and example, and since the movements and ideas which have moulded the Church of England to-day could have found no fitting soil for their development if they had not been preceded by the Evangelical movement, it is no paradox to say that the Church of England to-day is what it is because John Wesley lived and taught in the last century.... He remains the greatest, the most potent, the most far-reaching spiritual influence which Anglo-Saxon Christianity has felt since the days of the Reformation." So far the _Times_, of him whom it styles "the restorer of the Church of England." Many impartial writers, some being ardent friends of the English Church, have also recognised a gracious overflow from Methodism which has blessed that Church, the Nonconformist bodies, and the nation at large. If a man would understand "the religious history of the last hundred years," that "most important ecclesiastical fact of modern times," the rise and progress of Methodism, must be studied in relation to the Anglican and the older Nonconformist Churches, and the general "missionary interests of Christianity": so we are taught by Dr. Stoughton, who has traced the influence of Methodism in the general moral condition of the country and the voluntary institutions of our age. The doctrines once almost peculiar to Wesley and his followers--such as entire sanctification--are now accepted and taught by many Churches, and the religious usages of Methodism are imitated, watchnight services being held, and revival mission services and prayer-meetings being conducted, in Anglican churches; while the hymns of Charles Wesley, sung by all English-speaking Protestants, and translated into many languages, enrich the devotional life of the Christian world. It was a fit tribute to the benefits which the English Church has derived from the Methodist movement, when the memorial tablet to the brothers John and Charles Wesley was unveiled in Westminster Abbey by the late Dean Stanley, in 1872. "The bracing breezes," said Dr. Stoughton, "came sweeping down from the hills of Methodism on Baptist meadows as well as upon Independent fields." We may give some few instances that will show what blessings have come to Nonconformist Churches by the agency of Methodism. A remarkable incident that occurred in 1872 was recorded in the _Wesleyan Methodist Magazine_. Dr. Jobson had invited five eminent ministers to meet the President of Conference at his house. After breakfast their conversation quite naturally took the form of a lovefeast, all being familiar with Methodist custom; when Dr. Allon, Dr. Raleigh, and Dr. Stoughton all said they were converted in Methodist chapels, and began Christian work as Methodists. Thomas Binney said that "the direct instrumentality in his conversion was Wesleyan," and Dr. Fraser was induced to enter the ministry by a Wesleyan lady. Charles H. Spurgeon was converted through the instrumentality of a Primitive Methodist local preacher; William Jay of Bath was converted at a Methodist service; John Angell James caught fire among the Methodists; and Thomas Raffles was a member of the Wesleyan Society; Dr. Parker began his ministrations as a Methodist local preacher; while Dr. Dale has shown the indebtedness of Nonconformity to Methodism. In France and Germany Methodist agency has been one of the strongest forces in re-awakening the old Protestant Churches; the services held by our Connexional evangelists send many converts to swell the fellowship of Churches not our own. And the same effects followed the great Methodist revival in America; out of 1,300 converts, 800 joined the Presbyterian and other denominations. But while calling attention to the spiritual wealth and the beneficent overflow of Methodism, we would not be unmindful of the debt which Methodism owes to other Churches, and in special of its obligations to those Anglican divines of our day who have enriched the whole Church of Christ by their scholarly contributions to sacred literature; and we would ascribe all the praise of Methodist achievement to the almighty Author of good, whom the spirit of ostentation and vain glorifying must displease, while it would surely hinder His work. The great desire of Methodism to-day--its great need, as Dr. Handles expressed it in his presidential address--is "fulness of spiritual life." If this be attained, the actual resources of the Church will amply suffice to carry on its glorious future mission; it will not fail in its primary duties of giving prominence to the spirituality of religion, of maintaining strict fidelity to scriptural doctrine, of giving persevering illustration of the fellowship of believers, nor in upholding the expansion of home and foreign missions, nor in ceaseless efforts to promote social advancement. "There is no rigid system of Church mechanism, nor restraining dogma," to hinder missions. [Illustration: Group of Presidents Number Three.] At present four-sevenths of the human race are in heathen darkness. To win the world for Christ demands that Methodists should unite with all His true soldiers. Wesley said: "We have strong reason to hope that the work He hath begun He will carry on until the day of the Lord Jesus; that He will never intermit this blessed work of His Spirit until He has fulfilled all His promises, until He hath put a period to sin and misery, infirmity and death, re-established universal holiness and happiness, and caused all the inhabitants of the earth to sing, 'Alleluia: for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.'" If Methodism be faithful to her mission, this prophecy may be fulfilled. When the second temple was built, Haggai exhorted Zerubbabel and Joshua to be strong, and all the people to be strong, and to work, for the Lord was with them. Let Methodists be strong in God's strength, and work with the consciousness that the Lord of hosts is with them, and they will insure success to the great mission of their Church. We will conclude with the last paragraph of the Rev. Charles H. Kelly's sermon at the celebration of the centenary of Wesley's death in 1891. "Surely the lesson to the Methodists of to-day is clear enough. Let us cherish the memory of our forefathers, let us emulate their spirit, let us cling to their God-given doctrines, let us cultivate, as they did, communion with the Master and fellowship with each other. Let us aim to be one, to do our duty. Let us strive to make our Church a greater power for evangelism among the people of the earth than ever, let us look to the Holy Spirit for the richer baptism of grace, and Methodism, so blest of the Lord in the past, will yet be blest. Her mission is not accomplished, her work is not done; long may she live and prosper. Peace be within her walls, and prosperity within her palaces. For my brethren and companions' sake, the faithful living and the sainted dead, I will now say, Peace be within her; peace be within her." CONCLUSION. The last days of the half-century are fleeting fast as we write, and we are yet at peace with Europe, as when Victoria's reign began. How long that peace shall last, who shall say? who can say how long it may be ere the elements of internal discord that have threatened to wreck the prosperity of the empire, shall be composed to a lasting peace, and leave the nation free to follow its better destiny? But foes within and foes without have many times assailed us in vain in past years; many times has the political horizon been shadowed with clouds portending war and strife no less gloomily than those which now darken it, and as yet the Crimean war is the only war on which we have entered that can be called European; many times have grave discontents broken our domestic peace, but wise statesmanship has found a timely remedy. We need not, if we learn the lessons of the past aright, fear greatly to confront the future. Not to us the glory or the praise, but to a merciful overruling Providence, ever raising up amongst us noble hearts in time, that we are found to-day "A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled," not quite bankrupt in heart or hope or faith, but possessing "Some sense of duty, something of a faith, Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, Some patient force to change them when we will;" and we may justly acknowledge, in thankfulness not vainglorious, the happier fate that has been ours above many another land, that may still be ours, "if England to itself do rest but true." We have seen during these sixty years the map of Europe remodelled to an undreamed of extent. Fair Italy, though still possessing her fatal gift of beauty, though still suffering many things, is no longer the prey of foreign unloved rulers, but has become a nation, a mere "geographical expression" no longer; Germany, whose many little princedoms were once a favourite theme of British mockery, is now one great and formidable empire; the power of Russia has, despite the Crimean check, continued to expand, while desperate internal struggles have shaken that half-developed people, proving fatal to the gentle successor of Nicholas, the emancipator of the Russian serfs, and often threatening the life of _his_ successors; and the once formidable American slave-system has been swept away, with appalling loss of human life; a second President of the United States has fallen by the hand of an assassin; and new difficulties, scarce inferior to those connected with slavery, have followed on its abolition. Our record shows no calamity comparable to the greatest of these, if we set aside the Indian horrors so terribly avenged at the moment, but by their teaching resulting ultimately in good rather than evil. Besides the furious strife and convulsion that have rent other lands, how inconsiderable seem the disturbances that disfigure our home annals, how peaceful the changes in our constitutional system, brought about orderly in due form of law, how purely domestic the saddest events of our internal history! We wept with our Sovereign in her early widowhood, a bereavement to the people as well as to the Queen; we trembled with her when the shadow of death hung over her eldest son, rejoicing with her when it passed away; we shared her grief for two other of her children, inheritors of the noble qualities of their father, and for the doom which took from us one whom we had loved to call "our future king"; we deplored the other bereavements which darkened her advancing years; we have lamented great men taken from us, some, like the conqueror of Waterloo, "the great world-victor's victor," in the fulness of age and honour, others with their glorious work seemingly half done, their career of usefulness mysteriously cut short; we have shuddered when the hateful terrorism, traditional pest of Ireland through centuries of wrong and outrage, has once and again lifted its head among ourselves; we have suffered--though far less severely than other lands, even than some under our own rule--from plague, pestilence, and famine, from dearth of work and food. But what are these woes compared to those that other peoples have endured, when it has been said to the sword, "Sword, go through the land," and the dread word has been obeyed; when war has slain its thousands, and want its tens of thousands; or when terrible convulsions of nature have shaken down cities, and turned the fruitful land into a wilderness? Events have moved fast since the already distant day when the Colonial and Industrial Exhibition was ministering exultation to many a British heart by its wonderful display of the various wealth of our distant domains and their great industrial resources. We were even then tempted--as have been nations that are no more--to pride ourselves on having reached an unassailable height of grandeur. Since then our territory has expanded and our wealth increased; but with them have increased the evils and the dangers inseparable from great possessions, and the responsibilities involved in them. We can only "rejoice with trembling" in this our second year of Jubilee. Remembering with all gratitude how we have been spared hitherto, and mindful of the perils that wait on power and prosperity, let it be ours to offer such sacrifices of thanksgiving as can be pleasing to the almighty Ruler of the ways of men, whom too often in pride of power, in selfish satisfaction with our own achievements, we forget. Many are the works of mercy, well pleasing in His sight, with which we can associate ourselves, even in this favoured land, whose ever increasing wealth is balanced by terrible poverty, and its affluence of intellectual and spiritual light by grossest heathen darkness. Day by day, as our brief account has shown, are increasing efforts put forth by our Christian men and women to overcome these evils; and through such agencies our country may yet be saved, and may not perish like other mighty empires, dragged down by its own over-swollen greatness, and by neglect of the eternal truth that "righteousness exalteth a nation: but sin is a reproach to any people." 35922 ---- generously made available by The Internet Archive.) VICTORIAN ODE FOR JUBILEE DAY, 1897, BY FRANCIS THOMPSON. Printed for private circulation at The Westminster Press, 1897. VICTORIAN ODE. Night; and the street a corpse beneath the moon, Upon the threshold of the jubilant day That was to follow soon; Thickened with inundating dark 'Gainst which the drowning lamps kept struggle; pole And plank cast rigid shadows; 'twas a stark Thing waiting for its soul, The bones of the preluded pomp. I saw In the cloud-sullied moon a pale array, A lengthened apparition, slowly draw; And as it came, Brake all the street in phantom flame Of flag and flower and hanging, shadowy show Of the to-morrow's glories, as might suit A pageant of the dead; and spectral bruit I heard, where stood the dead to watch the dead, The long Victorian line that passed with printless tread. First went the holy poets, two on two, And music, sown along the hardened ground, Budded like frequence of glad daisies, where Those sacred feet did fare; Arcadian pipe, and psaltery, around, And stringèd viol, sound To make for them melodious due. In the first twain of those great ranks of death Went one, the impress recent on his hair Where it was dinted by the laureate wreath: Who sang those goddesses with splendours bare On Ida hill, before the Trojan boy; And many a lovely lay, Where Beauty did her beauties unarray In conscious song. I saw young Love his plumes deploy, And shake their shivering lustres, till the night Was sprinkled and bedropt with starry play Of versicoloured light, To see that poet pass who sang him well; And I could hear his heart Throb like the after-vibrance of a bell. A Strength beside this Beauty, Browning went, With shrewd looks and intent, And meditating still some gnarlèd theme. Then came, somewhat apart, In a fastidious dream, Arnold, with a half-discontented calm, Binding up wounds, but pouring in no balm. The fervid breathing of Elizabeth Broke on Christina's gentle-taken breath. Rossetti, whose heart stirred within his breast Like lightning in a cloud, a spirit without rest, Came on disranked; Song's hand was in his hair, Lest Art should have withdrawn him from the band, Save for her strong command; And in his eyes high Sadness made its lair. Last came a shadow tall, with drooping lid, Which yet not hid The steel-like flashing of his armèd glance; Alone he did advance, And all the throngs gave room For one that looked with such a captain's mien: A scornful smile lay keen On lips that, living, prophesied of doom. His one hand held a lightning-bolt, the other A cup of milk and honey blent with fire; It seemed as in that quire He had not, nor desired not, any brother. A space his alien eye surveyed the pride Of meditated pomp, as one that much Disdained the sight, methought; then at a touch, He turned the heel, and sought with shadowy stride His station in the dim, Where the sole-thoughted Dante waited him. What throngs illustrious next, of Art and Prose, Too long to tell; but other music rose When came the sabre's children: they who led The iron-throated harmonies of war, The march resounding of the armèd line, And measured movement of battalia: Accompanied their tread No harps, no pipes of soft Arcadia, But--borne to me afar-- The tramp of squadrons, and the bursting mine, The shock of steel, the volleying rifle-crack, And echoes out of ancient battles dead. So Cawnpore unto Alma thundered back, And Delhi's cannon roared to Gujerat: Carnage through all those iron vents gave out Her thousand-mouthèd shout. As balefire answering balefire is unfurled, From mountain-peaks, to tell the foe's approaches, So ran that battle-clangour round the world, From famous field to field So that reverberated war was tossed; And--in the distance lost-- Across the plains of France and hills of Spain It swelled once more to birth, And broke on me again, The voice of England's glories girdling in the earth. It caught like fire the main, Where rending planks were heard, and broadsides pealed, That shook were all the seas, Which feared, and thought on Nelson. For with them That struck the Russ, that brake the Mutineer, And smote the stiff Sikh to his knee,--with these Came they that kept our England's sea-swept hem, And held afar from her the foreign fear. After them came They who pushed back the ocean of the Unknown, And fenced some strand of knowledge for our own Against the outgoing sea Of ebbing mystery; And on their banner "Science" blazoned shone. The rear were they that wore the statesman's fame, From Melbourne, to The arcane face of the much-wrinkled Jew. Lo, in this day we keep the yesterdays, And those great dead of the Victorian line. They passed, they passed, but cannot pass away, For England feels them in her blood like wine. She was their mother, and she is their daughter, This Lady of the water, And from their loins she draws the greatness which they were. And still their wisdom sways, Their power lives in her. Their thews it is, England, that lift thy sword, They are the splendour, England, in thy song, They sit unbidden at thy council-board, Their fame doth compass all thy coasts from wrong, And in thy sinews they are strong. Their absence is a presence and a guest In this day's feast; This living feast is also of the dead, And this, O England, is thine All Souls' Day. And when thy cities flake the night with flames, Thy proudest torches yet shall be their names. O royal England! happy child Of such a more than regal line; Be it said Fair right of jubilee is thine; And surely thou art unbeguiled If thou keep with mirth and play, With dance, and jollity, and praise, Such a To-day which sums such Yesterdays. Pour to the joyless ones thy joy, thy oil And wine to such as faint and toil. And let thy vales make haste to be more green Than any vales are seen In less auspicious lands, And let thy trees clap all their leafy hands, And let thy flowers be gladder far of hue Than flowers of other regions may; Let the rose, with her fragrance sweetened through, Flush as young maidens do, With their own inward blissfulness at play. And let the sky twinkle an eagerer blue Over our English isle Than any otherwhere; Till strangers shall behold, and own that she is fair. Play up, play up, ye birds of minstrel June, Play up your reel, play up your giddiest spring, And trouble every tree with lusty tune, Whereto our hearts shall dance For overmuch pleasance, And children's running make the earth to sing. And ye soft winds, and ye white-fingered beams, Aid ye her to invest, Our queenly England, in all circumstance Of fair and feat adorning to be drest; Kirtled in jocund green, Which does befit a Queen, And like our spirits cast forth lively gleams: And let her robe be goodly garlanded With store of florets white and florets red, With store of florets white and florets gold, A fair thing to behold; Intrailed with the white blossom and the blue, A seemly thing to view! And thereunto, Set over all a woof of lawny air, From her head wavering to her sea-shod feet, Which shall her lovely beauty well complete, And grace her much to wear. Lo, she is dressed, and lo, she cometh forth, Our stately Lady of the North; Lo, how she doth advance, In her most sovereign eye regard of puissance, And tiar'd with conquest her prevailing brow, While nations to her bow. Come hither, proud and ancient East, Gather ye to this Lady of the North, And sit down with her at her solemn feast, Upon this culminant day of all her days; For ye have heard the thunder of her goings-forth, And wonder of her large imperial ways. Let India send her turbans, and Japan Her pictured vests from that remotest isle Seated in the antechambers of the Sun: And let her Western sisters for a while Remit long envy and disunion, And take in peace Her hand behind the buckler of her seas, 'Gainst which their wrath has splintered; come, for she Her hand ungauntlets in mild amity. Victoria! Queen, whose name is victory, Whose woman's nature sorteth best with peace, Bid thou the cloud of war to cease Which ever round thy wide-girt empery Fumes, like to smoke about a burning brand, Telling the energies which keep within The light unquenched, as England's light shall be; And let this day hear only peaceful din. For, queenly woman, thou art more than woman; Thy name the often-struck barbarian shuns; Thou art the fear of England to her foemen, The love of England to her sons. And this thy glorious day is England's; who Can separate the two? She joys thy joys and weeps thy tears, And she is one with all thy moods; Thy story is the tale of England's years, And big with all her ills, and all her stately goods. Now unto thee The plenitude of the glories thou didst sow Is garnered up in prosperous memory; And, for the perfect evening of thy day, An untumultuous bliss, serenely gay, Sweetened with silence of the after-glow. Nor does the joyous shout Which all our lips give out Jar on that quietude; more than may do A radiant childish crew, With well-accordant discord fretting the soft hour, Whose hair is yellowed by the sinking blaze Over a low-mouthed sea. Exult, yet be not twirled, England, by gusts of mere Blind and insensate lightness; neither fear The vastness of thy shadow on the world. If in the East Still strains against its leash the unglutted beast Of War; if yet the cannon's lip be warm; Thou, whom these portents warn but not alarm, Feastest, but with thy hand upon the sword, As fits a warrior race. Not like the Saxon fools of olden days, With the mead dripping from the hairy mouth, While all the South Filled with the shaven faces of the Norman horde. 38627 ---- QUEEN VICTORIA QUEEN VICTORIA AS I KNEW HER BY SIR THEODORE MARTIN K.C.B., K.C.V.O. For Private Circulation WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MCMI _All Rights reserved_ _Stifle the throbbing of this haunting pain, And dash this tearful sorrow from the eyes! She is not dead! Though summoned to the skies, Still in our hearts she lives, and there will reign; Still the dear memory will the power retain To teach us where our foremost duty lies, Truth, justice, honour, simple worth to prize, And what our best have been to be again._ _She hath gone hence, to meet the great, the good, The loved ones, yearn'd for through long toilsome years, To share with them the blest beatitude, Where care is not, nor strife, nor wasting fears, Nor cureless ills, nor wrongs to be withstood; Shall thought of this not dry our blinding tears?_ Published in the 'Nineteenth Century,' February 1901. QUEEN VICTORIA AS I KNEW HER. CHAPTER I. My personal introduction to Queen Victoria was due to the circumstance of my being chosen by Her Majesty to be the biographer of the Prince Consort. The obvious difficulties of that task, to which I looked forward with grave apprehension, could not have been successfully overcome but for the personal confidence early reposed in me by the Queen, which led not only to her placing unreservedly at my disposal the very complete collections made by the Prince Consort of confidential State and other papers connected with Her Majesty's reign, but also to the frank communication of such personal details as, while they illustrated the character of the Prince, threw the strongest light upon that of the Queen herself. After my book was completed, the same confidential relations continued. This gave me such unusual opportunity of observing Her Majesty's qualities of mind and heart, that I am tempted to place on record so much of what I saw as may without impropriety be told. What she was as a Sovereign will be for historians to tell; it is only of the woman as she became revealed to me that I would speak, using, where I may, her own words, as I find them in looking back upon the very voluminous correspondence with which I was honoured through many years. The endearing qualities of the Queen have been acknowledged by all who knew her. They secured for her what might be truly called the affectionate devotion of the men and women of her Court. I belonged to the outer world, but by no one were these qualities more warmly felt than by myself; for to the end, when the work which first brought me into contact with Her Majesty had long been completed, her gracious kindness and trust were vouchsafed to me with a constancy that knew no shade of change. * * * * * "How came you to be chosen to write the Life of the Prince Consort?" is a question I have often been asked. It is a question which, in the early days, I often asked myself, for the selection came upon me as a great surprise. I did not know the Prince Consort, but I had heard much of him through my friend Mr (afterwards Sir Arthur) Helps, Clerk of Her Majesty's Council, and had been consulted by him in his preparation of the Collection of the Prince's Speeches and Addresses, and of the admirable monograph with which he introduced them, in the volume published by Murray in 1862. He must have laid more stress on my assistance than it merited. The Queen, to whom I was an entire stranger, presented me with an inscribed copy of the book dated 20th December 1862. It came with a letter from Lady Augusta Bruce (afterwards Stanley), one of the Queen's ladies, in which she says she had been commanded to forward it to me, "in remembrance of my co-operation in the work of giving these precious memorials to our country and to the world, and as a token of Her Majesty's true appreciation of the spirit in which that co-operation was afforded." Lady Augusta was an old and valued friend of my wife, and she, as well as Sir Arthur Helps, may have spoken of me to the Queen; but I was quite unprepared for such a recognition of suggestions which in no way merited, to my thinking, the name of co-operation. From this time onwards I heard much both of the Queen and Prince from my friend Helps, and my opinion was often asked in connection with Her Majesty's _Leaves from a Journal_, which he was engaged in carrying through the press. It had been intended that General Charles Grey, the Queen's Private Secretary, should write the Prince's Life, and a first volume was in course of being prepared, which dealt with the early years and marriage of the Prince. The General soon found that he had neither the leisure nor the strength to carry out the work, and I was aware that the question how this was to be done had closely occupied Her Majesty's thoughts. I was, however, taken greatly by surprise when a letter from Helps reached me in my holiday retreat in North Wales, in which he told me that the Queen had approved of a suggestion he had made, that I should be asked to undertake the task. With his letter he sent for my perusal, through Miss Alice Helps, who was then staying with us, a memorandum giving an outline of his ideas how the work should be carried out. "It will be a very great thing to do," the memorandum said, "covering many of the most secret transactions of the reign. General Grey's book is merely the life of the Prince as a child, and up to his marriage. It now becomes part of the history of England, and also of foreign States. A special duty will be to judge what documents shall be published, taking it for granted that such a work cannot long be kept secret.... The more I see of the Prince's doings and sayings, the more I am struck with their largeness and extent." The memorandum goes on to offer assistance (which, as it turned out, I never used) in looking up and selecting materials and in furnishing political information, ending with the assurance, that "after seeing me, Her Majesty would be most confidential, and would trust everything to me. H. M. would much like Mr Martin to undertake the work, and he would find no difficulty in getting her to assent to any of his wishes in regard to it." Reflection satisfied me that, as the event proved, Mr Helps had not fully appreciated either the greatness of the scale on which a biography, that would in fact be a history, must be constructed, or the amount of time and labour which it would demand. Much honoured as I felt by the proposal, I shrank from the task; and in the full sense of my own unfitness for it, and in the hope that it would not be further pressed upon me, I replied to Mr Helps as follows:-- _"27th August 1866._ "MY DEAR HELPS,--Alice has read to me your memorandum as to the proposed Life of the Prince Consort, and I have given the subject very anxious consideration. The work I conceive to be one which, while full of the greatest interest, is surrounded with the gravest responsibility. You do not very clearly indicate what precise shape the Life is intended to take. It is natural and proper that a Life of the Prince should be prepared, and given to the world, probably at no distant date, in which the real greatness of his character, public and private, and the breadth of his views should be developed, and developed by letting himself speak through the memoranda and other documents under his own hand, which, I presume, exist in abundance, wherever these can with propriety be used. But it is, of course, obvious that the matters to be dealt with involve so much that is delicate in their bearing both upon individual and public affairs, that to decide what should and what should not be given will involve most anxious consideration at every step; while it is scarcely less certain that much must either be altogether withheld, or set apart for a volume of _pièces justificatives_, to be compiled for possible publication at some more remote period. "The selection and classification of these materials will occupy much time and thought before a line of the Biography can be written. At least such is my present opinion, for I do not think that the life of any man of mark, much more a man so pre-eminent as the Prince, can be written until the whole scope and purpose of his life, as seen in his actions and habits of thought down to its close, have been, as far as may be, ascertained--until, in Shakespeare's words, the 'idea of his mind and life' has crept into the biographer's 'study of imagination.' Then, and then only, can he hope to paint his portrait with the freedom and warmth of pencil which can alone be derived from a full mastery of his materials and thorough sympathy with his theme. Add to this, that much will have to be read and considered of what has already been said and done in public matters during the Prince's life. "Holding these views of the task, I naturally pause very gravely before making up my mind whether or not to accept a duty so honourable, but, at the same time, so onerous. You know how fully my time is engaged in my profession. This will in itself make anything like frequent absence from London impossible, and indeed I would undertake nothing which took me frequently from home, where, as you know, all my happiness is centred. While, therefore, I might upon occasion be able to attend Her Majesty for instructions or the discussion of such points as required explanation, I could only do so upon occasion, and I could, for the meantime at least, only pledge myself to give such time to the work as my profession and my health (which, you know, is far from strong) would admit. Now, it may not be compatible with the views of Her Majesty to accept my service under such conditions. But, in any case, it is indispensable that she should be fully aware of them. If, with the full knowledge of them, Her Majesty should still be pleased to consider that I can be useful in carrying out Her Majesty's views, I should then feel less difficulty in undertaking the task, always understanding that I am to be assisted, as you propose, in the selection and arrangement of documents, &c." Mr Helps received my letter at Balmoral, where, as Clerk of the Council, he was in attendance upon the Queen. "Nothing," he wrote, "can be better than your letter, which I received yesterday evening, and have just sent in to the Queen. She has named a time for seeing me to-day, and, if I have time afterwards, I will tell you what she says." His letter concludes with an account, that is not unamusing, of one of the household balls by which the routine of the life at Balmoral was occasionally broken:-- "The ball went off admirably last night; even Her Majesty remained many hours watching it. In how many points one's education has been neglected! I could not dance any of these Scotch dances. However, I enjoyed the fun as a spectator. All ranks danced together, and one of the best hits I saw made was when the Prince's coachman, a dapper little fellow, cut out H.R.H. very neatly in what they call a 'perpetual jig.' "There was a little 'tiger' who greatly distinguished himself, and contrived, which is a matter of skill, to get the Princess [of Wales] for a partner for a short time. Then, perhaps, the little imp was himself cut out by a duke. The people behaved, as they generally do in such cases, admirably--free, graceful, and comparatively at their ease--and yet never forward." As I heard no more on the subject of the Life for several days, I had begun to hope that the subject would drop, so far as I was concerned, when, on the 11th of September, Mr Helps sent me a letter to himself from the Queen, in which Her Majesty wrote: "She thinks it most important that the services of Mr Martin should be engaged in this all-important work, which she feels should be as _faithful_ a representation of the greatest and best of men, her dearly loved and honoured husband, as it possibly can be. The copying and _sifting_ of papers, and the responsibility for what should be put in or omitted, would rest with the Queen, General Grey, and Mr Helps, and this, she hopes, will remove Mr Martin's objection to the task. It will give the Queen much satisfaction to make Mr Martin's acquaintance." On reading this letter, I waited on Mr Helps, when he gave me full details of what had passed in his interview with Her Majesty after she had read my letter. Among other things, I remember, he informed me that she laid great stress upon the fact that through life I had never taken a side in party politics; that I was thoroughly versed in the German language, in which a large proportion of the documents which I should have to consider was written; that I had gone through a full legal training, and had in my profession come in contact with many men engaged in undertakings of great importance. After so gracious an expression of Her Majesty's confidence, I felt that only one course was open to me, and accordingly I wrote to Mr Helps: "Her Majesty having been graciously pleased to accept such aid as I can give towards the great object which Her Majesty has so deeply at heart, I feel that I can no longer hesitate to place my best services at her disposal. You will understand best how to make this known to Her Majesty, whose commands I shall hold myself in readiness to fulfil." The Queen soon afterwards returned from Balmoral to Windsor Castle, and it was arranged that I was to be introduced there by Mr Helps on the 14th of November 1866. The night before was memorable for the marvellous transit of shooting-stars (the Leonids) across the heavens, the recurrence of which in subsequent years has been looked for eagerly but in vain. I remember well wondering to myself, as after midnight I gazed upon that magnificent spectacle, how I, utter stranger as I was to the ways and etiquette of courts, should pass through the ordeal that awaited me. I had been rather disconcerted that evening by hearing that Mr Helps, whose presence would have somewhat lightened the embarrassment of a first interview with the Queen, was so unwell that he could not accompany me to Windsor. Thither, therefore, I had to go alone, and at the appointed hour was ushered into a room the walls of which were enriched by part of Her Majesty's great collection of miniatures. Here I found the Princess Helena awaiting me. I had met her more than once before, and her presence served to place me more at ease than I should otherwise have been before Her Majesty appeared. Still, my heart beat quicker when, very soon, I found myself in the presence of the Queen. In her face I read at a glance marked traces of the great sorrow she had undergone. Serene and full of quiet dignity as it was, I seemed to perceive in the Queen's bearing something of that nervousness, almost amounting to shyness, which, as I came to know afterwards, Her Majesty always seemed to feel in first meeting a stranger--a shyness so little to be expected in a Sovereign who had gone through so many exciting scenes, and had known nearly all the most distinguished men in Europe. To show no signs of embarrassment, but to be simple and self-possessed, I saw at once was my true policy. The consequence was that Her Majesty herself quickly became at ease, and by her frank, gracious manner made me feel as it were at home in the long conversation that ensued, and in which, for the first time, I felt the charm that never failed of her exquisite smile and of her silver-toned voice. The details of that conversation I cannot, after so long an interval of years, recall. An opportunity was given to me of explaining my views as to the lines upon which the Life of the Prince should be written, and the information with which I desired more immediately to be furnished. The Queen promised to send me such extracts from her own and the Prince's diaries, and copies of such documents in her possession, as she considered might be useful. Before she withdrew, Her Majesty turned the conversation to general topics, and, to my surprise, I found that she somehow knew much of my home ties, and of my tastes and pursuits in literature and the arts, in regard to which she encouraged me to give the frank expression of my opinions. I left her presence deeply impressed by the simplicity of bearing under which the dignity of the Queen was unostentatiously present but subtly felt, and by a singular charm of manner, which grew and grew upon me the more I came under its influence in the years of frequent intercourse that followed. The absence of Mr Helps upon this occasion was, in a sense, fortunate, as it gave me the opportunity of learning, in the Queen's own words, the impression Her Majesty had formed of me in this first interview. On the same day she wrote to Mr Helps. He was a great purist in regard to style, which will explain the first paragraph of her letter:-- "WINDSOR CASTLE, _Nov. 14, 1866_. "The Queen is _so_ grieved (perhaps Mr Helps will scold her for that _so_!) to hear of Mr Helps feeling so ill to-day, but she thinks he will be relieved to hear that the first interview with Mr Martin passed off extremely well, and that the Queen is very much pleased with him, and _feels sure_ that she can be at her ease with him. He is clever, kind, and sympathetic, and it will be a great interest to her to work _with him_ and Mr Helps." Words so kind naturally dispelled some of the misgivings with which I was haunted in looking forward to what would be expected from the biographer of the Prince Consort,--expected both by her, who knew what she herself and her kingdom had lost in him, and by the public, who only too late had surmised the extent of that loss. No time was lost in getting together materials for the story of the early part of the Prince's life. These were supplied to me by the Queen from her journals, from family correspondence, and, in short, from everything which could throw light upon the youth and character of the Prince. Much information was also furnished in interviews with Her Majesty at Windsor Castle, to which I was frequently summoned. I gathered much, also, from some of the gentlemen of the household who had known the Prince, and with whom I became acquainted during my visits to the Castle, where they were at pains to show me that I was not an unwelcome guest. Most of all I learned from General Charles Grey, the Queen's Private Secretary, a man of strong character and conspicuous ability, whose personal friendship and confidence in me I must ever remember with the warmest gratitude. On one of my early visits to the Castle he put to me a question which I was glad to have an opportunity of answering, and to which, in the interests of the Queen, he was entitled to a reply. "To what," he said, "do you look forward in return for executing the onerous task you are undertaking?" "My compensation," I replied, "will be ample, if I can make people understand the Prince, how great he was, how devoted to the welfare of our country, how great the debt which the country owed him. It must," I added, "be understood that my work is to be without fee or reward of any kind. My private means are ample for all my wants, and I can therefore afford full time for doing the work thoroughly. All I stipulate is that I am to have a free hand both as to the time and manner in which it is to be done. I foresee that it will be the work of years, and that it can only be well done if I am allowed entire independence in forming and expressing my estimate of the Prince, and of his influence in matters of public or political importance." General Grey expressed his satisfaction with what I said, and, no doubt, lost no time in informing the Queen of its import. However this might be, from that moment I was treated with unreserved confidence, and the conditions for which I had stipulated were fully and frankly kept throughout all my labours. In General Grey I found a cordial friend. He paid me the compliment of asking my assistance in finally seeing through the press the work, _The Early Years of the Prince Consort_, on which he was then engaged, and which was soon afterwards published. It had been originally intended that my work should begin where his left off. But as I went on with my studies I found that, to make my biography coherent and complete, I must go over the ground General Grey had already gone over, and treat its incidents in my own way, and with a view to my plan for the further narrative of the Prince's life. As I look back on my correspondence with the Queen, it gratifies me to see how early Her Majesty's letters had passed from formal reserve into a strain of confidential friendliness. Thus in a letter of December 18, 1867, she writes, "The Queen thanks Mr Martin for his two kind letters," and invites him to Osborne for two or three days, where he will meet M. Silvain van de Weyer, "a great and intimate friend of the dear Prince, a man of great cultivation of mind and of the kindest heart, and who will give Mr Martin many useful hints about the Prince's character." This meeting led to an unbroken friendship with the singularly gifted man so well described by Her Majesty. From him I learned much that was of service to my immediate purpose in depicting the early part of the Prince's life. He had been so completely behind the scenes also in all the political movements of the time, that I hoped to have the benefit of his knowledge in dealing with the subsequent years as well. But this was not to be. To my infinite regret, he died before the first volume of the Life was published;[1] but he read the proof-sheets of the greater part of it, and I was greatly encouraged by the warmth of his approval. In the same letter the Queen goes on to say: "The Queen is reading Mr Martin's _Correggio_,[2] of which she used to hear her governess, the Baroness Lehzen, so often speak. Would he let her have a copy to send to the Baroness?" "This day," the letter adds, "has been splendid--a cloudless blue sky, and equally blue sea, with the purest air. But when the Queen awoke this morning her heart felt _sick_, as she knew how her darling husband would have enjoyed such a day in his beloved Osborne, and she yearned for one hour of former happiness." I was again summoned to Osborne in the first week of January 1868. A day or two after my arrival (10th of January) I had a bad accident on the skating-pond,--so bad that I had to be carried to the Palace, where the limb was promptly placed in splints by Dr Hofmeister, the Queen's resident surgeon. The injury was serious, and the pain extreme. On the Queen's return from her afternoon drive she heard of the accident, and immediately sent the late Duchess of Roxburghe, her Lady-in-Waiting, to me. She had been commanded to express Her Majesty's regret that she could not come at once to see me, as she had so many despatches awaiting her which required immediate attention. She also added that I was to write to my wife to come to Osborne: the Royal yacht would be ordered to Portsmouth to wait her arrival and to bring her over. Before nine o'clock next morning I was surprised by the appearance of Her Majesty in my room, where she expressed her warm sympathy with my suffering, and gave orders for my having the constant attendance of one of her principal servants. The Queen had scarcely left my room when two unusually large pillows were brought to me. The Queen, I was told, thought the pillows I had were too small, and had ordered these larger ones to replace them. This thoughtful kindness was but the beginning of a care for my recovery on the part of Her Majesty which left nothing undone that could minister to my comfort. On the 12th my wife arrived, and was met by the Duchess of Roxburghe. Soon after, the Queen came to her room, and her Diary records: "H. M. gave me her hand, and welcomed me most kindly. I am desired to ask for everything as if I were at home;" and everything _was_ done to make her feel at home, by Her Majesty, by the Royal children,--the Princesses Helena, Louise, and Beatrice, and the Duke of Connaught and Prince Leopold,--and by all the ladies and gentlemen of the household. What the impression was which she produced upon the Queen we subsequently learned by a letter from Mr Helps, in which he quoted Her Majesty's words from a letter he had received:-- "_17th January 1868._ "We are selfishly glad that Mr Martin is kept here, and think Mrs Martin _most_ pleasing, clever, and distinguished--really very charming." Almost daily during the three following weeks we had the honour of lengthened visits in our rooms from Her Majesty, in which there was a frank interchange of views, not only in regard to the subject on which I was specially engaged, but also upon the events of the day and other topics of general interest. It so happened that just at this time the _Leaves from a Journal_ were published. Her Majesty's estimate of that little volume was most humble; and as, possibly from a feeling of shyness, she shrank from writing with this first literary effort to the Poet Laureate, she honoured me by requesting me to do so on her behalf. The Queen reverenced genius; greatness in birth and station she regarded as but an accident. To the genius which makes its own position by commanding the love and admiration of the world she bowed with genuine humility. How well this was shown in her visit to Abbotsford! "In the study," she writes, "we saw Sir Walter's Journal, in which Mr Hope Scott asked me to write my name, _which I felt it would be presumption to do_." Surely a beautiful appreciation of genius, as distinguished from the accident of position. The _Leaves_ book was inscribed by the Queen's own hand, and this was the acknowledgment which reached me from Mr Tennyson:-- "FARRINGFORD, FRESHWATER, _21st January 1868_. "DEAR MR MARTIN,--We are very sorry to hear of your accident, and fear, from what you say, that it may have caused you much pain. We are sure that with the Queen, if anywhere, you will have been made to forget it. "I need not say that I am very much honoured by Her Majesty's gift--you know that; and I know that I may trust to you to make my thanks acceptable for a book not only of so much interest in its own day, but trebly valuable to the historian of that future when we shall all of us have gone to join Tullus and Ancus. "Will you remember us most kindly to Mrs Martin? and with a hope that you will soon be well, I am, yours very sincerely, "A. TENNYSON." I must have written to the Queen in warm terms of satisfaction at the burst of enthusiastic and affectionate loyalty with which her little volume was hailed, knowing, as I did, how this feeling contrasted with much of a very different tenor to which Her Majesty's close retirement after the Prince's death had given rise, and which had caused her extreme pain, for on the 16th of January the following note was sent to my room:-- "The Queen was moved to tears on reading Mr Martin's beautiful and too kind letter. Indeed it is not possible for her to say _how_ touched she is by the kindness of _every one_. People are far too kind. What has she done to be so loved and liked? She did suffer acutely last year, she will not deny, and it made her ill; but the sore feeling has vanished entirely, and the very thought of it has lost its sting.... Mr Martin must keep very quiet to-night, and be very good, and _do_ what Mrs Martin and the doctor tell him." Three days later the Queen wrote to me again on the same subject. Her Majesty had the special virtue of dating all her letters and notes, however slight--a grace her subjects too little cultivate. "OSBORNE, _Jan. 19, 1868_. "The Queen would have liked to go to Mr Martin, but ever since she came in, at a quarter past five, she has done nothing but read the reviews in the newspapers. She is very much moved--deeply so--but not uplifted or 'puffed up' by so much kindness, so much praise. She sends one [review] that is very gratifying, which Mr Martin has _probably_ not seen. Pray, let the Queen have it back after dinner. "Two things there are in some of the reviews which the Queen wishes Mr Martin could find means to get rectified and explained: 1. That the Queen wrote _The Early Years_.[3] Pray, have that contradicted. 2. That it is the Queen's _sorrow_ that keeps her secluded to a certain extent. Now, it is her _overwhelming work_ and her health, which is greatly shaken by her sorrow, and the totally overwhelming amount of work and responsibility--work which she feels really wears her out. Alice Helps was wonder-struck at the Queen's room; and if Mrs Martin will look at it, she can tell Mr Martin what surrounds her. From the hour she gets out of bed till she gets into it again there is work, work, work--letter-boxes, questions, &c., which are dreadfully exhausting--and if she had not comparative rest and quiet in the evening, she would most likely _not be alive_. Her brain is constantly overtaxed. Could this truth not be openly put before people? So much has been told them, they should know this very important fact, for _some_ day she may _quite_ break down." It was not till a subsequent visit that I had an opportunity of seeing, in Her Majesty's working-room, the huge piles of despatch-boxes arriving daily from every department of the Government, by which she was surrounded. But Mrs Martin saw them during this visit, and this is what she wrote of them to a friend: "Her Majesty took me into her own room one morning to show me the piles of despatch-boxes, all of them full of work for her, and all requiring immediate attention; and this goes on from day to day. It is the Queen's great aim to follow the Prince's plan, which was to _sign nothing_ until he had read and made notes upon what he signed. You may imagine how such conscientiousness swallows up the Royal leisure." We were still at Osborne when a gloom was cast over the Palace by the sudden and very alarming illness of Prince Leopold. Only the day before he had been in our room full of life and spirit, and when we were told of his illness we were also told that the very worst was feared. The prevailing grief showed in a very touching way how much he was beloved. The Queen was deeply moved; but she bore up with the courage and hopefulness which was a part of her character, and which, it is well known, upon occasion put courage and hope into the hearts of her Ministers, when these were wanted, at times of crisis in either home or foreign affairs. She had seen crises as bad, or worse, and remembered their details, and she could remind them how these had been successfully grappled with and got over. Just so, she had previously seen Prince Leopold in danger quite as great, and he had recovered. While, then, those around him were almost in despair, she never lost heart and hope. The first tidings of a decided change for the better came to us in a little note from the Queen sent to my room on the evening of the 31st of January, saying, "Our dear child is going on very satisfactorily, thank God!" When we left Osborne three days afterwards, the Prince was out of danger, and we started for London with a lighter heart than we should otherwise have done. We had been permitted to share in the anxiety of the Royal family, and their joy at its removal was a joy to us also. The Queen pressed us hard to delay our journey, but the quiet of home was absolutely necessary for my complete recovery. We had made our formal adieus to Her Majesty the previous evening. She had not returned from her morning drive when we left Osborne. But the following letter overtook us by special messenger at Southampton:-- "_Feb. 3, 1868._ "The Queen was much vexed to find, on coming home, that Mr and Mrs Martin had already left, as she was anxious to wish them good-bye, and give Mrs Martin the accompanying souvenir of her stay here.[4] The Queen thought they would hardly venture across to-day with this high wind and in the public boat. She trusts, however, the journey will be performed with comparatively little suffering, and that Mr Martin will not be the worse. Prince Leopold is going on as well as possible." On reaching London we wrote to the Queen, and our letters brought the following reply:-- "The Queen thanks Mr and Mrs Martin both very much for their kind letters. She rejoices so much to hear of Mr Martin not having suffered, and hopes he and Mrs Martin may frequently revisit Osborne under more pleasant circumstances." The circumstances of our long visit to Osborne on this occasion might have been in a sense more "pleasant," had they not been dashed, as they were, by the brief but alarming illness of Prince Leopold, and by the very painful accident to myself. But more auspicious they could not have been for my purpose as biographer of the Prince Consort, or my relations to Her Majesty and the Royal Family. Their kind natures were drawn to me by sympathy, as, but for my accident, they might not have been, and one and all vied in making both my wife and myself feel thoroughly at home. With regard to the Queen herself, frequent personal interviews did what no amount of correspondence could have done. They served to confirm the confidence with which I had been previously regarded, a confidence essential to the successful execution of my task. Insincerity, selfishness, obsequiousness could not live before her, and when her trust was given, her own sincere, sensitive, womanly nature was stirred, and it revealed itself with a frankness, a considerateness, and a courtesy that were irresistibly fascinating, and raised loyalty to chivalrous devotion. CHAPTER II. The letters above quoted show how deeply the Queen felt hurt by the severe remarks of many of the journals as to her seclusion and disappearance from the ceremonials of public life for some years after the death of the Prince Consort. Her Majesty must also have been aware that comments to the same effect were current in general society, where the accustomed gaieties of the Court remained at a standstill. Indeed one sometimes hears them still urged in reproach to her otherwise faultless life as a Sovereign, as though her duty to the State had been sacrificed to a morbid indulgence in the sorrows of her personal bereavement. At one time there might have been some excuse for such an impression, but there is none now. People did not then know, as they know now, how heavy a weight of labour and anxiety had been thrown upon the Queen by the death of the Prince. During his life her labours as Sovereign had been lightened by the constant presence at her side of a counsellor to whom the welfare of the Empire was as dear as to herself, whose life was merged in hers, on whose strong brain and constant devotion she had, for over twenty years, been accustomed to lean for support and guidance. While he lived, the cares of Royalty pressed comparatively lightly upon the Queen. But when he died the full burden of them fell upon her; and from that moment she became the most lonely of women--for who is so lonely as the survivor of two beings whose mutual devotion has been so all-sufficing that they have never looked elsewhere for mental companionship or support? How much more so if the survivor be a woman! With no one to whom she could turn for the same sympathy and guidance, the Queen had henceforth to look solely to her own resources for fulfilling the duties and responsibilities of the great position which, with the Prince's assistance, she had built up for herself before the world. Together it had been their rule to keep themselves advised from day to day of every detail of public affairs by the officials of every department, and to make themselves a living chronicle of everything that passed in the administration of the Empire. This tradition the Queen had now to carry on by herself. But for her great powers of work, her quick perception, and a memory of singular tenacity, this would have been impossible; and it requires no effort of imagination to understand how great to her must have been the resulting exhaustion of both body and mind, and how natural the occasional fear, to use her own words, that some day "she might quite break down." She was not singular in this fear, for it was shared by those who knew her best, and especially by her uncle, the King of the Belgians--and no one knew her better than he, both in her strength and in her weakness. When spoken to about her seclusion and the prevailing desire that she could come more into public life, his advice was to leave her alone. "Pauvre Victoire," M. Van de Weyer told me were his words, "ne la tourmentez pas!" The outside world, of course, did not then know how great was the additional burden that had been thrown upon Her Majesty. Only the Queen herself could enlighten her subjects upon this point, unless some of Her Majesty's Ministers had taken occasion to do so, which they might well have done, but none of them did. This I had to explain to the Queen when she asked me, by her note, above cited, of the 19th of January 1868, and again personally at Osborne, to take means to let the public know the truth. At the same time, I ventured to offer my opinion, that it was neither necessary nor desirable to make any public declaration on the subject. Whatever might be said by some, her people, I was sure, had entire trust in her doing what was best, and that she would appear in public whenever the necessity for doing so arose. My views prevailed, and the enthusiastic reception given within the next few days to the _Leaves from a Journal_, and the warm expressions of loyal devotion stimulated by the insight there given into the Queen's character, came, happily, to confirm my opinion. It was still further confirmed by the reception given to the Queen on her visiting the City to open the new Blackfriars Bridge and the Holborn Bridge and Viaduct on the 6th of November 1869, of which she wrote to me (11th November): "Nothing could be more successful than the progress and ceremony of Saturday. The greatest enthusiasm prevailed, and the reception by countless thousands of all classes, especially in the City, was most loyal and gratifying--not a word, not a cry, that could offend any one." The subject of a public statement was not again mooted. Her Majesty was content to wait until the story I should have to tell in the Prince's Life should fully open the eyes of her people to the truth. Complaints ceased for a time, but during the year 1870 they were renewed in some of the leading journals, and again the Queen felt deeply wounded--how deeply will presently appear. In the autumn of 1871 she had a serious illness, which occasioned general alarm, and the journals teemed with expressions of the devotion and the sympathetic interest which lay at the heart of all Her Majesty's subjects. To this change is due the following letter:-- "BALMORAL, _Septr. 17, 1871_. "Long, long has the Queen wished to write to Mr Martin, but her _very severe_ illness has prevented her from doing so. She is now, however, going on so satisfactorily, _though very slowly_, that she is glad to be able to thank him for his kind inquiries and letters. "The Queen cannot help referring to the articles in Thursday's _Times_, and in Friday's _Daily News_, which are very gratifying, as these go the length of expressing _remorse_ at the heartless, cruel way in which they had attacked the Queen. Mr Martin wrote rightly, that the words were not spoken which were needed to make the public understand that the Queen could not do more than human strength could bear.[5] Mr Martin will recollect the Queen's distress for some years past, and how little she was _believed_. The unjust attacks this year, the great worry and anxiety and hard work for ten years, alone, unaided, with increasing age and never very strong health, broke the Queen down, and almost drove her to despair. The result has been the very, very serious illness--the severest, except one (a typhoid fever in 1835), she ever had--and more suffering than she has ever endured in her life. Now that people are frightened and kind, the Queen will be kindly treated in future; but it is very hard that it was necessary she should have the severe illness and great suffering, which has left her very weak, to make people feel for and understand her.... The sympathy in dear Scotland has been great, and their press was the first to raise their voice in defence of a cruelly misunderstood woman. She will never forget this." After this time Her Majesty had no reason, so far as I know, to complain that she was "cruelly misunderstood" by any section of her people. They learned to understand and to sympathise with her, for they saw day by day how close a watch she kept upon all public affairs, how full her thoughts were of them and their wellbeing, and how tender were her sympathies with all of them who were "in danger, necessity, or tribulation." No one could be much in communication with the Queen without being struck by her power of saying concisely what she had to say in the plainest and clearest language. The swiftness of her thought was apparent in her beautiful, firm, rapid writing. Its clearness was equally shown in her happy choice of the simplest words. She had so much ground to get over daily that she had no time to waste in elaborate expression. For her the one thing important was, that no room should be left for any misapprehension of her meaning--in short, that she should make what was plain to her own mind as plain to the minds of others as it was to herself. If a simple, everyday word or phrase would serve her purpose, she preferred it to anything more ornate. In the course of editing the _Leaves from a Journal_, Mr Helps had many struggles with Her Majesty about what he thought her too homely style, which she defended, because she could not bear it to be thought that what she wrote was written "for style and effect." "It was," she wrote to me (20th October 1868), "the simplicity of the style, and the absence of all appearance of writing for effect, which had given her book such immense and undeserved success. Besides, how could Mr Helps expect pains to be taken when she wrote late at night, suffering from headache and exhaustion, and in dreadful haste, and not for publication?" This artless skill in rendering a fresh, unstudied transcript of her impressions--a power eagerly sought for, but very often unattained by men of letters--undoubtedly gave to these jottings in Her Majesty's Journal their special charm. But its value was apparent in all she wrote. The habit of getting as near in words as possible to what was in her own mind gave great vividness and graphic force upon occasion to her style, especially where matters of importance had to be dealt with. When an authoritative Life of Her Majesty is written, proofs of this will be abundant. But, to speak only of what is already before the world, what could be more happy or to the purpose than the Addresses and Messages which she issued upon occasion to her people, and which in point merely of style, apart from the governing thought and feeling, were always masterly? The same characteristic was conspicuous in her conversation. Her words were few and well chosen. You were never puzzled to know what she meant, and she expected you, in what you said, to be equally concise and clear--exact in the expression of opinion, and rigidly accurate as to fact. Her aim always was to get at the truth. Herself the most truthful of women, she resented any shortcoming in truthfulness in others. "Oh!" she once said to me, "nobody can tell of what value it is to me to hear the truth." The Queen's intolerance of affectation, verbosity, or obscurity of language affected her judgment not only of men, but also of much of the contemporary literature which found favour with others. She loved and appreciated, and indeed delighted in poetry, but it must be poetry as the vehicle of genuine feeling or wholesome and instructive thought, clothed in the musical language which ingratiates it to the memory, without the inversions or obscurity of phrase or the exaggerations of metaphor or sentiment, which are so often mistaken for originality and strength. In my experience, Her Majesty was not prone to offer critical opinions upon books, but when she did so, her judgments were to the point. Thus, in speaking to me about George Eliot's _Middlemarch_, she remarked, after saying much about the subtle delineation of the various characters, "After all, fine as it is, it is a disappointing book; all the people are failures"--meaning not in the way they were drawn, but in the issues of their lives, as in truth they are. The Queen knew, I should say, quite as much of literature, music, and the arts as most of the people who think themselves entitled to speak with authority upon all these topics; but she knew the limitations of her own knowledge, and was much too sincere and too modest to affect authority to dilate upon them. This she left to those who had made them their special study, and was "Contented if she might enjoy The things which others understand," or think they understand. She had no leisure for abstruse studies. She had one great book always before her, which commanded and absorbed her supreme attention--the book of human life, of human good and ill within her kingdom, and of all that was going on in Europe and throughout her vast dominions. The study of that book left little leisure for great attainments in literature, science, or the arts. To music she had been devoted from her youth. She had grown up in the love of the chief Italian composers, ancient and modern, of Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer, and Verdi in the modern school--in short, all the great masters of melody who wrote from and to the heart. It was not, then, surprising that she cared comparatively little for the writers of the latest school, Wagner, Brahms, Grieg, and others, who write much less from the heart than from the head, building up elaborately scientific tonic structures, the symmetry of which it is difficult to trace, and weaving complicated harmonies that tax and exhaust the attention, and savour more of the science than of the soul of music. However indifferent the Queen might be to productions of this class, she was keenly alive to every piece of pure melodic and harmonious inspiration. Of Her Majesty's executive power as an artist I cannot speak, as what I know of her work is confined to a few slight sketches, and the etchings which she made, when Prince Albert and herself were for a time fascinated by that attractive but difficult process. Of these I owe to the Queen's kindness a complete series.[6] Of them it is enough to say that the drawing is not remarkable, and that, as etchings, the difficulties of the art have not been overcome. But I had frequent occasion to observe that Her Majesty's studies had resulted in a power of judging good artistic work beyond that of even the tolerably accomplished amateur. She was in the constant habit of having engravings made of the portraits of her family and friends, for private circulation, and for several years I acted, by her desire, as the medium of communication between her and the brothers Francis and William Holl, the eminent engravers, by whom the work was done. The engravers' proofs of these, always carefully scrutinised by the Queen, were never returned to me without some pertinent comment, sometimes illustrated by a drawing by the Queen upon the margin. "None but an artist could have made that suggestion" was a not uncommon remark of the engraver. It showed him how to correct something which he himself had not seen the way to amend. With so much to do and think of, Her Majesty was entitled to expect from her Ministers that all important matters submitted for her consideration should be explained in language at once lucid and concise. This, no doubt, was generally done. But a very remarkable instance to the contrary came under my notice while I was lying ill at Osborne. The Irish Church Disestablishment question, which in 1867 had been much agitated, took the shape, in January 1868, of a bill, the printed draft of which, together with a letter explanatory of the measure, was sent by Mr Gladstone to the Queen. Her Private Secretary, General Grey, must have been absent from Osborne at the time, otherwise the Queen would have turned to him for aid in clearing up any difficulty she found in mastering these documents. I was therefore surprised to receive a note from Her Majesty, sending them to me, requesting me to read and return them with a _précis_ of their contents, as she had read and re-read Mr Gladstone's very long letter, and found herself more and more lost in the clouds of his explanations the more she toiled through them. My opinion of the measure, of course, was not asked for--it never was upon any subject where her Ministers were properly her advisers--and Her Majesty knew she could rely on my secrecy in regard to its terms as implicitly as if I had been sworn of her Privy Council. My task was simply to analyse and state as clearly as I could the scope of the measure as I might gather it from the documents sent. That the Queen should have been lost in the fog of the long and far from lucid sentences of her Minister, running, as they did, through upwards of a dozen closely written quarto pages, seemed only natural. I therefore turned from them to the draft bill, and long professional experience in the study of similar documents made it easy for me to furnish Her Majesty with the information desired, for which I presently received a gracious acknowledgment, with the happy assurance that she now saw her way clearly to deal with the measure proposed. This incident, long forgotten, was recalled to my mind on reading the statement made with an air of assured knowledge,[7] that the Queen's "prejudice" against Mr Gladstone began from her "suspecting him of trying to overwork her." I have the best reason to know the groundlessness of this imputation. The Queen's distrust of Mr Gladstone--not her "prejudice" against him--was of a much earlier date than his first Premiership. It was deeply seated, and for reasons that grew more and more serious as the years rolled on. But this is a matter with which the future chronicler of the Queen's Life may be left to deal. Instead of complaining that she was overtasked by Mr Gladstone, Her Majesty's complaint more probably was, that she was not kept fully and timeously informed by him of important matters to which she conceived her attention should have been called. However this may be, the Queen was too fair-minded to allow "prejudice" to warp her judgment as to any of her Ministers; but her intuitively searching glance, her unfailing memory and long experience, would instinctively lead her to make of their characters a penetrating and conscientiously careful study. It seems like egotism to quote the following letter, but it shows better than anything I could write the position in relation to Her Majesty which, I scarcely know how, I had very early come to occupy. "BALMORAL, _5th June 1869_. "The Queen has received Mr Martin's _most_ kind letter of the 3rd.... She really is at a loss to say how much she feels his constant and invariable kindness to her, and how deeply grateful she is for it. In the Queen's position, though it might sound strange, as she has so many to serve her, she feels the assistance rendered her by others in private matters, in which her official servants, from one cause or another, seem to feel little interest and to be very helpless, is of immense value; and she considers it _most fortunate_, to say the least, to have found so kind a friend as Mr Martin. The Queen likewise feels that in him she has found an impartial friend, who can tell her many important things which her own unbiassed servants cannot hear or tell her. This the Queen mentioned to Mr Martin the other day when she saw him at Windsor, when she alluded to the loss of Baron Stockmar." It puzzled me to think what the many little, by me "unremembered acts of kindness," could be which prompted such a recognition. It was always not merely an honour but a delight to be serviceable in any way to a lady so courteous, so unexacting, so full herself of thoughtful kindness. Being in no way under the restraint which inevitably keeps official servants in a great measure aloof from a sovereign mistress, I could speak on all unofficial subjects on which my opinion was invited with a frank unreserve that was impossible to them. I had nothing to fear, nothing to gain, nothing to conceal. More deeply attached, more truly loyal to their Royal mistress it was impossible to be than were the able and accomplished officials by whom she was surrounded, and to whom her wishes were a law which it was their pride to obey. Still, she was their Royal mistress, and could not have the same feeling of unreserve with them as with one like myself, who was wholly independent. In my observation of Court life, I was often reminded of the words of the Queen in Browning's _In a Balcony_, isolated as she was, although surrounded by a loyal Court, and shut away from that frank communion with others, without which life must drag so heavily along:-- "Oh, to live with a thousand beating hearts Around you, swift eyes, serviceable hands, Professing they've no care but for your care, Thought but to help you, love but for yourself,-- And you the marble statue all the time They praise and point at!" And yet, no marble statue, but human to the core, and craving for the homely sympathies of simple, healthy, human life. Such was our Queen. Early in my attendances upon Her Majesty, the name of Baron Stockmar was frequently on her lips, and it was always coupled with expressions of the deepest respect and affection. How well these were justified I soon learned from his letters and memoranda, addressed to the Queen and Prince, which were placed in my hands. It was obvious that they would be of the greatest value for my Life of the Prince, and I told Her Majesty that I intended to make copious use of them there. On this she wrote to me:-- "BALMORAL, _Sept. 30, 1869_. "The Queen rejoices to think that the great character of her dear old Baron will be known now as it ought to be. Indeed, the greatest worth is often not known.[8] No one feels this so strongly as the Queen has done and does. What worth, what talent, what real greatness exist, unknown and unimagined, though not by the Great Judge of all men!" I had made my selection of Stockmar's letters and memoranda for my purpose, when a volume by his son, the Baron Ernest von Stockmar, was published in the autumn of 1872, of _Memorabilia_ from his father's papers, which threw not a little additional light upon the life and character of this remarkable man.[9] As he was to form a prominent figure in my book, and, though little known to the general public, had been frequently misrepresented as a dangerous influence at the Queen's Court, I made his son's book the text for a careful monograph of the Baron for the _Quarterly Review_.[10] I was the more impelled to do so, as the Queen, the Princess Royal (Empress Frederic), and others of the Baron's friends thought the book had failed to do justice to the lovable and more attractive features of the Baron's character. His wisdom and great political sagacity spoke for themselves in the extracts from the published documents, but the finer qualities were not brought out which endeared him to his friends. His son had not, perhaps, had so many opportunities as his English friends for judging the Baron, for a large part of Stockmar's life had been spent away from his home in Coburg, first in attendance on Prince Leopold (King of the Belgians), and afterwards in long visits at the English Court. This might well have been, seeing that "Stockmar," as M. Van de Weyer, who had known him long and intimately, wrote to me, "concealed the tenderness of his heart, his loving nature, his sweet temper, his devotion to his friends, under a stoical appearance which deceived none of those who knew him well; and to know him was to love him." His son had, somehow, failed to appreciate this side of his character, and his book, therefore, left an impression of hardness and austerity which did injustice to his father, and which it was my endeavour to remove. That his influence upon the Queen and Prince was all for good, they were the first and always most eager to acknowledge. No one knew England and its people--what they would bear and what they would not bear in their sovereigns--better than he. Sir Robert Peel, Lords Aberdeen, Derby, Clarendon, John Russell, and Palmerston all deferred to his judgment as that of the wisest and most far-seeing politician of the day. Having very fully expressed my opinion of him from this point of view elsewhere, it only concerns me to say here, that the Queen considered that she owed much of the success of her reign to the sound constitutional principles which he had impressed upon her, and to the warnings, almost prophetic, as to how the changes of circumstance and of opinion were to be dealt with, which his statesmanlike sagacity foresaw were likely to arise in the epoch of transition into which England and Europe were, in his view, rapidly advancing. Stockmar, who had watched the Queen from childhood, wrote of her in 1847: "The Queen improves greatly. She makes daily advances in discernment and experience; the candour, the love of truth, the fairness, the considerateness with which she judges men and things are truly delightful, and the ingenuous self-knowledge with which she speaks about herself is amiable to a degree." Of that rare quality of ingenuousness I saw many illustrations. Thus, for example, how few would be ready to make so frank a confession as to any portion of their past lives as this, in a letter to me (February 18, 1869), which Her Majesty gave as a reason why she could not send, for the purpose of the Prince's biography, her letters during the first years after her accession:-- "OSBORNE, _Feb. 18, 1869_. "The Queen's own letters between 1837 and 1840 are not pleasing, and are, indeed, rather painful to herself. It was the least sensible and satisfactory time in her whole life, and she must therefore destroy a great many. That life of constant amusement, flattery, excitement, and mere politics had a bad effect (as it must have upon any one) on her naturally simple and serious nature. But all changed in 1840 [with her marriage]." The Queen's candour and love of truth, too, made her impatient at being praised where praise was not due, especially where praise should have been given to the Prince Consort. Thus she writes to Lord John Russell (November 18, 1860), on reading in a Cape journal a speech of Sir George Grey's extolling the nature of the education given to her eldest sons: "She feels, she must say, _pained_ at such constant praise of _her_ education of our sons, when it is _all_ due to the Prince, and when his untiring and indefatigable exertions for our children's good is the chief, indeed sole, cause of the success which till now has attended our efforts.... The praise so constantly given to the Queen, and the popularity she enjoys, she knows and feels are due, in a great measure, to the guidance and assistance of the Prince, to be whose wife she considers so great a privilege, and she feels it almost wrong when praise is given to _her_ for what she knows _he_ deserves." Every inch a Queen as she was, and careful that the Royal authority which she inherited should suffer no detriment in her hands, there ran through Her Majesty's nature a vein of modest humility as to her own knowledge and powers in things of common life, a seeking for guidance and help, which was infinitely touching. She made no secret to herself of her own faults and shortcomings. One does not expect queens to make acknowledgments of these, but even these were made upon occasion. Thus in her anxiety to throw light for me upon the Prince's character, she sent me a copy of a letter (July 13, 1848) in which he rebuked her, tenderly but firmly, for writing to him when he had gone from home on a public occasion, in what she calls "a very discreditable fit of pettishness, which she was humiliated to have to own," to the effect that he could do without her, and did not take her miniature with him. In her letter to me she says, that she would not have written as she did had she not been spoilt by his never really leaving her. The Prince's reply is too sacred to quote in full; but what wife's heart would not leap with joy to read the concluding words? "Dein liebes Bild trage Ich in mir; und die Miniaturen bleiben stets weit hinter diesen zurück; eine solche auf meinem Tisch zu stellen um mich _Deiner_ zu _erinnern_ bedarf es nicht."[11] CHAPTER III. The dominant quality in the Queen's character, it seemed to me, was her strong common-sense. It enabled her to see things in their just proportion, to avoid extremes, as a rule, in her estimate of persons, of opinions, and events; to accept the inevitable without futile murmur or resistance. Very early this quality must have been developed, and it will account for that perfect self-possession on the announcement of her accession and at her first Privy Council, which created surprise and admiration in all who witnessed it. Those who read of it were often incredulous, and stories of her agitation on these occasions have found a place from time to time in newspapers and elsewhere. One of these, which appeared in a respectable journal so late as November 1886, drew from the Queen the following very suggestive remark in a letter to me: "The Queen was _not_ overwhelmed on her accession--rather full of courage, she may say. _She took things as they came, as she knew they must be._" It was so with her through life. She met trial, difficulty, or danger "with courage," and reconciled herself with a thoughtful constant spirit, and without passionate remonstrance, to what she "knew must be." What but this quality of mind, and her strong sense of the claims of duty upon her as Sovereign, could have enabled her within a few days after the loss, which for a long time took all sunshine out of her life, to resume her active duties as Queen, and to continue them unbrokenly through feeble health and the many domestic anxieties and bereavements which during her long life pressed frequently and heavily upon her? The Queen's historian will have much to tell in illustration of her breadth of view, her prompt decision, and undaunted spirit in times of political difficulty. At these times, the truly Royal spirit within her answered to the call. A judgment enlightened by a vast experience, and unwarped by prejudice, then came into play. Her sole thought was for the good of her people, and to see that neither this, nor the position of her Empire before the world, should be in anywise impaired. To this end she brought into play the well-balanced judgment, which begets and is alone entitled to the name of common-sense. The same quality was equally conspicuous in her judgment of the affairs of ordinary life. Of this I might have been able to give many examples, had I not made it my rule never to make a memorandum of any remarks on men and things that fell from Her Majesty at any of my interviews with her. In her letters to me, acute and characteristic remarks like the following frequently occurred: "The wisest and best people are sadly weak and foolish about Great Marriages. The Queen cannot comprehend it." With her experience of the private history of the many homes of both the noble and the rich, who so able as she to judge how little of the true happiness of life results from the gratification of such an ambition? "Her sagacity in reading people and their ruling motives and weaknesses" was remarkable. This was noted by Archbishop Benson, and it often broke into remarks touched more with kindliness and humour than with sarcasm. The Archbishop also remarks, truly, that the Queen "was shrewder and fuller of knowledge than most men." "She had not much patience with their follies and the pettiness of their desires." One recognises as very characteristic a remark of hers which the Archbishop quotes: "I cannot understand the world--cannot comprehend the frivolities and littlenesses. It seems to me as if they were all a little mad."[12] Here, too, may be noted the gentleness of her judgments, even in cases where not to condemn would have been impossible. One was often reminded that the axiom, _Tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner_, was habitually present to her mind. If a kind construction could be put upon an action rather than a severe one, she was prompt to seize it. But at the same time her condemnation of falsehood, cant, party intrigue, egotistical ambition, or proved unworthiness was swift and stern. The time had been when Mr Disraeli's attacks on her friend Sir Robert Peel had prepossessed her greatly against him. In one of my letters on the subject of the Prince's _Life_, I must have had occasion to refer to these attacks. This was her reply (7th of June 1870):-- "The Queen quite agrees with what Mr Martin says about Mr Disraeli's conduct to Sir R. Peel. It was and is a great blot, and it is to her the more extraordinary, as he seems a very kindhearted and courteous man. But he was at that time very young, bitterly disappointed, not thought much of, and probably urged on by others." As the years went on Mr Disraeli won for himself a very high place in Her Majesty's regard. In him she recognised the patriotic statesman, free from all mean ambition, superior to the prejudices of party, looking with keen sagacity beyond "the ignorant present," his every thought directed to the weal, the safety, the expansion of the Empire. She also found in him a man of generous instincts, on whom she could depend for consideration and sympathy. Among the other qualities for which she admired him were the constancy of his devotion to Lady Beaconsfield, and the honour which he paid to her memory upon her death. "How touching," she writes to me (December 26, 1872), "is the account of Lady Beaconsfield's funeral! _He_ is a _very fine_ example to set before us in these days of _want_ of affection and devotion, and of belief in what is true, unselfish, and chivalrous." When in 1870 the land was deafened by the outcry about "Woman's Rights," which has not yet wholly subsided, the Queen writes to me (29th May):-- "The Queen is most anxious to enlist every one who can speak or write to join in checking this mad, wicked folly of 'Woman's Rights,' with all its attendant horrors, on which her poor feeble sex is bent, forgetting every sense of womanly feeling and propriety. Lady ---- ought to get a _good whipping_. "It is a subject which makes the Queen so furious that she cannot contain herself. God created men and women different--then let them remain each in their own position. Tennyson has some beautiful lines on the difference of men and women in _The Princess_.[13] Woman would become the most hateful, heartless, and disgusting of human beings were she allowed to unsex herself; and where would be the protection which man was intended to give the weaker sex? The Queen is sure that Mrs Martin agrees with her." In regard to the prevailing extravagance and want of individuality in dress, also, the Queen held strong opinions. Thus she writes to me (January 14, 1875):-- "The Prince had the greatest possible dislike for extravagance in dress, and, above all, for always _following_ in fashion. He liked people to be _well_ and elegantly and neatly dressed, but abhorred in men as well as in women anything loud, or fast, or startling. He would not have allowed me or any of our daughters to appear in any dress or coiffure or bonnet not becoming or proper, and he would have made us take it off. I never bought a dress or bonnet without consulting him, and his taste was always good. I remember so well, when my French coiffeur came from Paris every year, and brought over things which were tried on, the Prince has come in and said, '_Das trägst Du nicht!_' [That you shall not wear!] The Queen and Princesses, he said, ought never to _follow_ foolish and ugly fashions, only because they were new. This was entirely out of place. "What would he say now, when every one dresses so overmuch, and thinks so much more about dress than they ever did before! He thought, and I think the same, that people ought to adopt what is really becoming, but not because it is the fashion, and especially what does not suit their face and figure." Wise words, no doubt; but how few are they, in all ranks of life, who have the courage to be in what Falstaff calls "the rereward of the fashion," however fantastic the fashion may be, and out of harmony with their face and figure? The Queen's passionate love for Scotland, with which her little books have made the world familiar, her delight in the prospect of going to Balmoral, her dejection at the thought of leaving it, constantly broke out in her letters to me. Thus (28th June 1867) she writes from Balmoral:-- "The Queen hopes Mr Martin will find a good place in the _Life_ for the Prince's love and admiration for our beloved Scotland. Mr Martin remembers his memorable words spoken not three weeks before his fatal illness: 'England does not know what she owes to Scotland.' Beloved country! The Queen's whole heart yearns to it more and more, and the 14th will be a sad day when she leaves it again." Notwithstanding my love for my own native land, I found so much of graver matter to deal with in the Prince's life that I fear I did not gratify this phase of the Queen's feelings so fully as she desired. Greatly as the Prince enjoyed his Scottish holidays, Scotland was not to him what it was to the Queen, especially after his death. She was never so well in health as there, and with health came fresh vigour of mind and cheerfulness of spirits. She rejoiced, too, in the contrast of her comparatively simple and genial life there with the life of state and courtly convention which awaited her at Windsor, where, as she has told me, even the measured tread of the sentinels under her windows was irksome to her. The very splendour of Windsor Castle, that stateliest and most richly endowed of palaces, weighed upon a spirit that yearned for the freedom of life and movement, for which monarchs have ever yearned, but must, perforce, school themselves to forego. Her Majesty's feeling on this subject finds striking expression in the following passage of a letter to me from Windsor Castle (November 8, 1869):-- "The departure from Scotland, that beloved and blessed land, 'the birthplace of valour, the country of worth,' is very painful, and the _Sehnsucht_ [yearning] for it, and proportionate chagrin on returning to this gloomiest, saddest of places, very great.[14] It is not alone the pure air, the quiet and beautiful scenery, which makes it so delightful--it is the atmosphere of loving affection, and the hearty attachment of the people around Balmoral, which warms the heart, and does one good, and the absence of which, replaced by a cathedral church, with all its bells and clergy, a garrison town, and a very gossiping one, a Court with all its chilling formality, and the impossibility of going among the poor here, who are in villages of a very bad description, makes the change a dreadful one." While, for the reason I have stated, Scotland took no prominent place in my _Life_ of the Prince, I made the Queen such amends as I might by my assistance in the preparation and passing through the press of the profusely illustrated edition of the _Leaves from a Journal_,[15] in the details of which Her Majesty took great interest. With her accustomed courtesy the Queen acknowledged a service which was a pleasure to me from the frequency with which it brought me into communication with her, by presentation of a fine copy of the book, inscribed (January 11, 1869) by her own hand, "To Theodore Martin, Esq., with the expression of sincere gratitude for the pains he has taken with this illustrated volume." And here I may say that I have not met in life a nature more grateful than the Queen's for service done, however slight, or more courteous in the acknowledgment of it. This perfect courtesy showed itself in many ways. Thus, for example, if a letter remained without answer for a day or two, the reply was sure to open with an apology for the delay. If the delay extended to several days, then "the Queen is shocked" at her own tardiness, although it was due to the urgent demand of business of State, or to some other important claim on her attention. Again, when she has been sitting at work, surrounded by despatch-boxes, in the open air at Osborne, and I have come to make my adieu, taking off my hat as I approached, she would desire me to replace it; and when I deprecated doing so, "Put on your hat," she said with a peremptory playfulness--"put on your hat, or I will not speak to you! I know you suffer from neuralgia,"--though how she came to know it I could not imagine. The marriage of H.R.H. the Princess Louise, for whom my wife as well as myself had a warm regard, was sure, as the Queen knew, to be a matter of deep interest to us. No sooner was it arranged than Her Majesty wrote to inform us. The announcement was followed by another letter (12th March 1871), in which she wrote, in anticipation of the official invitation to the ceremony at St George's Chapel, Windsor, on the 21st: "The Queen is anxious that Mr Martin should know that he is specially invited to Princess Louise's marriage as _the Queen's personal friend_." The signal honour thus done me was continued at all the subsequent marriages of the Royal children. The period between the short Administration of Mr Disraeli in 1868 and his return to office in 1874 was one of great political agitation and unrest, both at home and abroad. Problems that had not hitherto got beyond academical discussion took a practical form under the impulse given to reform by Mr Gladstone on his accession to power. Bills, among others, were launched for the Abolition of the Irish Church, for Compulsory Education, for the Establishment of the Ballot, for the Abolition of University tests, and for Army Reform. These were all measures novel and of a wide-reaching scope, upon which public opinion was greatly divided, and on which the Queen, according to her method, had to form an independent judgment. The state of affairs abroad, also, demanded close attention. The plots and counterplots, not always favourable to England, which came to a climax in the outbreak of the Franco-German war, the attitude of America in regard to the Alabama Claims, and of Russia in denouncing the clauses of the Treaty of Paris which provided for the neutralisation of the Black Sea, all fell within the same period, and in the policy to be maintained in regard to them Her Majesty's Ministers looked for her advice and assistance. Early in 1870 an extra pressure of work was thrown upon the Queen by the death of General Grey, formerly secretary to Prince Albert, and afterwards her own Private Secretary, on whose vigorous judgment and political sagacity she had long been accustomed to rely. A passage in a letter to me (29th March), the day before he died, shows how deeply she felt his loss: "Alas! poor General Grey will hardly live through the day! This is very, very sad, for in many, many ways he was most valuable to the Queen, and a very devoted, zealous, and very able adviser and friend.... It is too dreadful to think of his poor wife and children, whom he quite doted on, and who are remarkably fine children. The poor dear Duchess of St Albans, too, who was confined in the same house, and very near the father she adored, was struck down. It is too, too sad!" The double tragedy was indeed sad, and these words express what was felt by all who knew General Grey and his beautiful daughter, and the great love by which they were united. Apart from all considerations of personal feeling, the loss of a friend so long and intimately associated with the daily work of the Queen as Sovereign must have been serious indeed.[16] The strain upon her mind, great enough before, became inevitably greater, and it is not surprising that in the course of 1871 her health, as she says in the letter of 17th September of that year, above cited (p. 40), broke down. I saw much of her, in connection with my work, at this time, and on one occasion she said: "I wonder what my ladies think of my want of courtesy. Sometimes I drive out with them for a couple of hours, and all the time do not exchange a word with them. I am so taken up with thinking what answers to make to the despatches and letters of the day." The position of a sovereign in regard to foreign policy must often be rendered embarrassing by the ties of relationship or personal friendship. The Queen must have felt this on the outbreak of the Franco-German war. With Germany she had the closest family ties, and she saw with satisfaction that, with the progress of the war, German unity, which she knew had been the cherished dream of the Prince Consort, and which she herself felt would tend in the long-run to the peace of Europe, became a fact. On the other hand, she had formed a warm personal regard for Napoleon III., and also for his Empress, remembering how much they both loved our country, and how loyally he had, on several occasions, behaved to England when his support was of importance. While, therefore, maintaining politically an attitude of perfect neutrality, the Queen's kind heart gave to the fallen sovereigns a sympathetic welcome when they came to England. On the 3rd of December 1870 she wrote to me from Windsor Castle:-- "The Queen has seen the poor Empress, who shows great dignity and great gentleness.... The Queen is pleased to say she was cheered at the station on arriving. There is a great and kind feeling here for those who are in misfortune and sorrow, especially among the working people, and that is not the case in many other countries." Again, when the Emperor came to Windsor Castle in the following March, the Queen wrote (31st March):-- "The visit of the Emperor Napoleon--his _first_ return to Windsor since his triumphal visit here in 1855--was very trying. He was very much moved, but he behaved beautifully and with all the peculiar charm of simple, unaffected graciousness which he possesses in a wonderful degree. He spoke readily of the present and the past...." The Queen's interest in the Emperor did not diminish during the brief span of life which was left to him. On the 8th of January 1873 she writes: "We are all so grieved for the poor Emperor Napoleon, whose state, the Queen fears, is very critical. She is sure the country is full of sympathy." Again, on the 15th, she writes: "The Queen is much pleased with Mr Martin's observations on the poor Emperor Napoleon, whose sudden death she truly grieves at, and she is proud to see the sympathy and feeling shown by the nation.... Did Mr Martin go to the lying-in-state at Chiselhurst yesterday?" This I was unable to do, and I expressed my regret to the Queen, and mentioned that I should go down for the funeral. This was Her Majesty's answer:-- "OSBORNE, _22nd January 1873_. "The Queen sends Mr Martin the copies of two letters that will interest him.[17] The Empress Augusta's especially is very generous and kind. The Queen thanks Mr Martin for his last letters, and is very sorry he could not have the last look, which she so very deeply regrets not having had herself. As soon as she returns to Windsor, she will go to the poor Empress...." I had written to the Queen a full account of the funeral. To this she refers: "The reception on Thursday must have been most affecting. The dear boy is said to behave so well. The Queen sends on the copy of a letter which gives a touching trait of him. The Dean of Westminster [Stanley] the other day said it would be such a good thing, if the poor Emperor's great charm of manner, great amiability and kindness, and wonderful power of attracting people--in short, _fascination_--which the Queen herself felt very strongly, could be generally known; but he did not exactly know _how_. The Queen said she thought it might be possible to do it in Mr Martin's _Life of the Prince_; for the visits to Boulogne of the Prince _alone_ in 1854, of the Emperor and Empress to Windsor in 1855, and of ourselves to Paris in the same year are full of the greatest interest, and the Queen has a very full account of them in her Journal, which she thinks of having extracted, and she feels Mr Martin would be pleased to pay a tribute to one whose reverse of fortune and great misfortunes were borne with such dignity and patience, and without any bitterness towards others." The Queen placed in my hands a manuscript copy of her Journal of these visits. The attractive qualities of the Emperor were so fully illustrated by the copious extracts of which I made use in the Prince's _Life_, that it required no commentary or eulogium of mine to show them in relief. The complete Journal of these visits was printed for the Queen in 1881. It is a historical document, which will be of permanent interest. In sending me a copy on the 10th of October of that year, the Queen writes:-- "The little account of the two French visits in 1855 has delighted those of the Queen's children and friends--only two of the latter, as yet--to whom she has given it. But she finds a great omission on her part, and that is, of _all_ the names of all those who accompanied us to Paris. She here sends the list, and would ask how it could be added, and sends one of the copies for him to look at and see how it could best be done,--whether as a leaf at the end of the book, or as a note like the dinner-list at Windsor, and include the Emperor and Empress's suite who came with them to Windsor." The reply was to send a printed slip with the list of the names to be inserted at the end of the volume. With the exception of Lady Ponsonby, then Miss Bulteel (Maid of Honour), not one of the numerous persons named in the list is now alive. She is, therefore, the sole survivor of the Queen's suite who was present on the occasion of the Queen's reception at the Opera House in Paris, of which the very graphic description is given in the _Quarterly Review_ article of April last, already referred to.[18] It is a very welcome addition to the Queen's own very modest account of what must have been a remarkably brilliant and memorable scene, but of which the most she records is, that her "reception was very hearty," that _God save the Queen_ was sung splendidly, and that "there could not have been more enthusiasm in England." In the midst of the public cares and perplexities of the time, the Queen had to face, at the end of 1871, a deeper anxiety than all other in the dangerous illness of the Prince of Wales. To place herself by his bedside, to cheer and to encourage, and never to surrender hope, however dread the symptoms, was characteristic of her strong, loving nature and brave spirit. Her conduct at that trying time drew her people nearer to her, and their sympathy bound her to them by a very tender tie. Through her kindness I was kept informed by telegram of the progress of the Prince through the extremes of danger to convalescence. Among the letters which the Queen wrote to me from Osborne after her return there with the Prince from Sandringham, the following passage occurs:-- "OSBORNE, _Feb. 13, 1872_. "Two new sad and shocking events have overclouded the joyful return of the dear Prince of Wales: the one which, contrasting as it did with the Queen's own case, made her feel it most keenly--viz., the death of her dear niece[19] from scarlet fever, a terrible blow to her dear sister, who is so delicate herself; the other, the horrible assassination of poor Lord Mayo, a noble and most loyal subject, and most admirable Viceroy, which has shocked the Queen dreadfully! It is awful, and _how_ could it happen? Some dreadful neglect, surely. "The dear Prince of Wales, though quite himself, bears great traces of his fearful 'death-illness.' He seems like new-born, pleased at every tree and flower, ... and gazing on them with a sort of 'Wehmuth' which is quite touching...." Fortunately for the recovery of the Prince of Wales, the treatment of typhus was now better understood than it had been but a few years before. "Ah!" the Queen said to me soon after this time, "had _my_ Prince had the same treatment as the Prince of Wales, he might not have died!"--one of those sad, vain imaginings of "what might have been," common to us all, but on which the Queen was too wise to allow her mind to dwell. The Queen had long ceased to have reason to complain of want of appreciation on the part of the people. On the contrary, it was enthusiastically shown whenever she was seen in public, and most impressively when she went in January 1872 to the thanksgiving service in St Paul's for the recovery of the Prince of Wales. Her letters are full of expressions of satisfaction at these demonstrations of public feeling. Thus she writes, for example, to me on the 10th of April 1872: "There never was a greater success or a greater exhibition of spontaneous loyalty than the Queen's visit to the East End the other day;" and a few days later (23rd April) she calls my attention to a similar display "at two very pretty military events which took place at Parkhurst last Thursday, and here [Osborne] yesterday, on the occasion of giving new colours to the 79th Cameron Highlanders," and of her acceptance from them of the old colours. "Their former chaplain," she adds, with her usual love of detail, "who has been fourteen years with them, and in Lucknow, came on purpose to bless the colours, which he did extremely well and touchingly. It is a splendid regiment." The great change in the public mind, which resulted in the fall of Mr Gladstone's Ministry at the beginning of 1874, took the Queen somewhat by surprise. "The result of the elections," she writes to me (10th February 1874), "is astounding. What an important turn the elections have taken! It shows that the country is not _Radical_. What a triumph, too, Mr Disraeli has obtained, and what a good sign this large Conservative majority is of the state of the country, which really required (as formerly) a strong Conservative party!" Amid the turmoil of the elections which led to this important result a domestic incident took place--the Confirmation of the Princess Beatrice, which was communicated to me in the following letter (January 13, 1874):-- "The Queen cannot resist sending the lines which Mlle. Norèle wrote on her sweet Beatrice at her Confirmation. She did so look like a lily, so very young, so gentle and good. The Queen can only pray God that this flower of the flock, which she really is (for the Queen may truly say she has never given the Queen one moment's cause of displeasure), may never leave her, but be the prop, comfort, and companion of her widowed mother to old age! She is the Queen's Benjamin." The prayer, we know, was granted. Mlle. Norèle's graceful lines form a worthy pendant to the charming picture presented in this letter. I give them with my own translation, as it pleased the Queen at the time:-- "Seule, au pied de l'autel, | "Alone, at the Altar's foot, Nous l'avons contemplée, | Thus was she seen, Au bonheur immortel, | Humbly adoring, mute, Comme un ange, appelée. | With looks serene. | De son front la candeur | Awe touch'd us, and we felt Imprimait le respect, | How pure that sight, Et toute sa blancheur | Fair lily! as she knelt, Du lis avait l'aspect. | Robed all in white. | Son âme calme et pure | Within that holy spot, Semblait en ce saint lieu | Her soul did seem Oublier la nature, | To soar, all earth forgot, Et monter vers son Dieu. | To the Supreme. | Seigneur, bénis sa foi, | Bless, Lord, the vow she pays, Garde-lui ton amour, | Make her Thy care, Que sa vie sous ta loi | So blest be all her days, Ressemble à ce beau jour!" | Like this, and fair!" In the spring of 1874 the Queen suffered a great loss in the death of her devoted and most trusted friend, M. Silvain van de Weyer. On the 24th of April she writes:-- "The Queen has felt much regret at poor Livingstone's fate, and we are now very anxious, alas! again about dear M. Van de Weyer.[20] She herself is very much overdone and overworked, and her nerves overstrained. Never did so many things come together as this winter and spring. On the 18th of May she hopes, _D.V._, to get off to the North for a month, and then really to get rest." Among the many deaths of relatives and friends which the Queen had to mourn within the last few years, no one was more deeply felt than that of her half-sister on 23rd September 1872. "Divided in age by eleven years, and separated by long and unavoidable absences, yet the affection of the Queen for the companion of her early childhood never failed, and the connection of the Princess as sister and aunt of the Royal Family of England was maintained with a fidelity which was never interrupted, either on the part of the Princess herself or of her illustrious relatives." A memorial volume of the Princess's Letters to the Queen was printed in 1874 by Her Majesty, of which I had the honour to receive an early copy. A more beautiful picture of sisterly devotion it would be hard to find than is presented in this volume. From the brief introduction, in which the hand of Dean Stanley may be recognised, I have taken the words above cited. The letters themselves give the impression of a highly refined, intellectual, and sympathetic nature, which must have made the Princess very dear to those who knew her. The opinion of the volume which I expressed in thanking Her Majesty for the gift was acknowledged in the following letter, the closing words of which are especially noteworthy:-- "BALMORAL, _Nov. 19, 1874_. "The Queen is greatly gratified by Mr Martin's opinion of the letters of her darling sister. _She_ felt proud of them, but still she could not know what others might feel, but all who have seen them admire them much! No one who did not know her intimately _could_ know what she was, for she was so modest and unobtrusive--not outwardly expansive, and she did not easily take to people whom she did not find sympathetic. But she was a remarkable, noble-minded, kind, good, and single-minded person, whose loss to the Queen, though we lived so much apart, is daily more keenly felt. The Prince had the greatest respect and admiration for her, and said she would have been worthy of a crown. But, oh! _how unenviable is that!_" How the Princess loved and was beloved by the Queen may be seen from a passage, quoted at the end of the volume above referred to, in a letter found among the papers of the Princess, and marked to be given to the Queen after her death:-- "I can never thank you enough for all you have done for me, for your great love and tender affection. These feelings cannot die; they must and will live on with my soul--till we meet again, never more to be separated,--and now you will not forget "Your only own loving sister, "FEODORA." CHAPTER IV. It was the autumn of 1874, nearly seven years after I had undertaken to write the _Life_ of the Prince Consort, before I found myself able to prepare the first volume for the press. Although I had from the first foreseen that the work would involve a greater amount of labour than was contemplated by the Queen, it soon became obvious that I had myself under-estimated it. As I advanced in my preparations the materials that came into my hands grew greater and greater, and I saw that, to give a true picture of the Prince, my book must be in effect a history of the Queen's reign from the time of his marriage till his death, while it would at the same time be a biography not of him only, but in a great measure of Her Majesty also. I had made considerable progress in the collection of my materials when I became aware of a body of information, valuable beyond all others, which had been accumulated by the Prince himself, and which had been shut away and seen by no one since his death. As if to assure himself that an authentic record of this period of the reign should not be wanting, every document, letter, despatch, private as well as public, which had passed under the eyes and hands of the Queen and himself in reference to affairs of State, to communications with foreign Courts, or to public events in which they had taken a part, had been classified and preserved in an immense mass of folio volumes, to which the Queen afforded me free access. These in a measure enabled me to live through the crowded years of the Prince's life. But the study of them, the bulk of the most important documents being in manuscript, and not a few of them in the cramped German _current Schrift_, was a severe strain upon both patience and eyesight. Months were spent in the perusal and selection of what might be used, especially as the contents of these volumes were often so confidential that they had to be read, transcribed, and translated solely by myself. I had stipulated that I should not be expected to write of the Prince until I had followed his life to its close, and every step I made in my researches confirmed me in this resolution. It was a disappointment to the Queen that I could not show the fruits of my labour so early as she wished, naturally eager as she was that full justice should be done, and done quickly, to the Prince's memory. But when I was able to explain, in the numerous conferences which passed upon the subject, how elaborate were the preparations I was making, how important and voluminous the records to which I was trusting as the basis of what I had to write, Her Majesty became content to wait, and took a deep interest in the development of the narrative, which not infrequently recalled interesting incidents and discussions which had for a time, but for a time only, escaped her marvellous memory. Every chapter, as I wrote it, was submitted to the Queen, and most carefully read and noted by her. No slip in a date or name escaped her notice, and her fine tact never failed to call attention to any expression that could be modified with advantage. But from first to last I was left to the free development of narrative and the expression of my own opinions. The independence for which I had stipulated at the outset was most loyally respected; and I reflect with satisfaction on the fact, that at no point throughout the five volumes to which the _Life_ extended did any conflict of opinion arise between Her Majesty and myself. An incident will serve to show how anxious the Queen herself was that my entire independence should be maintained. When I came in 1876 to write the story of the Crimean war I felt myself in a difficulty. The second son of Her Majesty had married the daughter of the reigning Czar in 1874. It was impossible to say what I had to say of Russia without giving expression to views that could not be otherwise than unacceptable at the Russian Court. How was I to act, as my work of necessity must have the sanction of the Queen? I therefore sought an interview with Her Majesty and explained my difficulty. What was her instant answer? "Do not let the fact of my son's marriage into the Russian family weigh with you for a moment! Whatever conclusions you come to upon the facts and documents before you, express them as if no such marriage existed!" Here, as always, truth I found was the paramount consideration with the Queen. It may be conceived how my responsibility was lightened and my labour cheered by the perfect freedom allowed to me as well as by the warm encouragement I received from the Queen, and her growing interest in the work as it advanced. Her heart was set upon the completion of an adequate and true memorial of the Prince, and, with all the information of every kind placed at my disposal, he became to me as if I had lived through the years with him. Until they had seen the first volume of my book some of the Queen's children were rather adverse to the idea of any _Life_ of the Prince being published so soon. They had a natural fear that it would not do justice to the father whose memory was so tenderly dear to them, and the incidents of whose life were in a measure sacred in their eyes. One of these was the Princess Alice, and in order to remove her impression the Queen wrote to her (24th June 1874) as follows, and sent me a copy of the letter:-- "I do not think, that as so many memoirs of statesmen and people of the same time have been published, that it is too soon to publish a discreet Life of beloved Papa; indeed, much that has appeared without permission, or, I must think, reflection, in the dear old Baron's _Life_, rendered it necessary not to delay in putting things before the world, with all the sides to them, that did not appear in that _Life_. It will be of much use to posterity and to Princes to see what an unselfish, self-sacrificing, and in many ways hard and unenviable life beloved Papa's was." After the first volume was published the doubts of the Princess Alice disappeared, and the Queen, with her habitual consideration, sent me a letter to read, which she received from the Princess, expressing her warm commendation of what I had done. The Princess wrote to me herself in the same strain, and from every member of the family I received the most warm congratulations on my work. This seemed to give great satisfaction to the Queen, for it was her desire that the biographical memorial should be as welcome to them as to herself. As each subsequent volume appeared, I received assurances from Her Majesty of her gratitude for the spirit in which I had carried out her wishes, and from all her children came the warmest acknowledgments of the success of my endeavour to do justice to their father's memory. When, in January 1880, I wrote to the Queen with the concluding chapter of the last volume of the _Life_, and mentioned, in doing so, with what emotion it was written, this was the answer I received:-- "OSBORNE, _January 27, 1880_. "The Queen thanks Mr Martin most warmly for his touching letter accompanying the _last_ chapter of her beloved Husband's _Life_. She thanks him from her heart for the pains and trouble he has taken in the execution of this difficult and arduous undertaking, in which he has so admirably succeeded, and at the same time congratulates him on having completed it. She can well understand the tears that must have been shed in doing so, though Mr Martin did not know the dear Prince personally. "In the meantime, before she can in a more public manner express her high sense of his services, the Queen asks Mr Martin to accept the accompanying bronze statuette reduced from Marochetti's monument in the Mausoleum.[21] The Queen would wish also to thank Mr Martin for the kind and feeling manner in which he has performed his difficult task." The Queen's kindness did not stop here. I was ill, overtasked with very heavy professional work, at the same time that I was writing the last chapters of my book. For months I had been engaged along with the late Mr Edmund Smith in negotiating, and successfully negotiating, for Lord Beaconsfield's Government, the purchase of the undertakings of all the London Water Companies, and preparing the Bill for vesting them in a public trust. The measure was defeated on Mr Gladstone's return to office in April 1880, and for this defeat it may safely be said the community of London has ever since had to suffer severely. Rest and change were essential for my recovery, and I at once determined to seek them in Venice and the north of Italy. Two days before I started I was commanded to dine with Her Majesty at Windsor, and on my arrival I was knighted and invested by her own hands with the Collar and Star of a Knight Commander of the Bath, the act being accompanied by words of commendation far more precious to me than any title of honour. The Queen had chosen for the ceremony the Prince Consort's working room, where all my conferences with her on the subject of the _Life_ had taken place. Her Majesty, I subsequently found, had some difficulty in getting the Star and Collar of the Bath ready in so short a time: I could not, therefore, but recognise in the promptitude of her action the kind thought, that the honour, which would come upon me by surprise, might help to cheer me in the search for health on which I was going abroad. Some years before this time I had occasion to see how keenly the Queen suffered on the death of a friend. On the 7th of March 1875 Sir Arthur Helps, who held a very warm place in her regard, died, after a few days' illness, from a cold caught at the Prince of Wales' levee. I was summoned to Buckingham Palace and found the Queen in tears, and moved to a degree that was distressing to witness. She had lost in him not only a valuable official, but a friend to whom she had for years trusted for counsel in times of personal distress or difficulty. Her first thought was for his family, and what could be done to lighten the embarrassment of the position in which his sudden death had placed them, and arrangements with this view were at once resolved upon and carried into effect. But, seeing what on this occasion I saw Her Majesty suffer, I could not but think how much sorrows of this kind, coming as they did with unusual frequency, and leaving impressions which in her case were far from transitory, must have added to the exhausting effects of the Queen's busy life. It must have been about this time that the Queen one day, in speaking of her portraits, asked me which of them all I thought the best. "Your Majesty," I answered, "will smile at what I am going to say. None of them speak to me so strongly as well as pleasingly, or bring your Majesty so vividly to my mind, as the bust by Behnes, when you were between eight and nine years old." I then told her that I had studied it for years, being so fortunate as to possess the original cast in clay from which the marble bust in the Windsor great corridor was modelled by the sculptor. "Not only," I added, "is the bust beautiful as a work of art, but in it, if I might be so bold as say so, I saw not only the lineaments, but the latent character which years had developed." The Queen, I could see, while somewhat surprised, was also pleased. My criticism must have produced a favourable impression, for the next time I was at Windsor Castle I found that the bust had been removed from a comparatively dark corner to a most conspicuous position near the main entrance to the corridor, where it was shown to the best advantage, and continued thenceforth to remain. Passing along the corridor one evening I called Lord Beaconsfield's attention to it, and he quite concurred in my opinion as to its suggestiveness and peculiar charm.[22] I recall another conversation about this period that led to the grant, which gave great public satisfaction at the time, of a pension of £50 a-year to Edward, the Banff shoemaker and Naturalist. I had thrown into my despatch-box a copy of Dr Smiles's _Life of Edward_, just published, which reached me as I was leaving home to wait upon Her Majesty at Windsor. The box contained papers as to which I had to consult the Queen. On opening it in her presence, her quick eye took notice of the volume, and she asked me what it was. It contained a fine etched portrait of Edward by Rajon, and this, I knew, would interest the Queen. She admired it greatly, and asked, "Who is this Edward?" I told her briefly his story. "Is this not a case," she said, "for a pension from the Bounty Fund?" Some of the most eminent naturalists, I was able to answer, were anxious that he should have one, and a Memorial to Her Majesty praying for it was being extensively signed. "Go on with the Memorial," Her Majesty said. "That is essential; but leave the book with me. I will write to-day to Lord Beaconsfield, and I have no doubt the pension will be at once granted." The next day (20th December 1876), in a letter from the Queen, she wrote: "Lord Beaconsfield had already heard of the book, which with this letter the Queen return, and is most ready to recommend Edward for a pension of £50. He was most amiable about it." Thus some days before the formal Memorial was presented to the Queen its prayer had been granted, and the remarkable old man was made comfortable for life.[23] The following letter, while it shows on what friendly relations the Queen stood with Lord Beaconsfield, also shows with how gracious a welcome Her Majesty received a gift from one of her subjects:-- "_Dec. 25, 1876, Christmas Day._ "The Queen returns Mr Martin her sincerest thanks for his two kind letters, and for the splendid copy of his translation of _Faust_.[24] She had seen it, and sent it as a Christmas offering to Lord Beaconsfield; but she did not possess one, and therefore is much pleased to receive it at _his hands_. The Queen hopes Mr Martin will accept the book with photographs of the Albert Chapel, which will reach him to-morrow.[25] Most sincerely does she wish Mr and Mrs Martin every possible blessing for the season, which is unusually gloomy and dark.... "She has just received a most kind and graceful acknowledgment from Lord Beaconsfield, which she will later send Mr Martin to read." 1877 and 1878 were years of great anxiety in regard to foreign affairs, and from Her Majesty's letters to myself it is apparent how constantly she had to struggle against the severe headaches and weaknesses brought on by overwork. Thus on 14th February 1878 she writes: "The Queen is quite incapable of writing, having so much to do and think of, and suffers from headaches and an over-tired head. But she sees no chance of rest." Again, on the 8th of March: "The Queen has to apologise very much for not having answered Mr Martin's letter of the 1st. Could he come on Monday 11, before 6, and stay till the next day?... Her time is terribly taken up." The Queen was now never long without some great sorrow, and in the late autumn of this year it came in the form of serious illness and death in the home of her beloved daughter the Princess Alice. On the 20th of November 1878 she writes:-- "Mr Martin will excuse her for not answering upon ----'s long letter yet. But her state of anxiety and anguish about all her dear ones at Darmstadt has been such--and they are still great--that what with letters and telegrams, she has been quite incapable of attending to any other things. Her poor child's grief and anxiety are only equalled by her resignation and marvellous courage. But the darling that was taken was one of the sweetest, cleverest, and most engaging little children possible--4-1/2--the only one of her 31 grandchildren born to her who was born on the Queen's birthday." Five years before (June 29, 1873) the Princess Alice had lost another favourite child, who fell out of the window of the room from which she had gone out for a few seconds, and was killed before her eyes. The misery which this loss had caused the Princess might be read in the settled sadness of expression which thenceforth marked her beautiful face, and seemed to foreshadow the early death which Heaven so often gives its favourites. Now, in nursing all her numerous children through a virulent attack of diphtheria, she showed the noble, unselfish courage for which she had always been distinguished. One of them, the Princess May, died, as mentioned in the Queen's letter, and very soon (14th December) the Princess herself succumbed to the same dreadful epidemic. The other children recovered. It is well to recall what the then Prince of Wales wrote of his beloved sister to Lord Granville, in a letter read by his lordship to the House of Lords: "So good, so kind, so clever! We had gone through so much together--my father's illness, then my own; and she has succumbed to the pernicious malady which laid low her husband and children, whom she watched and nursed with unceasing care and attention. The Queen bears up bravely, but her grief is deep beyond words." Overwhelmed by it though she was, Her Majesty's instant care was to settle how she might fill a mother's place in looking after the young children that were left behind. And that she did fill it is well known, and she was requited by seeing them all before she died settled in life suitably to their rank, and the youngest called to share the Imperial throne of the Czar of Russia. In her natural anxiety to see a spot which had so many tender associations for her, the Queen visited Darmstadt in the spring of 1884, and in a letter to me (May 12) from Windsor Castle, after her return, she makes the following interesting allusion to her visit:-- "The Queen has been living in the dear Grand Duchess's rooms at the Neue Palais at Darmstadt, where everything remains precisely as it used to be. The Queen's sitting-room was hers, and the Queen only placed a small writing-table in the room for her own use, leaving everything else untouched. This opens into the dear Grand Duchess's bedroom, where she died, and out of one of the windows of which poor little 'Frittie'[26] fell, where there is now a fine painted glass window, with the following words, 'Of such are the kingdom of heaven,' 'Not lost, but gone before.' It is a charming house.... The light air of the Continent is certainly very different from England, and more like Scotland. The country was brilliant, and lovely in its spring attire of most vivid green; the birch woods are quite beautiful. "It seemed almost an irony of fate to see nature so bright and beautiful, when the heart was so sad, and could feel no pleasure." When my _Life_ of the Prince Consort was completed I should not have been surprised if the Queen, with all her manifold, fatiguing, and ever-increasing engagements, had no longer continued the intimate correspondence with which I had hitherto been honoured. But in this respect no change took place. The number of letters grew less as the necessity diminished for constant reference to Her Majesty on the subjects dealt with in the Prince's _Life_; but I was as frequent a guest as ever at Windsor Castle, and treated with the same frankness and confidence as before. When I could be of use to Her Majesty my services, she knew, were always cheerfully at her command, and they were invariably acknowledged with the exquisite courtesy and thankfulness of which I have already given some examples. I had thus constant opportunities of verifying the justice of the estimate of the personal qualities of Her Majesty which I very early formed, and to which I have in previous pages tried to give expression. In 1883 the Queen had found distraction in preparing further extracts from her Diary of her life in the Highlands. When it was well advanced towards publication my assistance in revising the final proofs was asked. She had no longer her friend Sir Arthur Helps to advise with, who had edited her first _Leaves from a Journal_. A great deal of correspondence in regard to the book, I find, took place, and I must, I suppose, have been somewhat severe in my criticisms, for in sending me her final sketch of the Preface and Epilogue to the volume, the Queen writes that she stood "somewhat in awe of me"--a compliment to my independence which, while it amused me, could not be otherwise than gratifying. The warm reception given to the volume gave the Queen great pleasure. Thus on the 14th of February 1884 she writes: "The Queen is really startled at the success of so humble a production," and again on the 29th, "The Queen must say, she believes few sovereigns, and fewer people, have been so kindly spoken of as herself." In a paper written in 1883, now before me, the Queen speaks of the importance to herself of anything which "has a cheering and invigorating effect on one so depressed, and so often disheartened as I am." It was therefore very pleasant to see that she had found this temporary solace in the public feeling, which had been vivified by her little book. To add to the Queen's depression, a lameness due to a sprain of the knee robbed her of the freedom of movement in which she had always delighted. Of this she speaks in a letter (May 29, 1883):-- "Many things unite in rendering the Queen's remaining years terribly hard and desolate. Her lameness does not improve much. She can walk very little indeed (and that is great labour) out of doors, and never without two sticks indoors, and is carried, which the newspaper reporters with singular ignorance consider a proof of her great 'delicacy of health,' complaining also of the public _not_ being admitted everywhere, as if it would be pleasant for any lady to be carried in and out of a carriage before crowds of people! But the people are very kind and anxious, though very unreasoning in thinking a sprain can be cured in a few days, especially when she is no longer young." In the autumn of 1881 the Queen held a review in the Queen's Park, Edinburgh, of the Scottish Volunteers, considerably over 40,000 of whom passed before her. The march past occupied more than three hours, during which the rain descended in torrents. The Queen was in an open carriage, and however much they might have been disappointed, none of her volunteers would have murmured had Her Majesty withdrawn at an early stage of the review. But, true soldier's daughter as she was, she paid no heed to the weather, thinking only of her duty to let herself be seen by those who had come from all parts of the country in the hope of seeing and being seen by their Queen. She did not leave the Park until the last man had passed. By this time the carriage was full of water, and pools of it, I have been told, dropped from the dresses of herself and ladies when they returned to Holyrood. In a like determination never, if she could, to cause disappointment to her people, when she visited Liverpool about four years later, the Queen drove slowly through more than three miles of streets under a drenching rain which lasted throughout the whole route. The open-air drives in the Highlands had, no doubt, accustomed Her Majesty to bear exposure so trying without injury to her health. The stimulus, too, given by the heartiness of the greeting, which her courage and gracious courtesy evoked, may have helped to keep all evil consequences at bay. In writing to me, May 17, 1886, the drenching rain was not mentioned. "The Liverpool visit," she only said, "was a perfectly triumphal ovation, so warm and hearty ... from a million and a half of people. The feeling against Home Rule is on the increase." It was well that the Queen, in all her sorrows, could find solace in the sympathetic and ever-increasing loyalty of her people. Another heavy blow was soon to fall upon her in the death of Prince Leopold (March 28, 1884). Only two years before, his marriage had been solemnised in St George's Chapel at Windsor under circumstances of unusual splendour, in which Her Majesty had taken a prominent part. Who that witnessed it could ever forget the figure of the Queen as she passed up the aisle to the altar. In the bridal train and the general assemblage many of the most beautiful women in England, arrayed in the costliest robes and adorned with an infinite wealth of jewels, preceded Her Majesty. Whatever high blood and bearing, whatever wealth and beauty could give to delight the eye, was there. But all was eclipsed by the unpretending figure in black, moving onwards with the simple unstudied grace, unconscious of its own charm, but insensibly by its perfect composure filling you with the impression that in her the Majesty of England was represented. _Vera incessu patuit Regina._ No doubt the memory of that moment came back to many as it did to me, when the body of Prince Leopold was borne by the Seaforth Highlanders up the same aisle for the funeral benediction only two short years after, and the Queen was seen looking down from the Royal pew upon the group of mourners gathered round the bier. I had known the Prince well for years, and I believe was a favourite with him. My letter of condolence to Her Majesty after the funeral brought me the following reply:-- "WINDSOR CASTLE, _Apl. 10, 1884_. "The Queen thanks Sir Theodore Martin for his kind letter, as well as for the previous ones, and for all the kind sympathy, but that is indeed universal. It has always been thus for her, and each loss intensifies it.... The accounts of the sad and impressive ceremony of last Friday and Saturday are excellent, and all in such a reverent tone--and the _Times_ articles (3) so good. The _Standard_[27] is admirable, and the Queen thanks Sir Theodore for it.... The Queen is not ill, but greatly shaken, and this new shock has been overwhelming.... "The Queen feels the loss of that dear clever child of so many cares and anxieties more and more, and knows that again a great help and support has been taken from her in her declining years. She never felt easy when he was away, and his foreign trips never did him any good. _Now he is safe._ "The Queen has been urged to have some complete rest and change of air, and is therefore going for a fortnight to Darmstadt on the 15th."[28] In 1886 the idea became general of a great celebration of the Queen's Jubilee in the following year. The subject gave rise to a great display of loyal feeling, and much eloquent writing in praise of Her Majesty in the journals. I seem to have sent Her Majesty some of these which I thought would give her pleasure, for on June 28 she writes to me thus:-- "The Queen hastens to thank Sir T. Martin for his kind letters and enclosures. She was touched and gratified by the articles, as it is rewarding to find _Anerkennung_, as the Germans say, of a long and hard life of anxiety, that is not flattery, which the Queen hates.... "For the Queen all the loyalty shown and the celebration to take place (if she lives, _D. V._) next year are very trying, and much mingled with deep sadness; for to be alone, bereft of her husband, to whom she and the country owe so much, of two dear children, and many, and especially _some_, dear friends, is very painful and trying." In the Jubilee year it was understood that presents might be offered to Her Majesty upon her birthday. Very many, no doubt, availed themselves of the privilege, Lady Martin and myself among the number. We had both so frequently received memorial gifts from the Queen, that it was an especial pleasure to us to have an opportunity of offering our slight tribute of loyal respect, and we selected for the purpose an object of which it was not likely that a duplicate could be given. A telegram of warm acknowledgment from Balmoral the day it was received was followed next day (25th May) by this letter:-- "The Queen thanks Sir Theodore and Lady Martin for their lovely gift, which she will ever value as coming from them, and on her birthday in this year. The loyalty and affection so universally exhibited by all classes and from all parts are very gratifying to her, and are an encouragement for the few remaining years of her arduous life, as they show that her efforts for the good of her country and people are appreciated." No need to say how this loyalty and affection culminated within a month in the Jubilee demonstration on the 21st of June. In Westminster Abbey I had a position from which I could observe the emotions as they passed over the face of the Queen throughout the whole of the impressive ceremonial of that memorable day; and it seemed to me, familiar as I was with the feelings with which Her Majesty had looked forward to this event, that I could divine some of the thoughts which under that serenely dignified demeanour were passing through Her Majesty's heart and mind. Deep and manifold I felt they must be, as she looked back to the day when she had last sat there in the Coronation Chair, through the vista of years of happiness and trial, of anxiety and bereavement, of national struggle and peril and triumph, all culminating in an unparalleled demonstration of her people's love. At such a time would not memory recur to the words written to her on her Accession by Prince Albert fifty years before (26th June 1837)?--"Now you are Queen of the mightiest land of Europe. In your hand lies the happiness of millions. May Heaven assist you and strengthen you with its strength in that high but difficult task! I hope that your reign may be long, happy, and glorious, and that your efforts may be rewarded by the thankfulness and love of your subjects!" Full of the feeling I have expressed, on my return home it shaped itself without effort of mine into the words of the following sonnet. Some weeks elapsed before I had the courage to send it to the Queen; but it at once found such favour with Her Majesty that, in a letter to me next day (11th August), she wrote: "The Queen thanks Sir T. Martin for his kind letter, and for the very beautiful lines which he has written.... The Queen hopes he will print and even publish them." They were accordingly published next month in _Blackwood's Magazine_:-- IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. _21st June 1887._ Again within these walls, again alone! A long, long tract of fateful years between The day I knelt, to rise a crownèd queen, Vowed thenceforth to be all my people's own, And this, when, with an empire wider grown, Again I kneel, before high Heaven to lay My thanks for all, which since that earlier day Has blessed my goings, and upheld my throne. God! in this hour I think of him, who made My young life sweet, who lightened every care, In sorest straits my judgment rightly swayed, Lived, thought for me, all times and everywhere; For him I thank Thee chief, who by his aid Nerved me the burden of a crown to bear! Every Christmas had for years brought with it a letter from the Queen with her good wishes for Lady Martin and myself, accompanied by a beautifully painted card for Lady Martin, and some valuable book for my library enriched by a gracious inscription. In her letter of this year were the words, "_The Queen is loth to part with the year in which she has met with so much affection and kindness_," and they suggested to me the following sonnet. It was my custom to send to the Queen a Christmas and New Year greeting, generally in verse, and I made the sonnet my greeting for the year 1888. The Queen in her reply requested that it might be published, and this was done:-- OSBORNE. _Before Midnight, 31st December 1887._ One hour, and 'twill be numbered with the past, My year of Jubilee, that to my heart Has tribute brought from cot and hall and mart Of loyalty and love;--a treasure vast, There to be nursed and cherished to the last, And with that one dear memory held apart, Still sweetening through the years its bitter smart With love in kingly story unsurpassed! Go, then, bright year, go with a fond good-bye, For all thy days with loving-kindness fraught! And may all blessings from the God on high Light on my people for their loving thought, Keeping them worthy of the days gone by, And the great name by their forefathers wrought! CHAPTER V. In the magnificent procession which attended the Queen to and from Westminster Abbey, no figure attracted more attention, or excited greater admiration, than that of the Crown Prince of Germany, in his white Cuirassier's uniform, and rivetting all eyes by his noble head and majestic bearing. Little was it then dreamed that within a year he was to succeed his father as Emperor of the Germans, when himself stricken by the cruel malady under which he sank within a few months after his accession. The tragic circumstances of his death awakened a very profound feeling throughout this country, and men's thoughts turned to the uncrowned Empress whom he left behind, and also to the Queen, who thus saw the fair hopes blighted, with which she and the Prince Consort had resigned their first and highly gifted child to the man of her heart, by whose side they might expect in time to see her throned as sovereign over a mighty kingdom. The Emperor Frederic died on the 15th of June 1888. As soon as her health permitted, the widowed Empress decided to come to England for a time; and the Queen wrote to me suggesting that some special expression of public sympathy should meet her daughter on her arrival. That this sympathy would be generally and warmly expressed through the usual channels could not be doubted. But I ventured to think, that the expression of it might not unfitly be concentrated in the compacter form of verse. With this view I wrote the following sonnet, which appeared in the _Standard_ two days before the Empress reached England:-- TO THE EMPRESS FREDERIC. _On her arriving in England, 17th November 1888._ When England sent thee forth, a joyous bride, A prayer went through the land, that on thy head Might all best blessings bounteously be shed, And his, the lover-husband by thy side; And England marked with ever-growing pride, As onwards still the years full-freighted sped, How wrought in both the grace of worth inbred, To noblest acts and purposes allied. With eyes of longing, not undimmed by tears, England now greets thee, desolate and lone, Heart-stricken, widowed of the twofold crown Of love and empire; and the grief endears, Remembering all the cherished hopes o'erthrown, When at their height thy heart's lord was struck down. I also wrote this other sonnet, which appeared in the _Morning Post_ on the day of the Empress's arrival:-- TO THE EMPRESS FREDERIC. _19th November 1888._ Oh lady, how our hearts were pang'd,[29] when he, Whom late we saw, in England's festal hour, Ride through our streets in manhood's stateliest power, Hail'd by all eyes a star of chivalry, Through long sad months of sorest agony, Faced martyr-like the doom, that hour by hour He saw still near and ever nearer lour, To tear him from his country and from thee; Thee of the childlike heart and manlike brain, Fit in all ways to share a monarch's throne, Who made his people's good his chiefest care! Oh noble heart, all England shares thy pain, And in thy grief thou wilt feel less alone, 'Midst all the love that waits to greet thee there! The 9th line of this sonnet was prompted by an incident on the last occasion that I met the Crown Prince and Princess together at Windsor Castle. "Do you know," he said to me, "what her father said of her?" "Oh, Fritz," the Princess broke in, anticipating what he was going to tell me, "you should not speak of such a thing." "I will speak of it," he continued, looking at her with eyes of affectionate pride. "Why should I not? It is only the truth. The Prince Consort said, 'She has the heart of a child, the brain of a man!'" That her father so thought of her I had seen many proofs in the private correspondence which was placed in my hands while I was writing his life. I sent these Sonnets to the Queen, and on November 13 she wrote: "The Queen thanks Sir T. Martin for his two kind letters, and the two exquisite little Sonnets. They should certainly be published, and a special copy be prepared for her poor dear persecuted daughter." A few days afterwards (November 20) the Queen again wrote: "The Queen encloses a letter from her dear daughter the Empress, which she is sure he will be pleased to receive." This was a letter thanking me in very gratifying terms for my Sonnets. "She thanks him again," the Queen continued, "for her two kind letters and the lovely poems.... The dear Empress is very sad. The arrival upset her terribly, but she struggles bravely with the dreadful misfortune, and takes an interest in other things. But it is a misfortune which one cannot understand, and which is a great trial to one's faith. One can but say, as one of her Indian attendants (who are all Mohammedans), an excellent, very refined, and gentle young man, said, 'God ordered it!'..." A few days afterwards I had a long and most interesting interview with the Empress at Windsor Castle, and was told of things which explained what was meant by the Queen in speaking of her as her "poor dear persecuted daughter." They have now happily sunk into oblivion. Early in the 'Seventies the Queen intimated to me her great desire to visit North Wales, if a house could be found there suitable for her stay. On looking round the counties of Denbigh and Merioneth, where the Queen wished especially to go, so as to be within reach of some of the best Welsh scenery and also to be seen by the large bodies of workers in coal and other mines and industries, to which the county chiefly owes its prosperity, the mansion of my friend the late Henry Robertson, C.E., at Palè on the Dee, between Corwen and Bala, seemed the most eligible in itself, besides having the advantage of being close to the Llanderfel station on the railway from Ruabon to Dolgelly and Festiniog. It was at once placed by Mr Robertson at Her Majesty's disposal; but the projected visit fell through, owing to the pressure of various engagements which compelled the Queen to abandon it for the time. The project was again mentioned to me by Her Majesty in the following letter, November 4, 1889;-- "The Queen thanks Sir Theodore for the newspaper, and his article on Wales, which interests her _very_ much. This brings her to the subject of the visit, once contemplated, to Wales. Would that be possible? by the loan of a house like the one mentioned at that time by Sir Theodore? She believes a short visit of four or five days there would do good. She can no longer ride up hills, but she can drive, and go to some places where her presence might be useful." Mr Robertson was dead, but his son and successor in the Palè estate, Mr, now Sir Henry Beyer Robertson, was delighted to have the opportunity of fulfilling his father's intention. On being made aware of this, the Queen decided to make the visit in the summer of the following year on her way to Balmoral. When this decision became known, the people of the principality, who are as a rule most loyal, looked forward with enthusiasm to the prospect of seeing among them the Queen, who had hitherto been to them only a revered name. Everything was done which loyalty could devise to show how highly the royal presence among them was valued. The only cloud on the general satisfaction was the knowledge that the visit could only be for a very few days--from the 23rd to the 28th of August, one of which was a Sunday. The Queen arrived at Palè on the 23rd at 7 A.M., and had not been many hours there before she received a deputation of the farm tenants of the adjoining district, who had prepared a walking-stick of their native wood for Her Majesty's acceptance. They were surprised, and more than delighted, by the royal acceptance of it being made in Welsh, the Queen having immediately on her arrival taken pains to learn so much of that far from easy language as served her for this and other similar occasions. In no other way could Her Majesty have so thoroughly touched the hearts of her Welsh subjects. The incident, of which the tidings spread over Wales within a few hours, heightened the enthusiasm with which she was everywhere received. Two days afterwards this was markedly shown in her public visit to Wrexham, the centre of the mining and other industries of Denbighshire, where a reception in Aston Park, the property of Sir Robert Cunliffe, admirably arranged by the Mayor and Corporation of Wrexham, awaited Her Majesty. All the leading people of the adjoining counties were present, and many hundred thousands of the working population assembled both there and on the five miles of road along which the Queen drove from Ruabon, to which the royal train had come from Palè. A choir of 600 singers gave the Queen her first idea of the choral singing for which Wales is famous. The demeanour of the working men, rough in exterior, and not always on ordinary occasions gentle in manners, produced a most favourable impression on Her Majesty. "They all behaved like gentlemen," she said to me when, two days afterwards, accompanied by the Prince and Princess Henry of Battenberg and the Princess Alix of Hesse (now the Czarina), she honoured Lady Martin and myself by a visit to our villa near Llangollen. It had not occurred to us why the Queen had chosen that day, the 26th of August, for the visit. But the reason flashed upon us, when, turning to Lady Martin as she inscribed her name with the date on a sheet of paper prepared for the purpose, she looked up and said, "The dear Prince's birthday!" Then we saw that as the Prince's _Life_ had been written in my study there, Her Majesty had chosen that day for her visit--surely a very delicately imagined tribute to the author. Several Welsh airs were sung for the Queen on this visit by a selected number of the Llangollen choir, chiefly young ladies. When they had finished, Her Majesty asked me to what class the singers belonged, as she had observed greater refinement in their execution than in any of the other choirs she had heard in Wales. She was also struck by the admirable way they had sustained the pitch from beginning to end of all the choral pieces sung without the drop of half a tone. Only an ear finely trained to a subtle appreciation of musical execution could have noticed these points. It had been greatly desired that the Queen should visit Festiniog, both for the beauty of the scenery and to satisfy the loyal feelings of the large and intelligent slate-making population of that district. This was found to be impracticable, but a hope was held out that the omission might be remedied by another visit to North Wales. A few days after her arrival at Balmoral the Queen wrote: "The Queen and her children have brought with them the pleasantest recollections of Wales, its beauty, and the kindness and loyalty of its people. The Queen was greatly pleased to have been able to see Sir Theodore and Lady Martin's charming home." Again in the following year (September 3, 1891) Her Majesty wrote:-- "The Queen thanks Sir T. Martin for his letter of the 26th, on which dear day last year we made that charming expedition to Llangollen and visited Sir Theodore and Lady Martin at their delightful little Welsh home at Bryntysilio. The recollection of the Queen's visit to Wales is a most pleasing one, to which she often looks back, and hopes to repeat some day. She would wish to go again to Palè, to which most pleasant and comfortable house Sir H. Robertson has again and again invited her to return. The Queen could visit Harlech Castle and Llanberis, &c., from Palè, returning at night, could she not? The Queen uses the Welsh stick, so kindly given her by the farmers and people at Palè, very often, and always when she travels and wants a good strong one." Greatly to the disappointment of the good people of Wales, Her Majesty never found it possible to fulfil this contemplated second visit. In the correspondence which continued at intervals during the ensuing years there is nothing that is available for the object of this monograph. But in November 1896 Her Majesty gave me an opportunity of expressing briefly my views of what an authentic Life of herself should be, of which I was not sorry to avail myself. On the 10th of that month she wrote to me:-- "The Queen is glad that Sir Theodore approves the idea of a short Life of her husband being set in hand and published. "She so much wishes that something should be done about her own Life, as so many people have published and are publishing her Life, with the best intentions, full of extraordinary fabrications and untruths." Some further communications on the subject took place, and on the 22nd of that month I wrote as follows:-- "Sir Theodore Martin, with his humble duty, has the honour to acknowledge the receipt of Her Majesty's gracious letter of the 20th. "Sir Theodore is much impressed by what the Queen says as to the desirableness of a Life of Her Majesty, which might put a stop to the gossiping fabrications which have of late become so current. The subject has long been present to his mind. While the Queen lives, he fears the inventors of these fictions must have their way. But that the story of Her Majesty's Life should be truthfully and sympathetically told for posterity is a matter of the highest importance. In a great measure the work must be historical, and will demand the skill of some one capable of dealing with the events of Her Majesty's reign, and of the political history of the civilized world, from the date of the Prince Consort's death onwards. It would be most desirable to lay the foundation of such a work with Her Majesty's direct assistance, could a biographer with the necessary qualifications be found. There will be the difficulty; but, until he can be found, would it be possible for Her Majesty to suggest the lines on which the Life should be written, and to furnish to some trusted person the facts and incidents of which Her Majesty would wish a record to be made? "The materials must be abundant in Her Majesty's diaries and correspondence, and they would form the basis of a work of infinite value and instruction to future times. So much that is false and misleading is sure to be written in these days of reckless and unscrupulous writing, that every loyal subject of Her Majesty must wish that it should in Her Majesty's case be crushed at the outset. Nothing would do this so effectually as the knowledge that the true story would be told, based upon authentic information as to the private as well as public life of the Queen. "Sir Theodore makes the above suggestion with all deference to Her Majesty's better judgment. His excuse must be his ardent desire that the story of a life, which he most deeply honours and reveres, should be fitly told for the days to come." The Queen, I believe, in so far concurred with my suggestion, that she endeavoured to persuade at least one writer of distinction as a historian to agree to become her biographer. He came to the conclusion that the task of dealing with a subject so vast, and also with a character so complex as that of Her Majesty, was one with which he could not grapple consistently with the duties of a high position which he had already undertaken. Whether any further attempt was made in the same direction I am not aware. And so the years went on, bringing us from time to time assurances of the Queen's continued interest in Lady Martin and myself. In 1896, when the new Victorian Order was established, I was among the first on whom the Commandership of the Order was conferred. The Insignia of the Order reached me with the following letter:-- "BALMORAL CASTLE, _Sept. 14, 1896_. "The Queen has heard that Sir Theodore Martin will celebrate his 80th birthday on the 16th, which seems to her hardly possible from his appearance. She wishes him to accept her warmest and most heartfelt good wishes for his happiness and welfare for many a year. The Queen wishes on this occasion to mark her sense of Sir Theodore's valuable services, and sends him the decoration of Knight Commander of her new personal 'Victoria Order.' "She hopes Lady Martin has recovered from her last indisposition, and that no anxiety on her account may mar the happiness of this day." On every Christmas morning the Queen sent greetings and good wishes to my wife with an inscribed Christmas card, and to myself, with some framed work of art, or valuable book. In 1897, when all the world was alive with congratulations on the memorable celebration of Her Majesty's Diamond Jubilee, the words which appeared in two of her perfect Addresses to her people inspired me to express, as before, what I conceived was in her heart in writing these Addresses. I give them here, because they were stamped with Her Majesty's approval. "The Queen," she wrote, "thanks Sir Theodore Martin very much for his most kind letter, and the Sonnets enclosed, which it has touched her much that he should write. Of course they may be published in the _Times_;" and they were published there accordingly. THE QUEEN AT ST PAUL'S. _June 22, 1897._ ["From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless them!"] Not unto me, O Lord, not unto me The praise be given, that my beloved land This day in all men's eyes from strand to strand Shines first in honour and in majesty; That borne from every clime, o'er every sea, Around me clustering close on every hand, Liegemen from far I see, a noble band, Type of a nobler Empire yet to be! Oh, my beloved people, yours the praise, Yours, who have kept the faith, that made your sires Free, fearless, faithful, through the nights and days, True to the zeal for right, that never tires; May God's best blessing rest on you always, And keep you blameless in your heart's desires! THE QUEEN AT KENSINGTON. _June 28, 1897._ ["I gladly renew my association with a place which, as the scene of my birth and my summons to the Throne, has had, and ever will have with me, tender and solemn recollections."] Again the dear old home, the towering trees, The lawns, the garden-plots, the lake, that were My childhood's fairyland,--the dear ones there, Who tended me so lovingly,--the ease Of heart when, sporting at my mother's knees, I dreamed not of a crown, nor knew a care, The call at early morn that crown to wear! Ah me, the host of tender memories, Tender and solemn, that around me throng, Of all that then I was, and since have been, The many loved and lost, the One so long Missed from my side, and I, a lonely Queen! Yet in the love my people bear me, strong To front an Empire's cares with brow serene. Yet once again I had the honour of being permitted to express Her Majesty's sentiments in verse. It had long been my earnest hope that peace should reign in Her Majesty's realms while she lived. But this was not to be; and the South African war, with all the loss of life and waste of treasure which it involved, threw many a dark shadow over the last year of the Queen's life. But the shadows were not without breaks of brilliant sunshine. She was proud of the way in which her subjects rose to the difficulties of the time; she was proud of the response of the army and navy, which she loved, to the call upon their valour and endurance. She was proud, too, of the common feeling that bound the colonies to the mother-country, as but for this war they might not for years have been bound, and that they had sent their sons to share its perils and glories--a first step to the consolidation of her Empire. This was a suggestive theme, to glance at which I thought might please the Queen. I had for years been in the habit of writing a letter of congratulation to Her Majesty upon her birthday. Little weening that it was to be her last, I sent the following sonnet with my letter. It so pleased the Queen, that she gave her sanction to its being published in the _Times_, where accordingly it appeared. A BIRTHDAY MEDITATION. _Balmoral, 24th May 1900._ Am I not blest? I cry, as I retrace, Through gathering mists of not unwelcome tears, All I have seen and known through the long years Vouchsafed to me by Heaven's abounding grace; How evermore I have found strength to face Their cares, their griefs, their overshadowing fears, Nerved by the loving loyalty that cheers My heart in all its lonely pride of place. Oh, my dear land, whose sons, where'er they came, Of freedom and of right have sown the seed, Behold, _their_ sons in serried thousands claim A place beside thee, in thine hour of need, Thy peril theirs, thy fortune theirs, thy fame! Thinking of this, am I not blest indeed? As it happens, I write the concluding pages of this humble tribute to the memory of my beloved Queen in my study at Bryntysilio, on the anniversary of the day when the noble woman passed from earth, who was for more than fifty years the crown and comfort of my life. It is a day intimately associated with my thoughts of Her Majesty, for late in the evening of this day, after the constant inquiries of many weeks, a telegram asking for information came from the Queen only a few hours before my wife fell asleep. Its words were the last she read. She tried to reply to the Queen with her own hand, but had to give up the attempt. To the Queen the first news of my loss was sent, and it was answered by a message right from the heart in a few of those incisive words, for which the Queen had a special gift, that speak directly home to the heart. Nor did her sympathy end here. She so arranged that on the morning of the funeral in London a letter in her own hand from Balmoral should reach me with words of encouragement such as those from which she had herself so often had to seek courage in her own hours of desolation and bereavement.[30] Nor was this all. Next morning, between eight and nine, I received a telegram from Her Majesty, inquiring how I had borne the ordeal of the previous day. Can more be said to show the tender, thoughtful, womanly nature, which won the gratitude and reverence of those who knew her best, and which also operated to create a feeling of affectionate regard in all her subjects, and indeed throughout the world? One more instance of Her Majesty's never-failing kindness to myself! The Christmas morning of 1900 brought me its wonted offering from her in the shape of a beautifully framed copy of Angeli's last portrait. As I looked at it my heart was full of sadness, for I read in the familiar face, as there depicted, the manifest indications of physical weakness, and of the probably early fulfilment of an apprehension, which had for some time possessed me, that the end of this "great woman" was near. What pathos to me in the thought, that in a time of so much weakness and preoccupation the Queen had taken care that I should not be without the accustomed Christmas memorial from her. There are memories that "lie too deep for tears." This is one of them. Yet a few words more! I have lived too long not to have learned forbearance in my judgments of character in man or woman, even when its qualities seem to lie very much upon the surface. I have also learned to revere the memories of all who have earned honourable distinction by act or word. Experience has taught me how little we can know of the true nature even of those with whom life has made us familiar, how infinitely less of those whom we have never known, or who have followed pursuits in which we have never shared, or lived in a sphere remote from our own. Much, therefore, as I saw of the Queen as a woman, much as I had occasion to know of the remarkable powers of mind which she brought to bear upon the performance of her functions as a sovereign, I should not venture to form, much less to publish, an appreciation of these powers, without those full materials for a judgment which are not at present before the world, but which may in due season be expected to see the light. Enough, however, came under my observation to show me how great the Queen could be, when occasion called for the exercise of her higher powers. I know how richly endowed she was with the "instincts of the heart, that teach the head,"--intuitions which prompted her to say the right word and do the right thing without fail, whenever a grave or great purpose was to be served. Perched as she was, to use her own words now lying before me, "on a dreary, sad pinnacle of solitary grandeur," I know with what constancy and courage she bore the isolation. I know how simple, how humbly-minded she was, how truthful, how full of loving-kindness, how generous, how constant in her friendships. I know how she leant for consolation and support upon the love of her people, how earnestly she sought to gain it by sympathy with their interests and their sorrows, by constant watchfulness for the wellbeing of all throughout the world who owned her sway. I know, too, how resolute she was to uphold justice, and honour, and right, wherever her voice could be heard. Others may find pleasure, when they write of Queen Victoria, in speaking slightingly of the qualities of mind and heart which went to form a truly noble character, of which personally they can know nothing. To such I answer, Who in the history of monarchies has lived a life so exemplary, so pure, so absolutely devoted to the service of the State,--who of all we read of so won the affection of their people, the admiration of the world, as she has done? I think of the mighty task she was called upon to fulfil, and how admirably she fulfilled it, under trials and drawbacks of which the outside world can form no estimate. I think of her, borne to her tomb along the London streets, through threefold ranks of her people, all pale, silent, and with heads reverently bowed, as though in mourning for one they loved. I see her bier borne to the altar in St George's Chapel, followed by men who represented all the Rulers of all the Nations--a gorgeous throng that crowded the central aisle of the great chapel from the western door up to the altar steps. Was ever such tribute paid in the world throughout all the ages past? Is such tribute ever likely to be paid again? It is of this marvellous tribute, and how it was won, that we should think,--not of this or that foible or shortcoming, for who is without them? Above all, we should think of the heavy, unceasing burden that lay upon brain and heart through a long life, and with how brave and constant yet how meek a spirit it was borne. Then, remembering all this, let us, while we live, cherish in our hearts the name of our departed Queen, and pass it on to those who shall succeed us, as Victoria the Great and Good. PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. FOOTNOTES: [1] He died in May 1874. "Dear M. V. de Weyer's death," Her Majesty wrote to me on the 30th of that month, "is a terrible loss to the Queen, and she has been deeply grieved by it." [2] A translation of Oehlenschläger's drama of that name. [3] General Grey's book. [4] A ruby and diamond bracelet. [5] I must have expressed in some letter at this time regret that none of Her Majesty's Ministers had taken the opportunity of explaining the circumstances which had hurt Her Majesty's health, and compelled her to avoid the fatigues of the public appearances which were called for, and which were undoubtedly desirable, if the Queen's health had admitted of their being made. [6] They came with the following note:-- "OSBORNE, _May 3, 1869_. "The Queen sends Mr Martin to-day a volume of the beloved Prince's and her own etchings, which she has had purposely bound for him, and which she hopes he will place in his library, as a trifling recollection of his kindness in carrying out so many of her wishes." [7] _Quarterly Review_ for April 1901: article "Queen Victoria," p. 305. [8] It is of such that Sir Henry Taylor writes in his _Philip van Artevelde_, Act I. Sc. v.:-- "He was one Of that small tally, of the singular few, Who, gifted with predominating powers, Bear yet a temperate will, and keep the peace. The world knows nothing of its greatest men." [9] _Denkwürdigkeiten aus den Papieren des Freiherr's Christian Friedrich v. Stockmar._ Braunschweig, 1872. [10] _Quarterly Review_ for April 1872, p. 386 _et seq._ [11] "Thy dear image I bear within me, and what miniature can come up to that? No need to place one on my table to _remind_ me of _you_." [12] Life of Archbishop Benson, vol. ii. pp. 2 and 561. [13] The allusion is to the lines in the fine passage in the seventh section of that poem, beginning, "Blame not thyself too much":-- "Let woman make herself her own To give or keep, to live and learn, and be All that not harms distinctive womanhood. For woman is not undevelopt man, But diverse; could we make her as the man, Sweet love were slain; his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, but like in difference." [14] I had occasion to record in the Prince's _Life_ (vol. iii. p. 248) a somewhat similar impression on Napoleon III. and his Empress with regard to the Tuileries, in the following extract from the Queen's Diary: "Speaking of the want of liberty attaching to our position, he (the Emperor) said the Empress felt this greatly, and called the Tuileries _une belle prison_." [15] Published, London, 1868, by Smith, Elder, & Co. [16] General Grey's duties were immediately taken up by Colonel, afterwards General, Sir Henry Ponsonby, who discharged them with conspicuous zeal and ability till he was struck down by fatal illness in January 1895. [17] These letters were from Royal personages on the subject of the Emperor's death. [18] See p. 51, _ante_. [19] Féodore Victoire, Duchess of Saxe-Meiningen, who died on the 12th of February 1872. Her mother, the Queen's half-sister, Feodora, Princess of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, survived her only a few months, dying on the 23rd of September 1872. [20] He died on the 23rd of May 1874. The Queen came from Windsor to visit him at his house in London, when he was near his end. A few days before his death I took my leave of him. He was in great pain, but his bright sparkling spirit remained. He touched my heart by saying how sorry he was he had only known me within the last few years. On my expressing a hope that we might meet again in the Hereafter, "Ah! let us hope so!" he replied, adding, like the bibliophile of bibliophiles that he was, "and that you will find me in an _editio nova et emendatior_." [21] In my library in London there happened to be a niche, as if made to receive this beautiful replica of the Mausoleum monument, where it has ever since remained. [22] I had given to the Queen a fine proof before letters of her portrait, as a girl, by Fowler, and she wrote to say that "the bust by Behnes, from which Fowler took his picture, was done in 1827, when the Queen was eight years and a half." [23] The Sovereign _nominally_ is the dispenser of these pensions, but the Queen delegated this function to the First Lord of the Treasury. This was why the concurrence of Lord Beaconsfield was necessary. With him the Queen's wish in such matters was paramount. [24] A volume published in Germany in imperial folio, with a series of very spirited illustrations, and remarkable for the beauty and originality of the binding. [25] A magnificent volume, including, among other illustrations, photographs of all Baron Triqueti's designs in inlaid marble. [26] The pet name substituted for Friedrich. [27] This refers to an obituary notice of the Prince by myself. [28] As to this visit, see _ante_, p. 114. [29] It seems a pity that this word should have fallen into disuse. Shakespeare employs it with great effect in the fine scene (_Cymbeline_, Act III. sc. iv.) where Imogen says-- "I grieve myself to think, When thou shalt be disedged by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Wilt then be _panged_ by me." [30] A representative of Her Majesty attended Lady Martin's funeral and placed on her bier a beautiful wreath, inscribed by the Queen, and also a rich floral cross, inscribed by the Princess Beatrice. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows: Footnote 9: Braunscheig changed to Braunschweig The original text appears to be missing words on page 54. The original is printed "... it was impossible to be than were the able and accomplished officials...". 43995 ---- PETER PARLEY'S VISIT TO LONDON. LONDON: CLARKE, PRINTERS, SILVER STREET, FALCON SQUARE. [Illustration: _Madeley lith. 3, Wellington St. Strand._ THE CORONATION OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA.] PETER PARLEY'S VISIT TO LONDON, DURING THE CORONATION OF QUEEN VICTORIA. [Illustration] LONDON: CHARLES TILT, FLEET STREET. MDCCCXXXIX. TO THE GOOD LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS OF GREAT BRITAIN, PETER PARLEY DEDICATES THESE PAGES. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PARLEY ARRIVES IN LONDON Page 1 CHAPTER II. PARLEY GOES TO SEE THE NEW CROWN 6 CHAPTER III. PARLEY VISITS WESTMINSTER ABBEY AND HYDE-PARK.--PREPARATIONS FOR THE FAIR 11 CHAPTER IV. PARLEY SEES THE QUEEN, AND RELATES SOME ANECDOTES OF HER MAJESTY 16 CHAPTER V. PARLEY CONTINUES HIS ANECDOTES OF THE QUEEN 28 CHAPTER VI. PARLEY DESCRIBES WESTMINSTER ABBEY ON THE MORNING OF THE CORONATION, AND RELATES THE LEGENDS CONNECTED WITH ST. EDWARD'S CHAIR 40 CHAPTER VII. PARLEY DESCRIBES THE PROCESSION TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY 52 CHAPTER VIII. PARLEY DESCRIBES THE CORONATION IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 65 CHAPTER IX. PARLEY CONTINUES HIS DESCRIPTION OF THE CORONATION IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 81 CHAPTER X. PARLEY GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE ILLUMINATIONS, AND OF THE GRAND DISPLAY OF FIRE-WORKS 92 CHAPTER XI. PARLEY ATTENDS A REVIEW IN HYDE PARK, AND RELATES SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF MARSHAL SOULT.--CONCLUSION 103 PETER PARLEY'S VISIT TO LONDON. CHAPTER I. PARLEY ARRIVES IN LONDON. "WELL, my little friends, here is your old acquaintance, Peter Parley, come to tell some more of his amusing Tales. You wonder, I dare say, what could tempt such a frail old man as I am to leave home, and come so far. You shall hear. "A Coronation, you must know, is a sight not to be seen every day in the United States, where we have neither King nor Queen, so thinks I to myself, I hear a great deal about the grandeur of the spectacle which is to be exhibited at the crowning of Queen Victoria, and though I have seen many grand sights in my day, I have never seen a Coronation, so I shall just get into one of these new steam ships which take one across the Atlantic Ocean so quickly, and have a look at the affair. I shall, besides, have an opportunity of seeing the kind London friends who treated me so handsomely when I was last in England, and then I shall have such lots of new stories for my young friends. I must--I shall go! "Peter Parley is not a man to spend much time in idling after having formed a resolution, so the very next day, having bid my old housekeeper good bye, I was on my way to New York. "As soon as I arrived at New York, I made enquiries about the steam ships, and, finding that the 'Great Western' was to sail very soon, I secured my passage in her, and then went to visit my friends in that city, for I always like to fulfil the old adage, and finish my work before I begin to play. "Every body was surprised at my undertaking, and some kind folks wanted to persuade me to stay at home, thinking to frighten me by telling me about the length of the voyage, &c. They did not know Peter Parley. One wag, who wished to be very witty, asked me why I did not wait and take my passage in the new American ship, the 'Horse-Alligator,' which was to sail on the 25th of June, and arrive in London the day before! I could not help laughing at the idea, but I told him that steam was quick enough for me. "I have already told you about my voyages across the Atlantic, so I need do no more now than make just one passing remark on the splendour of the fitting-up, and the admirable arrangements of the 'Great Western.' We passed a great many vessels as we came along, especially when we were not far distant from the American and English shores. They had no chance with us. Sometimes we discovered them far a-head, like mere specks on the ocean. In an hour or two we came up with them, and, in as much more time, left them far behind. The steady and untiring whirl of the steamer's paddles carried every thing before it. "We reached Bristol in thirteen days, and, as I had nothing to detain me there, I hurried on to London, and arrived in the middle of the grand preparations. "Every body was as busy as a bee.--Nothing was talked of but the Coronation. 'Oh! Mr. Parley, have you come to see the Coronation too?' was my first salute from every lip. My kind old friend, Major Meadows, insisted on my taking up my quarters in his house, and promised that I should see every thing that was to be seen, and hear every thing that was to be heard. This was just what I wanted to be at, so I fixed myself with him at once." CHAPTER II. PARLEY GOES TO SEE THE NEW CROWN. "AFTER paying a few visits, and renewing old friendships, I set myself, in good earnest, to see what was to be seen. "The most attractive object, connected with the Coronation, exhibiting at the time, was the new crown made for the occasion. I accordingly made the best of my way into the city, to the shop of Messrs. Rundell and Bridge, her Majesty's goldsmiths, on Ludgate Hill, who, with the greatest liberality, had thrown open their rooms that the public might have an opportunity of inspecting the crown. "So great was the crowd, all anxious to have a peep, that it was some time before I could press forward to the door of the shop. Carriages were so busy taking up and setting down company, that the street was quite blocked up. At length, however, by dint of perseverance, Peter Parley managed to squeeze in. "After traversing the shop, all round which are ranged articles of the most massive and costly description, we were ushered into an interior apartment, in which, in glass cases, were deposited the precious curiosities. "In the centre, the admired of all beholders, was the Royal Crown. It is beautifully designed, and formed in the most costly and elegant manner, and so covered with precious stones, as almost to dazzle the eyes of old Peter Parley. It is composed of hoops of silver, enclosing a cap of deep purple velvet. The hoops are completely covered and concealed by precious stones, the whole surmounted by a ball covered with small diamonds, and having a Maltese cross of brilliants on the top of it. The body of the crown is wreathed with fleurs-de-lis and Maltese crosses; the one in the front being ornamented with a very large heart-shaped ruby, once, I was informed, a principal ornament in the crown of Edward the Black Prince, and which he is said to have worn at the battle of Cressy. Peter Parley cannot remember all the details, for besides these, there are many other precious stones in the crown. The rim is surrounded with ermine, and it certainly struck me as being one of the finest things I had ever seen. "Close beside the crown were the coronets of the Royal Dukes and Duchesses, but though they also were made of costly materials, the attractions of the crown were so great as to throw the others quite into the back ground. I had hardly time to turn my eyes toward the case containing the Orb and Sword of state, before I was hurried away by the pressure of the crowd behind, which kept pouring in in undiminished numbers. "As I moved towards the door behind the shop, which was set apart for visitors retiring, I passed a table on which was displayed a service of massive gold utensils, to be used in the consecration service. "When I reached the street, I found it still densely crowded. I wanted to go to St. Paul's, which stands close by, but was afraid to venture into such a crowd, so I directed my steps to Westminster Abbey, making my way with some difficulty down Ludgate Hill and along Fleet Street, and passing beneath Temple Bar, which marks the boundary of the City." CHAPTER III. PARLEY VISITS WESTMINSTER ABBEY AND HYDE-PARK. PREPARATIONS FOR THE FAIR. "AS I approached the venerable pile I found all in bustle and confusion. Every where carpenters were busily engaged fitting up galleries for the accommodation of spectators of the procession on the day of the coronation. Ranges of such erections lined the whole course of the street through which the procession was to pass, up to the very door of the Abbey; even the church-yard was lined with them. These I was told were the speculations of tradesmen, who let the sittings according to the value of the situation, at prices varying from half-a-sovereign up to a couple of guineas. For some very choice places even five guineas was asked. "Peter Parley could not help smiling at the fine names which had been given to some of these erections; such as the 'Royal Victoria Gallery,' the 'Royal Kent Gallery,' &c., &c. "By order of the Earl Marshal no visitors were permitted to enter the Abbey; but as good luck would have it, just as I happened to be passing the western grand entrance I met a gentleman connected with the Board of Works, whom I had seen at Major Meadows's the day before, and who most obligingly offered to introduce me. "I gladly availed myself of his invitation, and was much struck with the grandeur and extent of the preparations. "At the western entrance to the Abbey a suite of apartments for robing-rooms for her Majesty and the members of the Royal Family had been erected. So completely did this structure harmonize externally with the rest of the antique building, that I should not have observed that it was a temporary erection had it not been pointed out to me. The chamber set apart for her Majesty was fitted up in the most gorgeous manner--the walls beautifully ornamented, and the furniture, all of the richest and most magnificent description. Though less costly the apartments for the Royal Family were equally chaste. "The interior of the Abbey presented a scene at once animated and beautiful. Workmen were busily engaged in various parts finishing the preparations. I will have occasion to tell you about the interior of the Abbey by and by, so I may as well say nothing about it at present. "Peter Parley now proceeded to Hyde-Park to see the preparations for the grand fair which was to be held in that noble pleasure-ground on this joyous occasion. "Already many booths displayed themselves on the plain, and many more were in the act of being erected. Richardson, who Peter Parley understood is one of the most famous of the show-folks, had erected a large and handsome theatre, which even thus early seemed to have considerable attractions for the multitude who had gathered round it in great numbers. "Peter Parley having seen all that was worth seeing in the fair was beginning to feel tired, and was directing his steps homeward, when all of a sudden his attention was attracted to a particular part of the Park to which people seemed to be hastening from all quarters. Peter Parley hurried to the spot and was most agreeably surprised to find that it was Queen Victoria, accompanied by her suite, taking her accustomed airing in her carriage." CHAPTER IV. PARLEY SEES THE QUEEN, AND RELATES SOME ANECDOTES OF HER MAJESTY. "'WHAT a dear sweet lady!' were the first words of Peter Parley when the Royal cavalcade had passed. [Illustration: _Madeley lith. 3, Wellington St. Strand._ HER MAJESTY LEAVING BUCKINGHAM PALACE ON THE MORNING OF THE CORONATION.] "'She is a dear sweet lady, Mr. Parley, and, what is more, she is as good as she is sweet,' said my friend, Major Meadows, who, afraid lest I should overwalk myself in my zeal for sight-seeing, had followed me from Westminster Abbey and luckily fallen in with me in the park, and he went on to relate many very interesting anecdotes of the young Queen, which Peter Parley took good care to remember because he knew they would gratify his young friends." "'Her Majesty is doatingly fond of children, Mr. Parley,' said he, 'and that you know is always the sign of a good heart. Nothing can be finer than the traits of character exhibited in a little anecdote which Lady M---- told me a day or two ago. "'Not long since, her Majesty commanded Lady Barham, one of the ladies in waiting, to bring her family of lovely children to the new palace. They were greatly admired and fondly caressed by the Queen; when a beautiful little boy about three years of age artlessly said-- "'I do not see the Queen; I want to see the Queen;' upon which her Majesty, smiling, said-- "'I am the Queen, love;' and taking her little guest into her arms repeatedly kissed the astonished child. "This little anecdote warmed old Peter Parley's heart towards the young Queen; nor did any of the stories which Major Meadows told me tend to lessen my regard for her. Peter Parley was pleased to hear that she has a proper sense of the importance of the station to which she has been called by Divine Providence. "On the day on which she was proclaimed Queen of Great Britain she arrived in company with her royal mother at St. James's Palace for the purpose of taking part in the important ceremony. As they drove towards the palace the party received the most affectionate demonstrations of loyalty and attachment, the people following the carriages with a continuous cry of 'Long live the Queen'--'God bless our youthful Queen, long may she live,' &c. Yet, exciting and exhilirating as were these acclamations, her Majesty's countenance exhibited marks only of anxiety and grief. "They arrived at St. James's Palace a little before ten o'clock. When the old bell of the palace-clock announced that hour, the band struck up the National Anthem, the Park and Tower guns fired a double royal salute, and the young and trembling Queen, led by the Marquis of Lansdowne, President of the Council, appeared at an open window looking into the great court of the Palace. At the fervent and enthusiastic shout of the people who had come to witness the ceremony, her Majesty burst into tears, and, in spite of all her efforts to restrain them, they continued to flow down her pale cheeks all the time she remained at the window. Her emotions did not, however, prevent her from returning her acknowledgments for the devotedness of her people. "Some of the most interesting anecdotes which Peter Parley heard, however, related to an earlier period of the Queen's life, when she was Princess Victoria. "'Here is an anecdote which I heard at a Missionary Meeting, Mr. Parley,' said Major Meadows, 'and I assure you it told with great effect.'" "A poor but truly pious widow, placed in charge of a lighthouse on the south coast of the Mersey, had resolved to devote the receipts of one day in the year, during the visiting season, to the Missionary cause. On one of these days, a lady in widow's weeds and a little girl in deep mourning came to see the lighthouse; sympathy in misfortune led to conversation, and before the unknown visitor took her departure they had most probably mingled their tears together. The lady left behind her a sovereign. The unusually large gratuity immediately caused a conflict in the breast of the poor woman, as to whether she was absolutely bound to appropriate the whole of it to the Missionary-box or not. At length she compromised, by putting in half-a-crown. But conscience would not let her rest: she went to bed, but could not sleep; she arose, took back the half-crown, put in the sovereign, went to bed and slept comfortably. A few days afterwards, to her great surprise, she received a double letter, franked, and on opening it, was no less astonished than delighted to find twenty pounds from the widow lady, and five pounds from the little girl in deep mourning. And who were that lady and that little girl, do you think? No other than her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent and our present rightful and youthful sovereign." "During one of the summer seasons of the Princess's childhood the Duchess of Kent resided in the neighbourhood of Malvern, and almost daily walked on the Downs. One day the Princess and her beautiful little dog Pero, of which she was uncommonly fond, happening considerably to outstrip the Duchess and governess, she overtook a little peasant girl about her own age. With the thoughtless hilarity of youth she made up to her, and without ceremony, said to her-- "'My dog is very tired, will you carry him for me if you please?' "The good-natured girl, quite unconscious of the rank of the applicant, immediately complied, and tripped along by the side of the Princess for some time in unceremonious conversation. At length she said, "'I am tired now, and cannot carry your dog any farther.' "'Tired!' cried her Royal Highness, 'Impossible! Think what a little way you have carried him!' "'Quite far enough,' was the homely reply; 'besides, I am going to my aunt's, and if your dog must be carried, why cannot you carry him yourself?' "So saying, she placed Pero on the grass, and he again joyfully frisked beside his royal mistress. "'Going to your aunt's;' rejoined the Princess, unheeding Pero's gambols; 'pray who is your aunt?' "'Mrs. Johnson, the miller's wife.' "'And where does she live?' "'In that pretty little white house which you see just at the bottom of the hill, there;' said the unconscious girl, pointing it out among the trees; and the two companions stood still that the Princess might make sure that she was right, thus giving the Duchess and her companion time to come up. "'Oh, I should like to see her!' exclaimed the light-hearted Princess; 'I will go with you, come let us run down the hill together.' "'No, no, my Princess,' cried the governess, coming up and taking her Royal Highness's hand, 'you have conversed long enough with that little girl, and now the Duchess wishes you to walk with her. "The awful words 'Princess' and 'Duchess' quite confounded the little peasant girl; blushing and almost overcome, she earnestly begged pardon for the liberties she had taken, but her fears were instantly allayed by the Duchess, who, after thanking her for her trouble in carrying Pero, recompensed her by giving her half-a-crown. "Delighted, the little girl curtsied her thanks, and running on briskly to her aunt's, she related all that had passed, dwelling particularly on the apprehension she had felt when she discovered that it was the Princess whom she had desired to carry her dog herself. The half-crown was afterwards framed and hung up in the miller's homely parlour, as a memento of this pleasing little adventure." "This is but a childish story, but Peter Parley loves to hear stories of good children, and he knows that his little friends love to hear them too." CHAPTER V. PARLEY CONTINUES HIS ANECDOTES OF THE QUEEN. "THERE was one anecdote of the Queen from which Peter Parley derived much pleasure, because it showed that, notwithstanding her high station, she is not unmindful of Him by whom 'Kings reign, and Princes decree justice.' "A noble lord, one of her Majesty's ministers of state, not particularly remarkable for his observance of holy ordinances, recently arrived at Windsor Castle late one Saturday night. "'I have brought down for your Majesty's inspection,' he said, 'some papers of importance, but as they must be gone into at length I will not trouble your Majesty with them to-night, but request your attention to them to-morrow morning.' "'To-morrow morning!' repeated the Queen; 'to-morrow is Sunday, my lord.' "'But business of state, please your Majesty--' "'Must be attended to, I know,' replied the Queen, 'and as of course you could not come down earlier to-night, I will, if those papers are of such vital importance, attend to them _after we come from church to-morrow morning_.' "To church went the royal party; to church went the noble lord, and much to his surprise the sermon was on '_The duties of the Sabbath_!' "'How did your lordship like the sermon?' enquired the young Queen. "'Very much, your Majesty,' replied the nobleman, with the best grace he could. "'I will not conceal from you,' said the Queen, 'that last night I sent the clergyman the text from which he preached. I hope we shall all be the better for it.' "The day passed without a single word on the subject of the 'papers of importance,' and at night, when her Majesty was about to withdraw, 'To-morrow morning, my lord,' she said, 'at any hour you please, and as early as seven if you like, we will go into these papers.' "His lordship could not think of intruding at so early an hour on her Majesty; 'Nine would be quite time enough.' "'As they are of importance, my lord, I would have attended to them earlier, but at nine be it;' and at nine her Majesty was seated ready to receive the nobleman, who had been taught a lesson on the duties of the sabbath, it is hoped, he will not quickly forget. "Exemplary as the young Queen is in her religious duties, however, Peter Parley was pleased to find that she does not allow her religion to consist in mere theory, but that in reality she clothes the poor and feeds the hungry. "On one occasion when her Majesty, accompanied by her suite, was taking an airing on horseback, in the neighbourhood of Windsor, she was overtaken by a heavy shower, which forced the royal party to seek shelter in an outhouse belonging to a farm yard, where a poor man was busily employed making hurdles. Her Majesty entered into conversation with the man (who was totally ignorant who he was addressing), and finding that he had a large family and no means of supporting them beyond what he gained by making these hurdles, her Majesty enquired where he lived, and on taking her departure presented him with a sovereign. Next day she went, accompanied by her Royal Mother, to the cottage of the poor man, and finding his statement to be correct, immediately provided some good warm clothing for his wife and children. Her Majesty seemed very much pleased with the neatness and regularity of the cottage, and on taking her departure presented the poor woman with a five-pound note. "There was no end to stories of this description, but I can only afford room for two or three more; one of which, in particular, shows how early the Queen has been taught to look up to the only source of real comfort in affliction. "An old man who once served in the capacity of porter to the Duke of Kent, and who, in his old age and infirmity, has long since been pensioned by the Duchess, is not a little gratified at receiving a nod of recognition from her Majesty whenever her carriage chances to pass his cottage. The aged man has a daughter much afflicted, and who has been confined to bed for eight or ten years. On the evening of the late king's funeral this young woman was equally surprised and delighted at receiving from the Queen a present of the psalms of David in which was a marker worked by herself with a dove, the emblem of peace, in the centre. It pointed to the forty-first psalm, which her Majesty requested she would read, at the same time expressing a hope that its frequent perusal might bring an increase of peace to her mind. "Another poor man named Smith, who had for several years swept the crossing opposite the avenue leading to Kensington palace, and whom her Majesty always kindly noticed, rarely passing through the gates without throwing him some silver from the carriage window, received a message on the morning after the Queen's accession informing him that her Majesty had ordered that a weekly allowance of eight shillings should be regularly paid him. The poor man, however, did not long enjoy his pension, dying within six months from its commencement. "Short and brilliant as has been her Majesty's career however, and fondly and carefully as she has been watched over, her life affords a very striking instance of providential preservation. "During one of their summer excursions on the southern coast of England, the Royal party sailed in the Emerald yacht, and proceeding up the harbour at Plymouth for the purpose of landing at the dock-yard, the yacht unfortunately, from the rapidity of the tide, ran foul of one of the hulks which lay off the yard. The shock was so great that the mainmast of the royal yacht was sprung in two places, and her sail and gaff (or yard by which the sail is supported) fell instantaneously upon the deck. "The Princess happened unfortunately to be standing almost directly under the sail at the moment, and the most fatal consequences might have ensued, had not the master of the yacht, with admirable presence of mind, sprung forward and caught her in his arms and conveyed her to a place of safety. The alarm and confusion caused by the accident was for a time heightened by the uncertainty as to the fate of her Royal Highness, who had been preserved from injury by the blunt but well-timed rescue of the honest sailor. "'There is one thing which pleases me mightily, Mr. Parley,' said Major Meadows, 'and it is this, that with all this goodness our young Queen has a truly British heart. Often and often has she manifested this, and when quite a girl though perfectly acquainted with several European languages, and particularly with French and German, she never could be prevailed upon to converse in them as a habit, always observing that 'she was a little English girl and would speak nothing but English.' There is a healthiness of feeling in this, Mr. Parley, which is quite delightful.' "Long before Major Meadows had finished his anecdotes about the Queen we had reached home. As it is the custom to dine late in London, we dined after our return, and during the repast, the Queen and the spectacle of to-morrow formed the chief subject of conversation, my friend continuing from time to time to give interest by some new anecdote, of which his store seemed to be inexhaustible. "Peter Parley is fond of early hours, so we retired to bed betimes, which was the more necessary, because by sun-rise to-morrow we must be up and away to Westminster Abbey." CHAPTER VI. PARLEY DESCRIBES WESTMINSTER ABBEY ON THE MORNING OF THE CORONATION, AND RELATES THE LEGENDS CONNECTED WITH ST. EDWARD'S CHAIR. "EARLY in the morning, Peter Parley was up and dressed. He had hardly finished his devotions when, early though it was, Major Meadows knocked at the door of his room to enquire if he was stirring. "After partaking of a hurried breakfast we got into a carriage and drove to the Abbey. As we passed along, we found people, even at such an early hour, already begun to congregate in the streets, and to take up stations from which they expected to obtain the best view of the day's proceedings. [Illustration: _Madeley lith. 3, Wellington St. Strand._ HER MAJESTY LEAVING HER PRIVATE APARTMENTS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.] "Peter Parley was pleased to find, on our arrival at the Abbey, that the doors had been opened a short time before, and the crowd of eager expectants who had been waiting, some of them upwards of an hour, had been already admitted. We were thus saved the necessity of exposing ourselves to being crushed by stronger and more energetic claimants for admission. "On entering the venerable building I was struck mute with astonishment at the magnificence of the preparations which now burst upon the sight with all their breadth and effect; though I had seen it so recently, I was not at all aware of the greatness of the scale on which they had been undertaken. "The approach to the theatre was by six broad steps leading from the vestibule under the music gallery. At the termination of the choir, just where it is intersected by the north and south transepts, a similar number of steps led to a large platform, covered with a splendid carpet in rich puce and gold colours. Upon this platform was raised a second of a smaller size, approached by four broad steps, each covered with carpeting of the most magnificent description. The fifth step, which formed the platform, was covered with cloth of gold, and in the centre was placed a splendid throne of a rich gilt ground, tastefully embellished with rose-coloured sprigs at short intervals, and the royal initials in the centre. "A little further in advance of this splendid throne, and nearer the altar, stood a chair of a more humble bearing, but far more interesting, from the legendary stories connected with it. This was St. Edward's chair, of which Peter Parley must say a few words. "The chair is made of solid oak, and beneath the seat is deposited a large stone, on which the Scottish kings used to be crowned. The legendary history of this stone is very curious. It commences as early as the time of Jacob, who is said to have rested his head on it in the plain of Luz, when, as you will recollect, he fled from the anger of his brother Esau. It was afterwards carried to Spain, by the Scythians, whence it found its way into Ireland in the time of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. Here, it seems, from all accounts, first to have exhibited miraculous powers--making a 'prodigious noise, and being surprisingly disturbed,' whenever a prince of the Scythian line was seated upon it. Peter Parley would not have you believe any of these marvellous legends, none of which are true, but which are interesting nevertheless, as they serve to show in what manner the people of former times were misled by the silly and ridiculous legends of the darker ages. "From Ireland this singular stone was carried into Scotland, and placed in the Abbey of Scone, where the coronation of the Kings of Scotland usually took place. One of the Scottish kings caused an inscription to be cut upon it, an ancient prophecy, as it was said, but more probably an invention of some monkish chronicler of the time:-- "If Fate speak sooth, where'er this stone is found, The Scots shall monarch of that realm be crown'd." "When Edward I. dethroned Baliol, he sent this celebrated stone, on the possession of which the Scots set great value, to London, along with the Scottish regalia. In the following year, the monarch presented these trophies at the shrine of St. Edward the Confessor; and it appears soon afterwards to have been placed in the coronation chair, where it has remained ever since. "Peter Parley has heard that the ancient prophecy, to which even at so late a period the more superstitious amongst the Scottish nation clung, was held to be fulfilled when James I. ascended the throne of England; and it is also said not to have been without a certain influence in reconciling many of the people to the Union with England. "But we must not forget the coronation in Westminster Abbey, in our interest in the legend connected with St. Edward's chair. "On each side of the platform on which the thrones stood, were the galleries appropriated for Peers and Peeresses and their friends, also those for the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and Privy Councillors. "There were two other galleries rising above these on each side, the highest quite among the vaultings of the roof, which were appropriated indiscriminately to the rest of the visitors. "The whole of these extensive galleries were covered with crimson cloth, and trimmed with gold fringe, which had a very rich effect when contrasted with the sombre colours and antique stone walls of the building. "The decorations of the chancel and altar were of the most gorgeous description; the draperies being of the richest purple silk, brocaded in the most sumptuous pattern with gold. Behind the altar the decorations were of a still more delicate character than the rest, both the ground-work and the gold being of a lighter shade. Against the compartment behind the altar stood six massive gold plateaux, two of them being of very large dimensions. The table itself was loaded with a gold communion service, as well as with other articles used in the ceremony. "Peter Parley had time to notice all these things from being in the Abbey so early in the morning, before the visitors were so numerous, and the place so crowded as it afterwards became. The good sense and knowledge of Major Meadows led him to select a seat from which, while we could see as much of the ceremony as nine-tenths of those within the Abbey, we could readily retire to the roof, from which we could obtain an admirable view of the procession outside. "By six o'clock in the morning the visitors began to arrive in the interior of the Abbey, and bustle and confusion began to prevail, where, but an hour before, all had been stillness and silence; the rich and elegant dresses of the ladies giving an air of gaiety to the scene. An hour later the Peers and Peeresses began to make their appearance, and the attention was kept completely on the alert by some new arrival of a distinguished personage, or of a rich or picturesque costume." * * * * * "At length the sound of the Park guns announced that the Queen had entered her carriage and was on her way to the Abbey. This joyful announcement seemed to inspire every one present with joy and animation. The Peers, who had hitherto dispersed themselves over various parts of the building, giving, by their rich and picturesque costumes, additional brilliancy and variety to the already gorgeous scene, now retired to their appointed places, and a certain degree of order began to prevail within the Abbey. "As the procession began to draw near, Peter Parley took advantage of Major Meadows' foresight, and, with some little difficulty, made his way to the roof, to view its approach." CHAPTER VII. PARLEY DESCRIBES THE PROCESSION TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY. "FROM this elevated and commanding position Peter Parley had a most admirable view of the procession, and of the immense multitude of spectators which lined the streets and crowded every window and roof from which even the most distant and casual view of it could be obtained. "Far as the eye could reach was one dense mass of human beings. The deafening cheers of the populace, the waving of ten thousand handkerchiefs, the clang of martial music, and the novelty and singularity of the whole scene, well nigh turned the head of poor Peter Parley. "He had hardly time to satisfy his old eyes with gazing on the immense assemblage when the procession began to approach. "Peter Parley will not attempt to give you an exact list of the procession, for he knows very well that a simple catalogue of names would not at all interest you; he will therefore merely run hastily over the principal parts of it, and show you drawings of several of the most striking scenes, which he knows very well will give you by one glance a clearer idea of it than if he were to spend hours in mere description. "Preceded by a squadron of horse-guards, whose gallant and warlike bearing excited general admiration, came the carriages of the foreign ministers resident in this country. Even in the midst of so much bustle, Peter Parley could not help moralizing on the singularity of the scene. Here were the representatives of every power on the face of the globe gathered together in one harmonious congregation; and the feelings to which their passing thus in review, in a living panorama as it were, gave rise were of the most peculiar description. Here were all separate and rival interests for the moment buried in oblivion, and people from the east, from the west, and from the north, and from the south, came to assist in doing honour to England's Queen. "Immediately behind the resident ministers followed the ambassadors extraordinary, that is, those who had been sent by their respective governments for the express purpose of taking part in the solemnity. Some of the carriages and trappings of these ambassadors excited the greatest attention and admiration. Those in particular of Marshal Soult, the French ambassador, one of the ablest opponents of the Duke of Wellington during the peninsular war, were rich almost beyond description. In colour his carriage was of a rich cobalt relieved with gold, the panels most tastefully ornamented with his Excellency's armorial bearings, at the back of which was a field-marshal's baton. It was furnished at each corner with a lamp surmounted by a massive silver coronet, and the raised cornices with which it was ornamented were of silver, deep and richly chased. These, with the beautiful harness (of white--the furniture was also of silver exquisitely chased), gave an air of richness and beauty to the whole equipage which was quite unequalled in the procession. Peter Parley thought he should never have done gazing at the rich and splendid equipage. "The carriages and attendants of the ambassador from the Sultan, though far less richly caparisoned, were objects of equal curiosity, partly on account of the eastern dress in which Ahmed Fetij Pasha appeared, and partly because of that undefined idea of romance which exists in the popular mind in connection with the crescent and the rising sun, the emblems of Turkish power. "The carriage was of a rich lake colour, with the emblems which Peter Parley has just mentioned richly emblazoned on the panels. Inside it was lined with crimson and yellow silk, in rich festoons; the hammercloth blue, with gold and scarlet hangings, the centre of scarlet velvet with the rising sun and crescent in diamonds. "The only other ambassador's carriage which Peter Parley shall notice is that of the Prince de Ligne, ambassador extraordinary from Belgium. I mention it not that it was very much more striking than the others, for they were all beautiful, and each was distinguished by some peculiarity of elegant chasteness or rich display. The carriage, which was also of rich lake tastefully ornamented with gold, was drawn by six beautiful grey horses, and was preceded by a couple of outriders likewise mounted on greys. His Excellency's armorial bearings were emblazoned on the panels, the roof ornamented by four gold coronets, one at each corner. The richness of the liveries and trappings made this equipage very much admired. After the foreign ambassadors followed a mounted band and a detachment of life-guards which preceded the carriages of the branches of the Royal Family. "Peter Parley cannot find a word to express his idea of the gorgeous magnificence of the carriage of the Duchess of Kent, the mother of the Queen. The masses of gold lace by which the hammercloth and the attendants' liveries were ornamented had an extremely rich effect. Her grace seemed highly delighted with the ceremony, and nothing could be more gratifying than her reception, unless indeed it was that of the Queen herself. Every where was the Duchess cheered, and she returned the people's greetings by smiling and bowing in the blandest and most courtly manner. "The Duchess of Gloucester, and the Dukes of Cambridge and Sussex, followed next in order, and each was received with the same warm and enthusiastic cheers. "After these came the Queen's bargemaster and his assistants, forty-eight in number. The blunt sailor-like appearance of these men, some of whose weather-beaten countenances gave token of years of service, excited much interest. When Peter Parley saw them they recalled to his mind the anecdote of the saving of the life of the Princess Victoria, and he wondered which of the bluff sailors it was who had been so ready and so thoughtful. "The Royal carriages now approached. These were twelve in number, each drawn by six splendid horses, and accompanied by two grooms walking on each side. As they passed in succession, the interest became more intense as her Majesty drew nigh. The beauty of the maids of honour, the courtly bearing and gay dresses of the lords in waiting, which the carriages conveyed, the richness of the trappings, and the beauty and spirit of the horses, excited the intensest admiration. At length the twelfth carriage passed, and the most breathless interest prevailed. A squadron of Life Guards and a mounted band preceded the military staff and aides-de-camps, including some of the most distinguished military officers of the day. The Royal Huntsmen next appeared, followed by six of her Majesty's horses, with rich trappings, each led by two grooms. Though nothing could be finer than the appearance of these most beautiful animals the amount of attention which they received was but small, for close behind, preceded by one hundred Yeomen of the Guard, appeared the state coach, drawn by eight cream-coloured horses, attended by a Yeoman of the Guard at each wheel, and two footmen at each door, conveying "THE QUEEN. "The cheering by which other parts of the cavalcade had been received was loud and heartfelt, but no sooner did the young and amiable Queen make her appearance, than the loudest and most enthusiastic plaudits rent the air. The ladies in the balconies waved their handkerchiefs, the people cheered, peal after peal of joyful applause came thundering upon the ear, shout followed shout, and acclamation burst after acclamation, until the music of the military bands and the discharges of the artillery were completely drowned in the roar of popular applause. The Queen seemed to enjoy the exciting scene, and continued bowing on all sides in the most graceful and engaging manner. "The excitement which prevailed along the line of the procession, as her Majesty approached, was, Peter Parley was assured, great beyond description. _Then_ were the rich trappings of the Foreign Ambassadors, the magnificence of the Royal carriages, the dazzling scarlet uniforms of the watermen, the magnificently caparisoned horses, the rich uniforms of the great officers of state, and even the beauty and attractions of the maids of honour, all forgotten. There was one and one only thought of--it was THE QUEEN. The struggle was to look upon her, and the object of each individual present seemed to be-- "'How and which way he might bestow himself, To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.' "Never, Peter Parley will venture to say, did British monarch receive more heartfelt greeting, or pass under brighter auspices within the portals of Westminster Abbey." [Illustration: _Madeley lith. 3, Wellington St. Strand._ THE PROCESSION APPROACHING WESTMINSTER ABBEY] CHAPTER VIII. PARLEY DESCRIBES THE CORONATION IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. "AS soon as the Queen, the great object of attraction, had passed, Peter Parley and his friend hurried into the Abbey to resume their places. As they entered they encountered the most deafening and enthusiastic plaudits, to which the announcement of her Majesty's arrival within the Abbey gave rise. "While her Majesty was undergoing the ceremony of robing, in the magnificent room which Peter Parley has already told you about, the procession, which forms part of the ceremony within the Abbey, was arranged in order. "Every thing having been prepared, her Majesty made her appearance habited in a rich mantle and train of crimson velvet, over a dress of satin wrought with gold, and the assembled thousands of her loyal subjects rose with one accord, and welcomed their Sovereign in a manner which must have thrilled the heart of the greatest potentate who ever swayed a sceptre. The band of instrumental music swelled forth their richest notes, and the choir gave magnificent effect to the anthem:-- "'I was glad when they said unto me we will go into the house of the Lord. For there is the Seat of Judgment, even the Seat of the House of David. O pray for the peace of Jerusalem; they shall prosper that love Thee. Peace be within thy walls and prosperity within thy palaces. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.' "As the procession moved slowly up the Abbey, the effect was most magnificent; the splendour of the pageantry, the beauty of the young Queen, whose mild blue eyes shone scarcely less brightly than the circlet of diamonds which encompassed her beauteous brow, and the rich effect of the music, as it reverberated among the aisles of the building, almost made Peter Parley think it was a scene in fairy-land, or one of those bright and unsubstantial visions which flit across the mind in our dreams. "The Queen having advanced to a chair which had been provided for her, about midway between the throne and the south side of the altar, the noblemen and others who composed the procession took up the stations which had been appropriated for them; the choir in the mean time continuing to chaunt the anthem. "The cadences of the anthem had scarcely died away among the aisles of the Abbey, when Peter Parley was startled at the sound of youthful voices, singing at their highest pitch. He directed his eyes towards the spot whence the sound proceeded, and found it was the Westminster scholars, who, according to an ancient and established custom, greeted their sovereign with a kind of chaunt, 'Vivat Victoria Regina!' "At the conclusion of this chaunt, which, though not the most harmonious, struck Peter Parley as certainly not the least interesting part of the greeting, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Great Chamberlain, and the Earl Marshal, advanced and commenced the ceremony of the Coronation by what is called the Recognition; that is, advancing towards each side of the theatre in succession, they thus addressed the assembled spectators:-- "'Sirs, we here present unto you Queen Victoria, the undoubted Queen of this realm; wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage, are you willing to do the same?' "As the question was repeated on each side, the Abbey rang with the joyful response 'God save Queen Victoria!' A flourish of trumpets added to the enthusiasm of the scene; and even Peter Parley, carried away by the feeling of the moment, shouted forth his acclamations, in as heartfelt a manner as the most devoted of her Majesty's subjects. "During this part of the ceremony, the Queen remained standing by the chair on which she had at first taken her seat, and turned her face successively toward that part of the Abbey to which the question was addressed. "When the enthusiastic cheering subsided her Majesty resumed her seat, and preparations were made for that part of the altar service called the Oblation. The Bible, the chalice, and patina, were placed upon the altar, before which, two officers of the wardrobe spread a rich cloth of gold, and laid upon it a cushion for her Majesty to kneel upon. The Bishops who were to be engaged in the service also advanced and put on their copes. "Every thing being ready, her Majesty, supported by two bishops and preceded by the great officers of state bearing the regalia, approached the altar, and kneeling upon the cushion, made the various offerings. "The first, which consisted of a pall or altar-cloth of gold, was delivered by an officer of the wardrobe to the Lord Chamberlain, and by him handed to the Lord Great Chamberlain, who delivered it to the Queen. Her Majesty then gave it to the Archbishop of Canterbury, by whom it was placed on the altar. "An ingot of gold, a pound in weight, was then handed by the Treasurer of the Household to the Lord Great Chamberlain, by whom it was placed in the hands of the Queen, who delivered it to the Archbishop, by whom it was put into the oblation basin, and set upon the altar. "The Archbishop then said the following prayer, the Queen remaining kneeling before the altar:-- "'O God, who dwellest in the high and holy place, with them also who are of an humble spirit, look down mercifully upon this thy servant Victoria our Queen, here humbling herself before Thee at thy footstool, and graciously receive these oblations, which, in humble acknowledgment of thy sovereignty over all, and of thy great bounty unto her in particular, she hath now offered up unto Thee, through JESUS CHRIST, our only mediator and advocate. Amen.' "At the conclusion of this prayer her Majesty returned to the chair on the south side of the altar, and the whole of the regalia, except the swords, were delivered to the archbishop and placed on the altar. "The Litany was then read by the Bishops of Worcester and St. David's, which was followed by the Communion Service, previous to which, the choir sang the _Sanctus_:-- "'Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord God of Hosts; Heaven and earth are full of thy Glory; Glory be to Thee, O Lord, most High. Amen.' "At the conclusion of the service the Bishop of London ascended the pulpit, which had been placed opposite her Majesty's chair of state, and preached the sermon. His lordship's text was chosen from 2 Chron. xxxiv. 31,--'And the King stood in his place and made a covenant before the Lord, to walk after the Lord, and to keep his commandments, and his testimonies, and his statutes, with all his heart, and with all his soul, to perform the words of the covenant which are written in this book.' "At the conclusion of the sermon, to which the Queen was deeply attentive, the Archbishop of Canterbury advanced toward her Majesty, and standing before her, thus addressed her:-- "'Madam, is your Majesty willing to take the oath?' "The Queen answered, 'I am willing.' "The Archbishop then ministered these questions; and the Queen answered each question severally, as follows:-- "_Archbishop._--Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of this United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and the dominions thereto belonging, according to the statutes in Parliament agreed on, and the respective laws and customs of the same? "_Queen._--I solemnly promise so to do. "_Archbishop._--Will you to the utmost of your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgments? "_Queen._--I will. "_Archbishop._--Will you to the utmost of your power maintain the laws of God, the true profession of the Gospel, and the Protestant reformed religion established by law? And will you maintain and preserve inviolably the settlement of the United Church of England and Ireland, and the doctrine, worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established within England and Ireland, and the territories thereunto belonging? And will you preserve unto the bishops and clergy of England and Ireland, and to the churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges as by law do or shall appertain to them, or any of them? "_Queen._--All this I promise to do. "The Queen then proceeded to the altar, attended by the various functionaries, who had taken up their stations about her, and kneeling before it, laid her right hand on the great Bible, and, in the sight of her people, took a solemn oath, to observe the promises which she had made, saying-- "'The things which I have here before promised, I will perform and keep--So help me, God.' "Her Majesty then kissed the book and set her royal sign manual to a copy of the oath. After this solemn ceremony she returned to the chair, and kneeling at her fald-stool, the choir sang, with the most touching effect, the magnificent hymn-- "'Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, And warm them with thy Heav'nly fire; Thou who th' Anointing Spirit art, To us thy sevenfold gifts impart; Let thy bless'd unction from above Be to us comfort, life, and love; Enable with celestial light The weakness of our mortal sight: Anoint our hearts, and cheer our face, With the abundance of thy grace. Keep far our foes, give peace at home-- Where Thou dost dwell no ill can come. Teach us to know the Father, Son, And Spirit of both, to be but one, That so through ages all along, This may be our triumphant song; In Thee, O Lord, we make our boast, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.'" CHAPTER IX. PARLEY CONTINUES HIS DESCRIPTION OF THE CORONATION IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. "THE ceremony of anointing followed next in order--Her Majesty having been divested of her crimson robe by the Mistress of the Robes, took her seat in St. Edward's chair, and the Dean of Westminster taking from the altar the ampulla, containing the consecrated oil, and pouring some of it into the anointing spoon, proceeded to anoint her Majesty on the crown of the head and on the palm of both hands, in the form of a cross--four knights of the garter holding over her head a rich cloth of gold. "The Dean of Westminster then took the spurs from the altar and delivered them to the Lord Great Chamberlain, who, kneeling before her Majesty, presented them to her, after which she forthwith sent them back to the altar. The Viscount Melbourne, who carried the sword of state, then delivered it to the Lord Chamberlain, receiving in lieu thereof, another sword, in a scabbard of purple velvet, which his lordship delivered to the archbishop, who laid it on the altar. After a short prayer the archbishop took the sword from off the altar, and, accompanied by several other bishops, delivered it into the Queen's right hand. Then rising up her Majesty proceeded to the altar and offered the sword in the scabbard, delivering it to the archbishop, who placed it on the altar. Lord Melbourne then redeemed it by payment of one hundred shillings, and having unsheathed it, bore it during the remainder of the ceremony. "The most important part of the ceremonial now approached: the Dean of Westminster having received the imperial mantle of cloth of gold, lined or furred with ermine, proceeded to invest her Majesty, who stood up for the purpose. Having resumed her seat, the orb with the cross was brought from the altar, and delivered into her Majesty's hand by the archbishop; having in like manner been invested with the ring, the sceptre and the rod with the dove were placed in each hand. The archbishop, then, standing before the altar, took the crown into his hands, and again laying it on the altar said-- "'O God, who crownest thy faithful servants with mercy and loving kindness, look down upon this thy servant Victoria, our Queen, who now in lowly devotion boweth her head to thy divine majesty; and as thou dost this day set a crown of pure gold upon her head, so enrich her royal heart with thy heavenly grace, and crown her with all princely virtues, which may adorn the high station wherein thou hast placed her, through JESUS CHRIST, our LORD, to whom be honour and glory for ever and ever. Amen.' "The Royal Crown was then brought from the altar and placed on her Majesty's head. "At this instant the most deafening and enthusiastic cries of 'GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!' rose from every part of the Abbey, the peers and peeresses put on their coronets, the bishops their caps, and the spectators cheered and waved their handkerchiefs. The guns in the park, and at the tower, fired a royal salute. "After a short prayer by the archbishop, the choir sang an anthem, and the Dean of Westminster taking the Bible, which had been carried in the procession, from off the altar, presented it to her Majesty, who, having received it, delivered it again to the archbishop, and it was returned to the altar. "Having thus been solemnly anointed, and crowned, and invested with all the ensigns of royalty, the archbishop solemnly blessed the Queen, the rest of the bishops and the peers following every part of the benediction with a loud and hearty 'Amen.' "The _Te Deum_ was then sung by the choir, and her Majesty passing to the recognition chair in which she first sat, received the homage of the peers. "The bishops first approached, and, kneeling before the Queen, the archbishop pronounced the words of homage; the others repeating them after him, and, kissing her Majesty's hand, retired. "The Royal Dukes, ascending the steps of the throne, took off their coronets, and kneeling, repeated the words of homage, and then, touching the crown on her Majesty's head, kissed her on the left cheek and retired. "The other Peers then performed their homage, each in succession touching the crown and kissing her Majesty's hand. "The monotony of this ceremony was relieved by one little incident which evinced much kindness on the part of her Majesty. As one of the peers (Lord Rolle), who is a very aged and infirm man, approached the throne, he stumbled and fell back from the second step upon the floor. He was immediately raised, and supported by two noble lords; when he again approached, her Majesty, who beheld the occurrence with emotion, rose from her throne and advanced to meet him, extending her hand to him, and expressed much concern for the accident. This little trait of genuine goodness of heart was warmly cheered. [Illustration: _Madeley lith. 3, Wellington St. Strand._ HER MAJESTY'S STATE CARRIAGE.] "Peter Parley was highly amused at the scene which was enacted behind the throne, where one of her Majesty's Household was busily engaged scattering the coronation medals. Peers, Peeresses, Aldermen, and Military officers engaging warmly in the scramble and eagerly clutching at the coveted memorials. "When the homage was concluded, her Majesty descended from the throne and, proceeding to the altar, partook of the Holy Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. "The procession was then marshaled in the same order in which it had entered the Abbey. The rich effect of the costumes was however much heightened by the coronets of the peers. "After a short stay in the robing rooms, the procession for the return to Buckingham palace was formed, and the crowned Sovereign left Westminster Abbey amid the enthusiastic greeting of her faithful and devoted subjects. "Of course, there were many poems and songs made on this joyful occasion. The best which Peter Parley has seen is one by Charles Swain, which will form a very appropriate conclusion to this chapter. "'CORONATION SONG. I. "'Thou music of a nation's voice, Thou grace of old Britannia's throne, Thou light round which all hearts rejoice, God save and guard thee, England's own! While thousand, thousand hearts are thine, And Britain's blessing rests on thee, Pure may thy crown, Victoria, shine, And all thy subjects _lovers_ be! II. "'Come, wives! from cottage--home, and field! Come, daughters! oh, ye lovely, come! Bid every tongue its homage yield, Sound, trumpets, sound; and peal the drum! GOD save the Queen! ring high, ye bells! Swell forth a people's praise afar; She's crowned the acclaiming cannon tells! The Queen!--GOD save the Queen! hurrah! III. "'Long may she live to prove the best And noblest crown a Queen can wear Is that a people's love hath blessed, Whose happiness is in her care! GOD bless the Queen! ring sweet, ye bells! Swell forth old England's joy afar, She's crowned the exulting cannon tells; The Queen!--GOD bless the Queen! hurrah!'" CHAPTER X. PARLEY GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE ILLUMINATIONS, AND OF THE GRAND DISPLAY OF FIRE-WORKS. "AFTER the splendid pageant, which had rivetted the attention of every one during its continuance, had passed away, the fair in Hyde Park seemed to be the great centre of popular attraction. "Though pretty well tired out with the unusual exertion of the last day or two, Peter Parley proceeded to Hyde Park to see what was going on there. He had come across the Atlantic to see the show, and he was determined to see all that was to be seen. "How different an aspect did the park now present to what it did when Peter Parley visited it but two days before! The fair was now begun in good earnest, and there was no end to the booths for the sale of fancy goods of every description. Tents for the supply of articles of more substantial enjoyment were in equal abundance, and every one of them seemed to be completely crowded. When Peter Parley had wandered about the outskirts of the fair for some time, he saw a great many people standing looking at a large erection which seemed more like a house than a tent. He soon recognised the theatre of Mr. Richardson, which he had seen erecting when he first visited the park; as he drew near he saw that the people were laughing and enjoying the antics of a clown or merry-andrew, who was dressed in a parti-coloured dress, and was cutting the most ridiculous capers, to the no small delight of the spectators. "Peter Parley loves a little fun, and can laugh as loud as any one at innocent amusement, so he got close up to the booth to see how the clown acquitted himself. "'Come along, old boy!--this way, this way, father Adam!' cried the fellow to Peter Parley, when he saw him advancing--'make way there, ladies and gentlemen!' he continued, leaping right over the head of a countryman who was gazing at him with intense delight, at the same time knocking his hat over his eyes so as completely to blindfold him. In an instant the clown stood beside Peter Parley, and was hurrying him up the steps of the theatre before he knew what he was about. Peter Parley, however, did not relish such a summary mode of introduction, so he disengaged himself from the fellow's grasp and moved to another part of the fair, amid the rude laughter of the by-standers. "Peter Parley was amazed at the number of round-abouts and swings of every description, which beat the air and performed their evolutions with almost incessant rapidity. Some of them in the form of boats, which in the course of their movements rose and sunk alternately so as to imitate the motion of a vessel on the water, seemed particularly ingenious and appeared to be in constant request. Donkey races, too, lent their attractions, and altogether such a scene of gaiety Peter Parley never witnessed. "As long as daylight lasted these out-of-door amusements seemed to lose little or none of their attractions. When it became too dark for their performance people crowded into the theatres and tents, or waited patiently for the grand display of fireworks which was to take place at a late hour in the evening. "By way of making the most of his time Peter Parley got into a hackney coach and drove through the principal parts of the town to see the illuminations, which it was expected were to be on a grand scale. "All along the line of the procession the display was most splendid, and though many of the exhibitions of private individuals were beautiful and tasteful, the public offices certainly carried off the palm. Peter Parley thinks he never saw such a brilliant display as that at the Ordnance Office, in Pall Mall, the whole front of which was one blaze of light. Peter Parley was told that there were no fewer than sixty thousand lamps employed in the devices! "The Admiralty, Somerset House, and the Horse Guards, shared, with the Ordnance Office, the attention of the evening. The former displayed a magnificent imperial crown surmounting an anchor, with the union flag on each side in coloured lamps. It had also an inscription, 'God save the Queen.' "Somerset House, in which are several of the public offices, excited a good deal of attention from a novelty in the art of illumination. Instead of being lighted up with oil, the coloured lamps were illuminated with gas, which added greatly to their brilliancy and effect. The Horse Guards was, also, lit up in the same manner, and was equally attractive. "There were, besides these, hundreds of others well worth looking at and remembering too; but so many attractions offered themselves to his notice on every side, that Peter Parley does not know which to tell you about. "After being satisfied with gazing at the illuminations, Peter Parley again proceeded to the Park, as the time approached for the grand display of fireworks. "So dense was the crowd of eager spectators, that it was with difficulty that Peter Parley could gain access to the Park. He succeeded at length, however, thanks to the virtue of perseverance, which has done much for him in the course of his life. "The display commenced by the discharge of what is called a maroon battery, which fired off successively a series of immense crackers, each giving a report like the loudest cannon. The commencement of the spectacle was hailed with loud cheers by the assemblage, many of whom had waited several hours, and were beginning to lose all patience at the delay. "This startling display was immediately followed by an exhibition of coloured fire, and four balloon mortars shooting forth serpents and squibs of every variety of colour. The beautiful variety of tints, blue, green, red, and purple, to which some of these gave rise when they exploded in the air, was most magnificent. "For two whole hours did the gentlemen who had the direction of this exhibition continue the display, each successive variety vieing in beauty and brilliancy with that by which it was preceded, to the delight of all beholders, many of whom, and Peter Parley among others, never witnessed such a grand sight. The young Queen, it was said, enjoyed the splendour and beauty of the sight from the palace window, with as much interest and delight as any of her subjects. "It was almost one o'clock before the fireworks were concluded, and nearly an hour later before Peter Parley could make his way home; and the sun rose high in heaven before he awoke next morning. "Peter Parley must not omit to mention that all the theatres and places of public amusement were, by her Majesty's command, open to the public free; of course they were all filled, but Peter Parley did not visit any of them. "It pleased Peter Parley to hear that the poor and the unfortunate were no less kindly attended to. In almost every parish committees were formed by the inhabitants for the purpose of collecting subscriptions and arranging matters for regaling the poor and the children attending the charity schools, so that to all the 28th of June should be a day of rejoicing. Nor were the unfortunate inhabitants of the prisons forgotten. In all those belonging to the city, they were each allowed an ample repast, and in some of the others the great brewers supplied them with a good allowance of ale or porter." CHAPTER XI. PARLEY ATTENDS A REVIEW IN HYDE PARK, AND RELATES SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF MARSHAL SOULT.--CONCLUSION. "PETER PARLEY had begun to recover from the fatigue which he had undergone, and was thinking of once more crossing the Atlantic, and returning to the enjoyment of his quiet home, when one morning at breakfast, Major Meadows announced that there was to be a grand review in Hyde Park, on a scale of such splendour, that Peter Parley must see it before he left town. "The day fortunately turned out one of the most beautiful that could be conceived, and the crowds of persons who assembled to witness the grand military display, were very great. It was estimated by some of the military officers, who are accustomed to form pretty accurate notions of vast bodies of men, that at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, there were not less than two hundred thousand spectators present, in and around the Park. [Illustration: MARSHAL SOULT'S STATE CARRIAGE.] "Early in the day the troops began to arrive, and by ten o'clock all the regiments to be reviewed were on the ground. Shortly after, the Duke of Wellington, Lord Hill, and a great number of English military officers, as well as Marshal Soult, and all the foreign ambassadors, attended by their brilliant suites, arrived, and were every where received with great cheering. "At half-past eleven her Majesty arrived accompanied by her suite in four carriages, each drawn by four horses, and escorted by a detachment of Life Guards. She was attended by her Aides-de-Camp in full military uniform. The arrival of the royal party was announced by a discharge of cannon, the band striking up the national anthem, and the soldiers presenting arms as her Majesty approached. "The great attraction among the foreign visitants was Marshal Soult, who, as usual, excited much attention. As he rode close past the spot where Peter Parley and his friend Major Meadows had taken their stand, his stirrup broke, and we feared he would have fallen from his horse, but the Marshal is a good rider, and quickly recovered. Peter Parley afterwards saw a curious anecdote in the newspapers connected with this accident. On learning what had happened, Sir H. Vivian immediately dispatched a messenger to the saddlers to the Ordnance, to procure a pair of stirrups to replace the broken one. It happened, singularly enough, that the Saddlers had in their possession the stirrups which Napoleon used in many of his campaigns; so that Marshal Soult, during this review, actually did what was next to standing in his master's shoes! "Seeing that Peter Parley was very much interested in the Marshal, Major Meadows, who had been engaged in the Peninsular war, and had fought against him in some of his most celebrated battles, continued, when our attention was not completely occupied by the evolutions of the troops, to relate many most interesting anecdotes of his distinguished career. "'Marshal Soult,' said Major Meadows, 'is a very singular man, Mr. Parley, and like many of Napoleon's generals, rose from the very humblest rank. He entered the army as a private soldier, and, after serving some time in this capacity in a royal regiment of infantry, he became sub-lieutenant of grenadiers. "'He afterwards rose through the various ranks, till in 1796 he was appointed general of brigade, and sent to join the army of Italy. Here he soon won for himself new laurels, and his fame attracted the notice of Napoleon, who henceforth honoured him with his personal esteem. "'On the eve of the memorable battle of Austerlitz, in which he was entrusted with the command of the centre of the army, Napoleon, as usual, called his marshals together to explain his plans to them, and to give them instructions for their guidance. To the others he was minute in his directions, in proportion to the importance of the posts assigned to them. When he came to Soult, however, he merely said, 'as for you, Soult, I have only to say, act as you always do.' "'In the midst of the battle, an aide-de-camp arrived with an order that the Marshal should instantly push forward and gain certain heights. 'I will obey the Emperor's commands as soon as I can,' replied Soult, 'but this is not the proper time.' Napoleon, enraged at the delay, sent a second messenger, with more peremptory orders. The second aide-de-camp arrived just as the Marshal was putting his column in motion. The manoeuvre had been delayed because Soult observed that his opponents were extending their lines, and, consequently, weakening their centre. Complete success attended the attack. Napoleon, who, from the elevated position which he occupied, saw the attack, instantly perceived the reason for the delay, and the brilliancy of the movement, and riding up to Soult, complimented him in the presence of his staff, who, but a few minutes before, had seen him angry at the supposed disobedience, saying, 'Marshal, I account you the ablest tactician in my empire!' "'After the battle of Eylau, Napoleon was very much discouraged at the loss he had sustained, and wished to fall back, so as to form a junction with the other corps of his army. Against this resolution Soult warmly protested, telling the Emperor, that from what he had seen, he expected the enemy would retreat during the night, and thus leave the French army in possession of the field. Napoleon complied with the Marshal's advice, and every thing took place just as he had foretold. So that it was to the sagacity of Soult that the French army owes the honour of the victory of Eylau. "'In 1808, Soult, now Duke of Dalmatia, was entrusted with the command of the army in Spain, and his first movement was to pursue the gallant Sir John Moore in his memorable retreat towards Corunna. Under the walls of that town he engaged the British army, but, after a sharp contest, was completely repulsed. The British general, however, was killed in the action, and was buried in the citadel, his corpse wrapped in a military cloak, and the guns of his enemy paying his funeral honours. Marshal Soult, with that noble feeling which can only exist in minds of true greatness erected a monument to his memory, near the spot where he so nobly fell. "'To the Duke of Dalmatia Napoleon entrusted the command of the army, when the defeat of the French at Vittoria had placed the Peninsula at the mercy of the Duke of Wellington. After a series of conflicts, which covered the British army and its able general with glory, Soult, finding the cause of his imperial master hopeless, gave up the contest and returned to Paris. "'Soult afterwards fought at Waterloo, but without that distinction which might have been expected from his old renown. After this battle, which for ever stamped the fate of Napoleon, and showed Wellington the greatest general of the age, Soult retired to the country, and lived for some years in seclusion. He was however recalled, and created a peer of France by Charles X.' "Such was Major Meadows' account of this celebrated man. To Peter Parley he was an object of great interest, because his presence recalled the remembrance of some of the spirit-stirring events in which he had been a participator; not that Peter Parley is an admirer of military genius or delights in military renown. He would rather do honour to the humblest benefactor of the human race than the greatest general that ever lived. With him the glory of James Watt, the inventor of the steam-engine, far outshines the lustre of a Soult, or a Ney, or an Alexander! and he would rather be the author of the Waverley Novels than be crowned with the blood-stained laurels of a Napoleon or a Wellington! "Peter Parley is one of those who hope the time is now come when the sound of war will be heard no more, and nations, instead of wasting their energies in deeds of blood, will strive to rival each other only in the peaceful pursuits of commerce and the arts." * * * * * "Peter Parley must now bid his young friends good bye! When he meets them again he hopes to find them all equally willing to be pleased and as patient and attentive to the tales which he tells them, as they have been to his 'VISIT TO LONDON DURING THE CORONATION OF QUEEN VICTORIA.'" [Illustration] FINIS. CLARKE, Printers, Silver Street, Falcon Square. JUVENILE WORKS JUST PUBLISHED. STORIES ABOUT DOGS, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THEIR INSTINCT, SAGACITY, AND FIDELITY. BY THOMAS BINGLEY, _Author of "Stories about Instinct."_ Embellished with Engravings from Drawings by THOMAS LANDSEER. _Price 4s. neatly bound._ NOW READY, BY THE SAME AUTHOR, STORIES ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE INSTINCT OF ANIMALS, THEIR CHARACTERS AND HABITS. WITH ENGRAVINGS BY THOMAS LANDSEER. _Four Shillings bound._ II. TALES OF SHIPWRECKS, AND OTHER DISASTERS AT SEA. WITH ENGRAVINGS, _Four Shillings bound._ APPROVED JUVENILE WORKS. TALES OF ENTERPRISE, For the Amusement of Youth, BY PAUL HOPKINS, WITH ENGRAVINGS, BEAUTIFULLY BOUND AND GILT. _Price Half-a-Crown._ _Price 5s. bound in ornamented cloth._ BIBLE QUADRUPEDS; THE NATURAL HISTORY OF THE ANIMALS MENTIONED IN SCRIPTURE. WITH SIXTEEN ENGRAVINGS. "This is an excellent little tome for young people; cherishing at the same time a love for the Holy volume and a taste for natural history. It contains sixteen nice pictures of the most prominent subjects, by S. Williams."--_Literary Gazette._ CHARLES TILT, FLEET STREET. LIST OF PLATES. I.--THE CORONATION OF QUEEN VICTORIA. II.--HER MAJESTY LEAVING BUCKINGHAM PALACE. III.--MARSHAL SOULT'S STATE CARRIAGE. IV.--HER MAJESTY'S STATE CARRIAGE. V.--THE PROCESSION APPROACHING WESTMINSTER ABBEY. VI.--HER MAJESTY LEAVING HER PRIVATE APARTMENTS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 1265 ---- QUEEN VICTORIA By Lytton Strachey New York Harcourt, Brace And Company, 1921 CONTENTS I. ANTECEDENTS II. CHILDHOOD III. LORD MELBOURNE IV. MARRIAGE V. LORD PALMERSTON VI. LAST YEARS OF THE PRINCE CONSORT VII. WIDOWHOOD VIII. MR. GLADSTONE AND LORD BEACONSFIELD IX. OLD AGE X. THE END BIBLIOGRAPHY QUEEN VICTORIA CHAPTER I. ANTECEDENTS I On November 6, 1817, died the Princess Charlotte, only child of the Prince Regent, and heir to the crown of England. Her short life had hardly been a happy one. By nature impulsive, capricious, and vehement, she had always longed for liberty; and she had never possessed it. She had been brought up among violent family quarrels, had been early separated from her disreputable and eccentric mother, and handed over to the care of her disreputable and selfish father. When she was seventeen, he decided to marry her off to the Prince of Orange; she, at first, acquiesced; but, suddenly falling in love with Prince Augustus of Prussia, she determined to break off the engagement. This was not her first love affair, for she had previously carried on a clandestine correspondence with a Captain Hess. Prince Augustus was already married, morganatically, but she did not know it, and he did not tell her. While she was spinning out the negotiations with the Prince of Orange, the allied sovereign--it was June, 1814--arrived in London to celebrate their victory. Among them, in the suite of the Emperor of Russia, was the young and handsome Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. He made several attempts to attract the notice of the Princess, but she, with her heart elsewhere, paid very little attention. Next month the Prince Regent, discovering that his daughter was having secret meetings with Prince Augustus, suddenly appeared upon the scene and, after dismissing her household, sentenced her to a strict seclusion in Windsor Park. "God Almighty grant me patience!" she exclaimed, falling on her knees in an agony of agitation: then she jumped up, ran down the backstairs and out into the street, hailed a passing cab, and drove to her mother's house in Bayswater. She was discovered, pursued, and at length, yielding to the persuasions of her uncles, the Dukes of York and Sussex, of Brougham, and of the Bishop of Salisbury, she returned to Carlton House at two o'clock in the morning. She was immured at Windsor, but no more was heard of the Prince of Orange. Prince Augustus, too, disappeared. The way was at last open to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. This Prince was clever enough to get round the Regent, to impress the Ministers, and to make friends with another of the Princess's uncles, the Duke of Kent. Through the Duke he was able to communicate privately with the Princess, who now declared that he was necessary to her happiness. When, after Waterloo, he was in Paris, the Duke's aide-de-camp carried letters backwards and forwards across the Channel. In January 1816 he was invited to England, and in May the marriage took place. The character of Prince Leopold contrasted strangely with that of his wife. The younger son of a German princeling, he was at this time twenty-six years of age; he had served with distinction in the war against Napoleon; he had shown considerable diplomatic skill at the Congress of Vienna; and he was now to try his hand at the task of taming a tumultuous Princess. Cold and formal in manner, collected in speech, careful in action, he soon dominated the wild, impetuous, generous creature by his side. There was much in her, he found, of which he could not approve. She quizzed, she stamped, she roared with laughter; she had very little of that self-command which is especially required of princes; her manners were abominable. Of the latter he was a good judge, having moved, as he himself explained to his niece many years later, in the best society of Europe, being in fact "what is called in French de la fleur des pois." There was continual friction, but every scene ended in the same way. Standing before him like a rebellious boy in petticoats, her body pushed forward, her hands behind her back, with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes, she would declare at last that she was ready to do whatever he wanted. "If you wish it, I will do it," she would say. "I want nothing for myself," he invariably answered; "When I press something on you, it is from a conviction that it is for your interest and for your good." Among the members of the household at Claremont, near Esher, where the royal pair were established, was a young German physician, Christian Friedrich Stockmar. He was the son of a minor magistrate in Coburg, and, after taking part as a medical officer in the war, he had settled down as a doctor in his native town. Here he had met Prince Leopold, who had been struck by his ability, and, on his marriage, brought him to England as his personal physician. A curious fate awaited this young man; many were the gifts which the future held in store for him--many and various--influence, power, mystery, unhappiness, a broken heart. At Claremont his position was a very humble one; but the Princess took a fancy to him, called him "Stocky," and romped with him along the corridors. Dyspeptic by constitution, melancholic by temperament, he could yet be lively on occasion, and was known as a wit in Coburg. He was virtuous, too, and served the royal menage with approbation. "My master," he wrote in his diary, "is the best of all husbands in all the five quarters of the globe; and his wife bears him an amount of love, the greatness of which can only be compared with the English national debt." Before long he gave proof of another quality--a quality which was to colour the whole of his life-cautious sagacity. When, in the spring of 1817, it was known that the Princess was expecting a child, the post of one of her physicians-in-ordinary was offered to him, and he had the good sense to refuse it. He perceived that his colleagues would be jealous of him, that his advice would probably not be taken, but that, if anything were to go wrong, it would be certainly the foreign doctor who would be blamed. Very soon, indeed, he came to the opinion that the low diet and constant bleedings, to which the unfortunate Princess was subjected, were an error; he drew the Prince aside, and begged him to communicate this opinion to the English doctors; but it was useless. The fashionable lowering treatment was continued for months. On November 5, at nine o'clock in the evening, after a labour of over fifty hours, the Princess was delivered of a dead boy. At midnight her exhausted strength gave way. When, at last, Stockmar consented to see her; he went in, and found her obviously dying, while the doctors were plying her with wine. She seized his hand and pressed it. "They have made me tipsy," she said. After a little he left her, and was already in the next room when he heard her call out in her loud voice: "Stocky! Stocky!" As he ran back the death-rattle was in her throat. She tossed herself violently from side to side; then suddenly drew up her legs, and it was over. The Prince, after hours of watching, had left the room for a few moments' rest; and Stockmar had now to tell him that his wife was dead. At first he could not be made to realise what had happened. On their way to her room he sank down on a chair while Stockmar knelt beside him: it was all a dream; it was impossible. At last, by the bed, he, too, knelt down and kissed the cold hands. Then rising and exclaiming, "Now I am quite desolate. Promise me never to leave me," he threw himself into Stockmar's arms. II The tragedy at Claremont was of a most upsetting kind. The royal kaleidoscope had suddenly shifted, and nobody could tell how the new pattern would arrange itself. The succession to the throne, which had seemed so satisfactorily settled, now became a matter of urgent doubt. George III was still living, an aged lunatic, at Windsor, completely impervious to the impressions of the outer world. Of his seven sons, the youngest was of more than middle age, and none had legitimate offspring. The outlook, therefore, was ambiguous. It seemed highly improbable that the Prince Regent, who had lately been obliged to abandon his stays, and presented a preposterous figure of debauched obesity, could ever again, even on the supposition that he divorced his wife and re-married, become the father of a family. Besides the Duke of Kent, who must be noticed separately, the other brothers, in order of seniority, were the Dukes of York, Clarence, Cumberland, Sussex, and Cambridge; their situations and prospects require a brief description. The Duke of York, whose escapades in times past with Mrs. Clarke and the army had brought him into trouble, now divided his life between London and a large, extravagantly ordered and extremely uncomfortable country house where he occupied himself with racing, whist, and improper stories. He was remarkable among the princes for one reason: he was the only one of them--so we are informed by a highly competent observer--who had the feelings of a gentleman. He had been long married to the Princess Royal of Prussia, a lady who rarely went to bed and was perpetually surrounded by vast numbers of dogs, parrots, and monkeys. They had no children. The Duke of Clarence had lived for many years in complete obscurity with Mrs. Jordan, the actress, in Bushey Park. By her he had had a large family of sons and daughters, and had appeared, in effect to be married to her, when he suddenly separated from her and offered to marry Miss Wykeham, a crazy woman of large fortune, who, however, would have nothing to say to him. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Jordan died in distressed circumstances in Paris. The Duke of Cumberland was probably the most unpopular man in England. Hideously ugly, with a distorted eye, he was bad-tempered and vindictive in private, a violent reactionary in politics, and was subsequently suspected of murdering his valet and of having carried on an amorous intrigue of an extremely scandalous kind. He had lately married a German Princess, but there were as yet no children by the marriage. The Duke of Sussex had mildly literary tastes and collected books. He had married Lady Augusta Murray, by whom he had two children, but the marriage, under the Royal Marriages Act, was declared void. On Lady Augusta's death, he married Lady Cecilia Buggin; she changed her name to Underwood, but this marriage also was void. Of the Duke of Cambridge, the youngest of the brothers, not very much was known. He lived in Hanover, wore a blonde wig, chattered and fidgeted a great deal, and was unmarried. Besides his seven sons, George III had five surviving daughters. Of these, two--the Queen of Wurtemberg and the Duchess of Gloucester--were married and childless. The three unmarried princesses--Augusta, Elizabeth, and Sophia--were all over forty. III The fourth son of George III was Edward, Duke of Kent. He was now fifty years of age--a tall, stout, vigorous man, highly-coloured, with bushy eyebrows, a bald top to his head, and what hair he had carefully dyed a glossy black. His dress was extremely neat, and in his whole appearance there was a rigidity which did not belie his character. He had spent his early life in the army--at Gibraltar, in Canada, in the West Indies--and, under the influence of military training, had become at first a disciplinarian and at last a martinet. In 1802, having been sent to Gibraltar to restore order in a mutinous garrison, he was recalled for undue severity, and his active career had come to an end. Since then he had spent his life regulating his domestic arrangements with great exactitude, busying himself with the affairs of his numerous dependents, designing clocks, and struggling to restore order to his finances, for, in spite of his being, as someone said who knew him well "regle comme du papier a musique," and in spite of an income of L24,000 a year, he was hopelessly in debt. He had quarrelled with most of his brothers, particularly with the Prince Regent, and it was only natural that he should have joined the political Opposition and become a pillar of the Whigs. What his political opinions may actually have been is open to doubt; it has often been asserted that he was a Liberal, or even a Radical; and, if we are to believe Robert Owen, he was a necessitarian Socialist. His relations with Owen--the shrewd, gullible, high-minded, wrong-headed, illustrious and preposterous father of Socialism and Co-operation--were curious and characteristic. He talked of visiting the Mills at New Lanark, he did, in fact, preside at one of Owen's public meetings; he corresponded with him on confidential terms, and he even (so Owen assures us) returned, after his death, from "the sphere of spirits" to give encouragement to the Owenites on earth. "In an especial manner," says Owen, "I have to name the very anxious feelings of the spirit of his Royal Highness the Late Duke of Kent (who early informed me that there were no titles in the spititual spheres into which he had entered), to benefit, not a class, a sect, a party, or any particular country, but the whole of the human race, through futurity." "His whole spirit-proceeding with me has been most beautiful," Owen adds, "making his own appointments; and never in one instance has this spirit not been punctual to the minute he had named." But Owen was of a sanguine temperament. He also numbered among his proselytes President Jefferson, Prince Metternich, and Napoleon; so that some uncertainty must still linger over the Duke of Kent's views. But there is no uncertainty about another circumstance: his Royal Highness borrowed from Robert Owen, on various occasions, various sums of money which were never repaid and amounted in all to several hundred pounds. After the death of the Princess Charlotte it was clearly important, for more than one reason, that the Duke of Kent should marry. From the point of view of the nation, the lack of heirs in the reigning family seemed to make the step almost obligatory; it was also likely to be highly expedient from the point of view of the Duke. To marry as a public duty, for the sake of the royal succession, would surely deserve some recognition from a grateful country. When the Duke of York had married he had received a settlement of L25,000 a year. Why should not the Duke of Kent look forward to an equal sum? But the situation was not quite simple. There was the Duke of Clarence to be considered; he was the elder brother, and, if HE married, would clearly have the prior claim. On the other hand, if the Duke of Kent married, it was important to remember that he would be making a serious sacrifice: a lady was involved. The Duke, reflecting upon all these matters with careful attention, happened, about a month after his niece's death, to visit Brussels, and learnt that Mr. Creevey was staying in the town. Mr. Creevey was a close friend of the leading Whigs and an inveterate gossip; and it occurred to the Duke that there could be no better channel through which to communicate his views upon the situation to political circles at home. Apparently it did not occur to him that Mr. Creevey was malicious and might keep a diary. He therefore sent for him on some trivial pretext, and a remarkable conversation ensued. After referring to the death of the Princess, to the improbability of the Regent's seeking a divorce, to the childlessness of the Duke of York, and to the possibility of the Duke of Clarence marrying, the Duke adverted to his own position. "Should the Duke of Clarence not marry," he said, "the next prince in succession is myself, and although I trust I shall be at all times ready to obey any call my country may make upon me, God only knows the sacrifice it will be to make, whenever I shall think it my duty to become a married man. It is now seven and twenty years that Madame St. Laurent and I have lived together: we are of the same age, and have been in all climates, and in all difficulties together, and you may well imagine, Mr. Creevey, the pang it will occasion me to part with her. I put it to your own feelings--in the event of any separation between you and Mrs. Creevey... As for Madame St. Laurent herself, I protest I don't know what is to become of her if a marriage is to be forced upon me; her feelings are already so agitated upon the subject." The Duke went on to describe how, one morning, a day or two after the Princess Charlotte's death, a paragraph had appeared in the Morning Chronicle, alluding to the possibility of his marriage. He had received the newspaper at breakfast together with his letters, and "I did as is my constant practice, I threw the newspaper across the table to Madame St. Laurent, and began to open and read my letters. I had not done so but a very short time, when my attention was called to an extraordinary noise and a strong convulsive movement in Madame St. Laurent's throat. For a short time I entertained serious apprehensions for her safety; and when, upon her recovery, I enquired into the occasion of this attack, she pointed to the article in the Morning Chronicle." The Duke then returned to the subject of the Duke of Clarence. "My brother the Duke of Clarence is the elder brother, and has certainly the right to marry if he chooses, and I would not interfere with him on any account. If he wishes to be king--to be married and have children, poor man--God help him! Let him do so. For myself--I am a man of no ambition, and wish only to remain as I am... Easter, you know, falls very early this year--the 22nd of March. If the Duke of Clarence does not take any step before that time, I must find some pretext to reconcile Madame St. Laurent to my going to England for a short time. When once there, it will be easy for me to consult with my friends as to the proper steps to be taken. Should the Duke of Clarence do nothing before that time as to marrying it will become my duty, no doubt, to take some measures upon the subject myself." Two names, the Duke said, had been mentioned in this connection--those of the Princess of Baden and the Princess of Saxe-Coburg. The latter, he thought, would perhaps be the better of the two, from the circumstance of Prince Leopold being so popular with the nation; but before any other steps were taken, he hoped and expected to see justice done to Madame St. Laurent. "She is," he explained, "of very good family, and has never been an actress, and I am the first and only person who ever lived with her. Her disinterestedness, too, has been equal to her fidelity. When she first came to me it was upon L100 a year. That sum was afterwards raised to L400 and finally to L1000; but when my debts made it necessary for me to sacrifice a great part of my income, Madame St. Laurent insisted upon again returning to her income of L400 a year. If Madame St. Laurent is to return to live amongst her friends, it must be in such a state of independence as to command their respect. I shall not require very much, but a certain number of servants and a carriage are essentials." As to his own settlement, the Duke observed that he would expect the Duke of York's marriage to be considered the precedent. "That," he said, "was a marriage for the succession, and L25,000 for income was settled, in addition to all his other income, purely on that account. I shall be contented with the same arrangement, without making any demands grounded on the difference of the value of money in 1792 and at present. As for the payment of my debts," the Duke concluded, "I don't call them great. The nation, on the contrary, is greatly my debtor." Here a clock struck, and seemed to remind the Duke that he had an appointment; he rose, and Mr. Creevey left him. Who could keep such a communication secret? Certainly not Mr. Creevey. He hurried off to tell the Duke of Wellington, who was very much amused, and he wrote a long account of it to Lord Sefton, who received the letter "very apropos," while a surgeon was sounding his bladder to ascertain whether he had a stone. "I never saw a fellow more astonished than he was," wrote Lord Sefton in his reply, "at seeing me laugh as soon as the operation was over. Nothing could be more first-rate than the royal Edward's ingenuousness. One does not know which to admire most--the delicacy of his attachment to Madame St. Laurent, the refinement of his sentiments towards the Duke of Clarence, or his own perfect disinterestedness in pecuniary matters." As it turned out, both the brothers decided to marry. The Duke of Kent, selecting the Princess of Saxe-Coburg in preference to the Princess of Baden, was united to her on May 29, 1818. On June 11, the Duke of Clarence followed suit with a daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen. But they were disappointed in their financial expectations; for though the Government brought forward proposals to increase their allowances, together with that of the Duke of Cumberland, the motions were defeated in the House of Commons. At this the Duke of Wellington was not surprised. "By God!" he said, "there is a great deal to be said about that. They are the damnedest millstones about the necks of any Government that can be imagined. They have insulted--PERSONALLY insulted--two-thirds of the gentlemen of England, and how can it be wondered at that they take their revenge upon them in the House of Commons? It is their only opportunity, and I think, by God! they are quite right to use it." Eventually, however, Parliament increased the Duke of Kent's annuity by L6000. The subsequent history of Madame St. Laurent has not transpired. IV The new Duchess of Kent, Victoria Mary Louisa, was a daughter of Francis, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, and a sister of Prince Leopold. The family was an ancient one, being a branch of the great House of Wettin, which since the eleventh century had ruled over the March of Meissen on the Elbe. In the fifteenth century the whole possessions of the House had been divided between the Albertine and Ernestine branches: from the former descended the electors and kings of Saxony; the latter, ruling over Thuringia, became further subdivided into five branches, of which the duchy of Saxe-Coburg was one. This principality was very small, containing about 60,000 inhabitants, but it enjoyed independent and sovereign rights. During the disturbed years which followed the French Revolution, its affairs became terribly involved. The Duke was extravagant, and kept open house for the swarms of refugees, who fled eastward over Germany as the French power advanced. Among these was the Prince of Leiningen, an elderly beau, whose domains on the Moselle had been seized by the French, but who was granted in compensation the territory of Amorbach in Lower Franconia. In 1803 he married the Princess Victoria, at that time seventeen years of age. Three years later Duke Francis died a ruined man. The Napoleonic harrow passed over Saxe-Coburg. The duchy was seized by the French, and the ducal family were reduced to beggary, almost to starvation. At the same time the little principality of Amorbach was devastated by the French, Russian, and Austrian armies, marching and counter-marching across it. For years there was hardly a cow in the country, nor enough grass to feed a flock of geese. Such was the desperate plight of the family which, a generation later, was to have gained a foothold in half the reigning Houses of Europe. The Napoleonic harrow had indeed done its work, the seed was planted; and the crop would have surprised Napoleon. Prince Leopold, thrown upon his own resources at fifteen, made a career for himself and married the heiress of England. The Princess of Leiningen, struggling at Amorbach with poverty, military requisitions, and a futile husband, developed an independence of character and a tenacity of purpose which were to prove useful in very different circumstances. In 1814, her husband died, leaving her with two children and the regency of the principality. After her brother's marriage with the Princess Charlotte, it was proposed that she should marry the Duke of Kent; but she declined, on the ground that the guardianship of her children and the management of her domains made other ties undesirable. The Princess Charlotte's death, however, altered the case; and when the Duke of Kent renewed his offer, she accepted it. She was thirty-two years old--short, stout, with brown eyes and hair, and rosy cheeks, cheerful and voluble, and gorgeously attired in rustling silks and bright velvets. She was certainly fortunate in her contented disposition; for she was fated, all through her life, to have much to put up with. Her second marriage, with its dubious prospects, seemed at first to be chiefly a source of difficulties and discomforts. The Duke, declaring that he was still too poor to live in England, moved about with uneasy precision through Belgium and Germany, attending parades and inspecting barracks in a neat military cap, while the English notabilities looked askance, and the Duke of Wellington dubbed him the Corporal. "God damme!" he exclaimed to Mr. Creevey, "d'ye know what his sisters call him? By God! they call him Joseph Surface!" At Valenciennes, where there was a review and a great dinner, the Duchess arrived with an old and ugly lady-in-waiting, and the Duke of Wellington found himself in a difficulty. "Who the devil is to take out the maid of honour?" he kept asking; but at last he thought of a solution. "Damme, Freemantle, find out the mayor and let him do it." So the Mayor of Valenciennes was brought up for the purpose, and--so we learn from Mr. Creevey--"a capital figure he was." A few days later, at Brussels, Mr. Creevey himself had an unfortunate experience. A military school was to be inspected--before breakfast. The company assembled; everything was highly satisfactory; but the Duke of Kent continued for so long examining every detail and asking meticulous question after meticulous question, that Mr. Creevey at last could bear it no longer, and whispered to his neighbour that he was damned hungry. The Duke of Wellington heard him, and was delighted. "I recommend you," he said, "whenever you start with the royal family in a morning, and particularly with THE CORPORAL, always to breakfast first." He and his staff, it turned out, had taken that precaution, and the great man amused himself, while the stream of royal inquiries poured on, by pointing at Mr. Creevey from time to time with the remark, "Voila le monsieur qui n'a pas dejeune!" Settled down at last at Amorbach, the time hung heavily on the Duke's hands. The establishment was small, the country was impoverished; even clock-making grew tedious at last. He brooded--for in spite of his piety the Duke was not without a vein of superstition--over the prophecy of a gipsy at Gibraltar who told him that he was to have many losses and crosses, that he was to die in happiness, and that his only child was to be a great queen. Before long it became clear that a child was to be expected: the Duke decided that it should be born in England. Funds were lacking for the journey, but his determination was not to be set aside. Come what might, he declared, his child must be English-born. A carriage was hired, and the Duke himself mounted the box. Inside were the Duchess, her daughter Feodora, a girl of fourteen, with maids, nurses, lap-dogs, and canaries. Off they drove--through Germany, through France: bad roads, cheap inns, were nothing to the rigorous Duke and the equable, abundant Duchess. The Channel was crossed, London was reached in safety. The authorities provided a set of rooms in Kensington Palace; and there, on May 24, 1819, a female infant was born. CHAPTER II. CHILDHOOD I The child who, in these not very impressive circumstances, appeared in the world, received but scant attention. There was small reason to foresee her destiny. The Duchess of Clarence, two months before, had given birth to a daughter, this infant, indeed, had died almost immediately; but it seemed highly probable that the Duchess would again become a mother; and so it actually fell out. More than this, the Duchess of Kent was young, and the Duke was strong; there was every likelihood that before long a brother would follow, to snatch her faint chance of the succession from the little princess. Nevertheless, the Duke had other views: there were prophecies... At any rate, he would christen the child Elizabeth, a name of happy augury. In this, however, he reckoned without the Regent, who, seeing a chance of annoying his brother, suddenly announced that he himself would be present at the baptism, and signified at the same time that one of the godfathers was to be the Emperor Alexander of Russia. And so when the ceremony took place, and the Archbishop of Canterbury asked by what name he was to baptise the child, the Regent replied "Alexandria." At this the Duke ventured to suggest that another name might be added. "Certainly," said the Regent; "Georgina?" "Or Elizabeth?" said the Duke. There was a pause, during which the Archbishop, with the baby in his lawn sleeves, looked with some uneasiness from one Prince to the other. "Very well, then," said the Regent at last, "call her after her mother. But Alexandrina must come first." Thus, to the disgust of her father, the child was christened Alexandrina Victoria. The Duke had other subjects of disgust. The meagre grant of the Commons had by no means put an end to his financial distresses. It was to be feared that his services were not appreciated by the nation. His debts continued to grow. For many years he had lived upon L7000 a year; but now his expenses were exactly doubled; he could make no further reductions; as it was, there was not a single servant in his meagre grant establishment who was idle for a moment from morning to night. He poured out his griefs in a long letter to Robert Owen, whose sympathy had the great merit of being practical. "I now candidly state," he wrote, "that, after viewing the subject in every possible way, I am satisfied that, to continue to live in England, even in the quiet way in which we are going on, WITHOUT SPLENDOUR, and WITHOUT SHOW, NOTHING SHORT OF DOUBLING THE SEVEN THOUSAND POUNDS WILL DO, REDUCTION BEING IMPOSSIBLE." It was clear that he would be obliged to sell his house for L51,300, if that failed, he would go and live on the Continent. "If my services are useful to my country, it surely becomes THOSE WHO HAVE THE POWER to support me in substantiating those just claims I have for the very extensive losses and privations I have experienced, during the very long period of my professional servitude in the Colonies; and if this is not attainable, IT IS A CLEAR PROOF TO ME THAT THEY ARE THEY ARE NOT APPRECIATED; and under that impression I shall not scruple, in DUE time, to resume my retirement abroad, when the Duchess and myself shall have fulfilled our duties in establishing the ENGLISH birth of my child, and giving it material nutriment on the soil of Old England; and which we shall certainly repeat, if Providence destines, to give us any further increase of family." In the meantime, he decided to spend the winter at Sidmouth, "in order," he told Owen, "that the Duchess may have the benefit of tepid sea bathing, and our infant that of sea air, on the fine coast of Devonshire, during the months of the year that are so odious in London." In December the move was made. With the new year, the Duke remembered another prophecy. In 1820, a fortune-teller had told him, two members of the Royal Family would die. Who would they be? He speculated on the various possibilities: The King, it was plain, could not live much longer; and the Duchess of York had been attacked by a mortal disease. Probably it would be the King and the Duchess of York; or perhaps the King and the Duke of York; or the King and the Regent. He himself was one of the healthiest men in England. "My brothers," he declared, "are not so strong as I am; I have lived a regular life. I shall outlive them all. The crown will come to me and my children." He went out for a walk, and got his feet wet. On coming home, he neglected to change his stockings. He caught cold, inflammation of the lungs set in, and on January 22 he was a dying man. By a curious chance, young Dr. Stockmar was staying in the house at the time; two years before, he had stood by the death-bed of the Princess Charlotte; and now he was watching the Duke of Kent in his agony. On Stockmar's advice, a will was hastily prepared. The Duke's earthly possessions were of a negative character; but it was important that the guardianship of the unwitting child, whose fortunes were now so strangely changing, should be assured to the Duchess. The Duke was just able to understand the document, and to append his signature. Having inquired whether his writing was perfectly clear, he became unconscious, and breathed his last on the following morning! Six days later came the fulfilment of the second half of the gipsy's prophecy. The long, unhappy, and inglorious life of George the Third of England was ended. II Such was the confusion of affairs at Sidmouth, that the Duchess found herself without the means of returning to London. Prince Leopold hurried down, and himself conducted his sister and her family, by slow and bitter stages, to Kensington. The widowed lady, in her voluminous blacks, needed all her equanimity to support her. Her prospects were more dubious than ever. She had L6000 a year of her own; but her husband's debts loomed before her like a mountain. Soon she learnt that the Duchess of Clarence was once more expecting a child. What had she to look forward to in England? Why should she remain in a foreign country, among strangers, whose language she could not speak, whose customs she could not understand? Surely it would be best to return to Amorbach, and there, among her own people, bring up her daughters in economical obscurity. But she was an inveterate optimist; she had spent her life in struggles, and would not be daunted now; and besides, she adored her baby. "C'est mon bonheur, mes delices, mon existence," she declared; the darling should be brought up as an English princess, whatever lot awaited her. Prince Leopold came forward nobly with an offer of an additional L3000 a year; and the Duchess remained at Kensington. The child herself was extremely fat, and bore a remarkable resemblance to her grandfather. "C'est l'image du feu Roi!" exclaimed the Duchess. "C'est le Roi Georges en jupons," echoed the surrounding ladies, as the little creature waddled with difficulty from one to the other. Before long, the world began to be slightly interested in the nursery at Kensington. When, early in 1821, the Duchess of Clarence's second child, the Princess Elizabeth, died within three months of its birth, the interest increased. Great forces and fierce antagonisms seemed to be moving, obscurely, about the royal cradle. It was a time of faction and anger, of violent repression and profound discontent. A powerful movement, which had for long been checked by adverse circumstances, was now spreading throughout the country. New passions, new desires, were abroad; or rather old passions and old desires, reincarnated with a new potency: love of freedom, hatred of injustice, hope for the future of man. The mighty still sat proudly in their seats, dispensing their ancient tyranny; but a storm was gathering out of the darkness, and already there was lightning in the sky. But the vastest forces must needs operate through frail human instruments; and it seemed for many years as if the great cause of English liberalism hung upon the life of the little girl at Kensington. She alone stood between the country and her terrible uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, the hideous embodiment of reaction. Inevitably, the Duchess of Kent threw in her lot with her husband's party; Whig leaders, Radical agitators, rallied round her; she was intimate with the bold Lord Durham, she was on friendly terms with the redoubtable O'Connell himself. She received Wilberforce-though, to be sure, she did not ask him to sit down. She declared in public that she put her faith in "the liberties of the People." It was certain that the young Princess would be brought up in the way that she should go; yet there, close behind the throne, waiting, sinister, was the Duke of Cumberland. Brougham, looking forward into the future in his scurrilous fashion, hinted at dreadful possibilities. "I never prayed so heartily for a Prince before," he wrote, on hearing that George IV had been attacked by illness. "If he had gone, all the troubles of these villains (the Tory Ministers) went with him, and they had Fred. I (the Duke of York) their own man for his life. He (Fred. I) won't live long either; that Prince of Blackguards, 'Brother William,' is as bad a life, so we come in the course of nature to be ASSASSINATED by King Ernest I or Regent Ernest (the Duke of Cumberland)." Such thoughts were not peculiar to Brougham; in the seething state of public feeling, they constantly leapt to the surface; and, even so late as the year previous to her accession, the Radical newspapers were full of suggestions that the Princess Victoria was in danger from the machinations of her wicked uncle. But no echo of these conflicts and forebodings reached the little Drina--for so she was called in the family circle--as she played with her dolls, or scampered down the passages, or rode on the donkey her uncle York had given her along the avenues of Kensington Gardens The fair-haired, blue-eyed child was idolised by her nurses, and her mother's ladies, and her sister Feodora; and for a few years there was danger, in spite of her mother's strictness, of her being spoilt. From time to time, she would fly into a violent passion, stamp her little foot, and set everyone at defiance; whatever they might say, she would not learn her letters--no, she WOULD NOT; afterwards, she was very sorry, and burst into tears; but her letters remained unlearnt. When she was five years old, however, a change came, with the appearance of Fraulein Lehzen. This lady, who was the daughter of a Hanoverian clergyman, and had previously been the Princess Feodora's governess, soon succeeded in instilling a new spirit into her charge. At first, indeed, she was appalled by the little Princess's outbursts of temper; never in her life, she declared, had she seen such a passionate and naughty child. Then she observed something else; the child was extraordinarily truthful; whatever punishment might follow, she never told a lie. Firm, very firm, the new governess yet had the sense to see that all the firmness in the world would be useless, unless she could win her way into little Drina's heart. She did so, and there were no more difficulties. Drina learnt her letters like an angel; and she learnt other things as well. The Baroness de Spath taught her how to make little board boxes and decorate them with tinsel and painted flowers; her mother taught her religion. Sitting in the pew every Sunday morning, the child of six was seen listening in rapt attention to the clergyman's endless sermon, for she was to be examined upon it in the afternoon. The Duchess was determined that her daughter, from the earliest possible moment, should be prepared for her high station in a way that would commend itself to the most respectable; her good, plain, thrifty German mind recoiled with horror and amazement from the shameless junketings at Carlton House; Drina should never be allowed to forget for a moment the virtues of simplicity, regularity, propriety, and devotion. The little girl, however, was really in small need of such lessons, for she was naturally simple and orderly, she was pious without difficulty, and her sense of propriety was keen. She understood very well the niceties of her own position. When, a child of six, Lady Jane Ellice was taken by her grandmother to Kensington Palace, she was put to play with the Princess Victoria, who was the same age as herself. The young visitor, ignorant of etiquette, began to make free with the toys on the floor, in a way which was a little too familiar; but "You must not touch those," she was quickly told, "they are mine; and I may call you Jane, but you must not call me Victoria." The Princess's most constant playmate was Victoire, the daughter of Sir John Conroy, the Duchess's major-domo. The two girls were very fond of one another; they would walk hand in hand together in Kensington Gardens. But little Drina was perfectly aware for which of them it was that they were followed, at a respectful distance, by a gigantic scarlet flunkey. Warm-hearted, responsive, she loved her dear Lehzen, and she loved her dear Feodora, and her dear Victoire, and her dear Madame de Spath. And her dear Mamma, of course, she loved her too; it was her duty; and yet--she could not tell why it was--she was always happier when she was staying with her Uncle Leopold at Claremont. There old Mrs. Louis, who, years ago, had waited on her Cousin Charlotte, petted her to her heart's content; and her uncle himself was wonderfully kind to her, talking to her seriously and gently, almost as if she were a grown-up person. She and Feodora invariably wept when the too-short visit was over, and they were obliged to return to the dutiful monotony, and the affectionate supervision of Kensington. But sometimes when her mother had to stay at home, she was allowed to go out driving all alone with her dear Feodora and her dear Lehzen, and she could talk and look as she liked, and it was very delightful. The visits to Claremont were frequent enough; but one day, on a special occasion, she paid one of a rarer and more exciting kind. When she was seven years old, she and her mother and sister were asked by the King to go down to Windsor. George IV, who had transferred his fraternal ill-temper to his sister-in-law and her family, had at last grown tired of sulking, and decided to be agreeable. The old rip, bewigged and gouty, ornate and enormous, with his jewelled mistress by his side and his flaunting court about him, received the tiny creature who was one day to hold in those same halls a very different state. "Give me your little paw," he said; and two ages touched. Next morning, driving in his phaeton with the Duchess of Gloucester, he met the Duchess of Kent and her child in the Park. "Pop her in," were his orders, which, to the terror of the mother and the delight of the daughter, were immediately obeyed. Off they dashed to Virginia Water, where there was a great barge, full of lords and ladies fishing, and another barge with a band; and the King ogled Feodora, and praised her manners, and then turned to his own small niece. "What is your favourite tune? The band shall play it." "God save the King, sir," was the instant answer. The Princess's reply has been praised as an early example of a tact which was afterwards famous. But she was a very truthful child, and perhaps it was her genuine opinion. III In 1827 the Duke of York, who had found some consolation for the loss of his wife in the sympathy of the Duchess of Rutland, died, leaving behind him the unfinished immensity of Stafford House and L200,000 worth of debts. Three years later George IV also disappeared, and the Duke of Clarence reigned in his stead. The new Queen, it was now clear, would in all probability never again be a mother; the Princess Victoria, therefore, was recognised by Parliament as heir-presumptive; and the Duchess of Kent, whose annuity had been doubled five years previously, was now given an additional L10,000 for the maintenance of the Princess, and was appointed regent, in case of the death of the King before the majority of her daughter. At the same time a great convulsion took place in the constitution of the State. The power of the Tories, who had dominated England for more than forty years, suddenly began to crumble. In the tremendous struggle that followed, it seemed for a moment as if the tradition of generations might be snapped, as if the blind tenacity of the reactionaries and the determined fury of their enemies could have no other issue than revolution. But the forces of compromise triumphed: the Reform Bill was passed. The centre of gravity in the constitution was shifted towards the middle classes; the Whigs came into power; and the complexion of the Government assumed a Liberal tinge. One of the results of this new state of affairs was a change in the position of the Duchess of Kent and her daughter. From being the protegees of an opposition clique, they became assets of the official majority of the nation. The Princess Victoria was henceforward the living symbol of the victory of the middle classes. The Duke of Cumberland, on the other hand, suffered a corresponding eclipse: his claws had been pared by the Reform Act. He grew insignificant and almost harmless, though his ugliness remained; he was the wicked uncle still--but only of a story. The Duchess's own liberalism was not very profound. She followed naturally in the footsteps of her husband, repeating with conviction the catchwords of her husband's clever friends and the generalisations of her clever brother Leopold. She herself had no pretensions to cleverness; she did not understand very much about the Poor Law and the Slave Trade and Political Economy; but she hoped that she did her duty; and she hoped--she ardently hoped--that the same might be said of Victoria. Her educational conceptions were those of Dr. Arnold, whose views were just then beginning to permeate society. Dr. Arnold's object was, first and foremost, to make his pupils "in the highest and truest sense of the words, Christian gentlemen," intellectual refinements might follow. The Duchess felt convinced that it was her supreme duty in life to make quite sure that her daughter should grow up into a Christian queen. To this task she bent all her energies; and, as the child developed, she flattered herself that her efforts were not unsuccessful. When the Princess was eleven, she desired the Bishops of London and Lincoln to submit her daughter to an examination, and report upon the progress that had been made. "I feel the time to be now come," the Duchess explained, in a letter obviously drawn up by her own hand, "that what has been done should be put to some test, that if anything has been done in error of judgment it may be corrected, and that the plan for the future should be open to consideration and revision... I attend almost always myself every lesson, or a part; and as the lady about the Princess is a competent person, she assists Her in preparing Her lessons, for the various masters, as I resolved to act in that manner so as to be Her Governess myself. When she was at a proper age she commenced attending Divine Service regularly with me, and I have every feeling that she has religion at Her heart, that she is morally impressed with it to that degree, that she is less liable to error by its application to her feelings as a Child capable of reflection." "The general bent of Her character," added the Duchess, "is strength of intellect, capable of receiving with ease, information, and with a peculiar readiness in coming to a very just and benignant decision on any point Her opinion is asked on. Her adherence to truth is of so marked a character that I feel no apprehension of that Bulwark being broken down by any circumstances." The Bishops attended at the Palace, and the result of their examination was all that could be wished. "In answering a great variety of questions proposed to her," they reported, "the Princess displayed an accurate knowledge of the most important features of Scripture History, and of the leading truths and precepts of the Christian Religion as taught by the Church of England, as well as an acquaintance with the Chronology and principal facts of English History remarkable in so young a person. To questions in Geography, the use of the Globes, Arithmetic, and Latin Grammar, the answers which the Princess returned were equally satisfactory." They did not believe that the Duchess's plan of education was susceptible of any improvement; and the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was also consulted, came to the same gratifying conclusion. One important step, however, remained to be taken. So far, as the Duchess explained to the Bishops, the Princess had been kept in ignorance of the station that she was likely to fill. "She is aware of its duties, and that a Sovereign should live for others; so that when Her innocent mind receives the impression of Her future fate, she receives it with a mind formed to be sensible of what is to be expected from Her, and it is to be hoped, she will be too well grounded in Her principles to be dazzled with the station she is to look to." In the following year it was decided that she should be enlightened on this point. The well--known scene followed: the history lesson, the genealogical table of the Kings of England slipped beforehand by the governess into the book, the Princess's surprise, her inquiries, her final realisation of the facts. When the child at last understood, she was silent for a moment, and then she spoke: "I will be good," she said. The words were something more than a conventional protestation, something more than the expression of a superimposed desire; they were, in their limitation and their intensity, their egotism and their humility, an instinctive summary of the dominating qualities of a life. "I cried much on learning it," her Majesty noted long afterwards. No doubt, while the others were present, even her dear Lehzen, the little girl kept up her self-command; and then crept away somewhere to ease her heart of an inward, unfamiliar agitation, with a handkerchief, out of her mother's sight. But her mother's sight was by no means an easy thing to escape. Morning and evening, day and night, there was no relaxation of the maternal vigilance. The child grew into the girl, the girl into the young woman; but still she slept in her mother's bedroom; still she had no place allowed her where she might sit or work by herself. An extraordinary watchfulness surrounded her every step: up to the day of her accession, she never went downstairs without someone beside her holding her hand. Plainness and regularity ruled the household. The hours, the days, the years passed slowly and methodically by. The dolls--the innumerable dolls, each one so neatly dressed, each one with its name so punctiliously entered in the catalogue--were laid aside, and a little music and a little dancing took their place. Taglioni came, to give grace and dignity to the figure, and Lablache, to train the piping treble upon his own rich bass. The Dean of Chester, the official preceptor, continued his endless instruction in Scripture history, while the Duchess of Northumberland, the official governess, presided over every lesson with becoming solemnity. Without doubt, the Princess's main achievement during her school-days was linguistic. German was naturally the first language with which she was familiar; but English and French quickly followed; and she became virtually trilingual, though her mastery of English grammar remained incomplete. At the same time, she acquired a working knowledge of Italian and some smattering of Latin. Nevertheless, she did not read very much. It was not an occupation that she cared for; partly, perhaps, because the books that were given her were all either sermons, which were very dull, or poetry, which was incomprehensible. Novels were strictly forbidden. Lord Durham persuaded her mother to get her some of Miss Martineau's tales, illustrating the truths of Political Economy, and they delighted her; but it is to be feared that it was the unaccustomed pleasure of the story that filled her mind, and that she never really mastered the theory of exchanges or the nature of rent. It was her misfortune that the mental atmosphere which surrounded her during these years of adolescence was almost entirely feminine. No father, no brother, was there to break in upon the gentle monotony of the daily round with impetuosity, with rudeness, with careless laughter and wafts of freedom from the outside world. The Princess was never called by a voice that was loud and growling; never felt, as a matter of course, a hard rough cheek on her own soft one; never climbed a wall with a boy. The visits to Claremont--delicious little escapes into male society--came to an end when she was eleven years old and Prince Leopold left England to be King of the Belgians. She loved him still; he was still "il mio secondo padre or, rather, solo padre, for he is indeed like my real father, as I have none;" but his fatherliness now came to her dimly and indirectly, through the cold channel of correspondence. Henceforward female duty, female elegance, female enthusiasm, hemmed her completely in; and her spirit, amid the enclosing folds, was hardly reached by those two great influences, without which no growing life can truly prosper--humour and imagination. The Baroness Lehzen--for she had been raised to that rank in the Hanoverian nobility by George IV before he died--was the real centre of the Princess's world. When Feodora married, when Uncle Leopold went to Belgium, the Baroness was left without a competitor. The Princess gave her mother her dutiful regards; but Lehzen had her heart. The voluble, shrewd daughter of the pastor in Hanover, lavishing her devotion on her royal charge, had reaped her reward in an unbounded confidence and a passionate adoration. The girl would have gone through fire for her "PRECIOUS Lehzen," the "best and truest friend," she declared, that she had had since her birth. Her journal, begun when she was thirteen, where she registered day by day the small succession of her doings and her sentiments, bears on every page of it the traces of the Baroness and her circumambient influence. The young creature that one sees there, self-depicted in ingenuous clarity, with her sincerity, her simplicity, her quick affections and pious resolutions, might almost have been the daughter of a German pastor herself. Her enjoyments, her admirations, her engouements were of the kind that clothed themselves naturally in underlinings and exclamation marks. "It was a DELIGHTFUL ride. We cantered a good deal. SWEET LITTLE ROSY WENT BEAUTIFULLY!! We came home at a 1/4 past 1... At 20 minutes to 7 we went out to the Opera... Rubini came on and sang a song out of 'Anna Boulena' QUITE BEAUTIFULLY. We came home at 1/2 past 11." In her comments on her readings, the mind of the Baroness is clearly revealed. One day, by some mistake, she was allowed to take up a volume of memoirs by Fanny Kemble. "It is certainly very pertly and oddly written. One would imagine by the style that the authoress must be very pert, and not well bred; for there are so many vulgar expressions in it. It is a great pity that a person endowed with so much talent, as Mrs. Butler really is, should turn it to so little account and publish a book which is so full of trash and nonsense which can only do her harm. I stayed up till 20 minutes past 9." Madame de Sevigne's letters, which the Baroness read aloud, met with more approval. "How truly elegant and natural her style is! It is so full of naivete, cleverness, and grace." But her highest admiration was reserved for the Bishop of Chester's 'Exposition of the Gospel of St. Matthew.' "It is a very fine book indeed. Just the sort of one I like; which is just plain and comprehensible and full of truth and good feeling. It is not one of those learned books in which you have to cavil at almost every paragraph. Lehzen gave it me on the Sunday that I took the Sacrament." A few weeks previously she had been confirmed, and she described the event as follows: "I felt that my confirmation was one of the most solemn and important events and acts in my life; and that I trusted that it might have a salutary effect on my mind. I felt deeply repentant for all what I had done which was wrong and trusted in God Almighty to strengthen my heart and mind; and to forsake all that is bad and follow all that is virtuous and right. I went with the firm determination to become a true Christian, to try and comfort my dear Mamma in all her griefs, trials, and anxieties, and to become a dutiful and affectionate daughter to her. Also to be obedient to DEAR Lehzen, who has done so much for me. I was dressed in a white lace dress, with a white crepe bonnet with a wreath of white roses round it. I went in the chariot with my dear Mamma and the others followed in another carriage." One seems to hold in one's hand a small smooth crystal pebble, without a flaw and without a scintillation, and so transparent that one can see through it at a glance. Yet perhaps, after all, to the discerning eye, the purity would not be absolute. The careful searcher might detect, in the virgin soil, the first faint traces of an unexpected vein. In that conventual existence visits were exciting events; and, as the Duchess had many relatives, they were not infrequent; aunts and uncles would often appear from Germany, and cousins too. When the Princess was fourteen she was delighted by the arrival of a couple of boys from Wurtemberg, the Princes Alexander and Ernst, sons of her mother's sister and the reigning duke. "They are both EXTREMELY TALL," she noted, "Alexander is VERY HANDSOME, and Ernst has a VERY KIND EXPRESSION. They are both extremely AMIABLE." And their departure filled her with corresponding regrets. "We saw them get into the barge, and watched them sailing away for some time on the beach. They were so amiable and so pleasant to have in the house; they were ALWAYS SATISFIED, ALWAYS GOOD-HUMOURED; Alexander took such care of me in getting out of the boat, and rode next to me; so did Ernst." Two years later, two other cousins arrived, the Princes Ferdinand and Augustus. "Dear Ferdinand," the Princess wrote, "has elicited universal admiration from all parties... He is so very unaffected, and has such a very distinguished appearance and carriage. They are both very dear and charming young men. Augustus is very amiable, too, and, when known, shows much good sense." On another occasion, "Dear Ferdinand came and sat near me and talked so dearly and sensibly. I do SO love him. Dear Augustus sat near me and talked with me, and he is also a dear good young man, and is very handsome." She could not quite decide which was the handsomer of the two. "On the whole," she concluded, "I think Ferdinand handsomer than Augustus, his eyes are so beautiful, and he has such a lively clever expression; BOTH have such a sweet expression; Ferdinand has something QUITE BEAUTIFUL in his expression when he speaks and smiles, and he is SO good." However, it was perhaps best to say that they were "both very handsome and VERY DEAR." But shortly afterwards two more cousins arrived, who threw all the rest into the shade. These were the Princes Ernest and Albert, sons of her mother's eldest brother, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg. This time the Princess was more particular in her observations. "Ernest," she remarked, "is as tall as Ferdinand and Augustus; he has dark hair, and fine dark eyes and eyebrows, but the nose and mouth are not good; he has a most kind, honest, and intelligent expression in his countenance, and has a very good figure. Albert, who is just as tall as Ernest but stouter, is extremely handsome; his hair is about the same colour as mine; his eyes are large and blue, and he has a beautiful nose and a very sweet mouth with fine teeth; but the charm of his countenance is his expression, which is most delightful; c'est a la fois full of goodness and sweetness, and very clever and intelligent." "Both my cousins," she added, "are so kind and good; they are much more formes and men of the world than Augustus; they speak English very well, and I speak it with them. Ernest will be 18 years old on the 21st of June, and Albert 17 on the 26th of August. Dear Uncle Ernest made me the present of a most delightful Lory, which is so tame that it remains on your hand and you may put your finger into its beak, or do anything with it, without its ever attempting to bite. It is larger than Mamma's grey parrot." A little later, "I sat between my dear cousins on the sofa and we looked at drawings. They both draw very well, particularly Albert, and are both exceedingly fond of music; they play very nicely on the piano. The more I see them the more I am delighted with them, and the more I love them... It is delightful to be with them; they are so fond of being occupied too; they are quite an example for any young person." When, after a stay of three weeks, the time came for the young men and their father to return to Germany, the moment of parting was a melancholy one. "It was our last HAPPY HAPPY breakfast, with this dear Uncle and those DEAREST beloved cousins, whom I DO love so VERY VERY dearly; MUCH MORE DEARLY than any other cousins in the WORLD. Dearly as I love Ferdinand, and also good Augustus, I love Ernest and Albert MORE than them, oh yes, MUCH MORE... They have both learnt a good deal, and are very clever, naturally clever, particularly Albert, who is the most reflecting of the two, and they like very much talking about serious and instructive things and yet are so VERY VERY merry and gay and happy, like young people ought to be; Albert always used to have some fun and some clever witty answer at breakfast and everywhere; he used to play and fondle Dash so funnily too... Dearest Albert was playing on the piano when I came down. At 11 dear Uncle, my DEAREST BELOVED cousins, and Charles, left us, accompanied by Count Kolowrat. I embraced both my dearest cousins most warmly, as also my dear Uncle. I cried bitterly, very bitterly." The Princes shared her ecstasies and her italics between them; but it is clear enough where her secret preference lay. "Particularly Albert!" She was just seventeen; and deep was the impression left upon that budding organism by the young man's charm and goodness and accomplishments, and his large blue eyes and beautiful nose, and his sweet mouth and fine teeth. IV King William could not away with his sister-in-law, and the Duchess fully returned his antipathy. Without considerable tact and considerable forbearance their relative positions were well calculated to cause ill-feeling; and there was very little tact in the composition of the Duchess, and no forbearance at all in that of his Majesty. A bursting, bubbling old gentleman, with quarterdeck gestures, round rolling eyes, and a head like a pineapple, his sudden elevation to the throne after fifty-six years of utter insignificance had almost sent him crazy. His natural exuberance completely got the best of him; he rushed about doing preposterous things in an extraordinary manner, spreading amusement and terror in every direction, and talking all the time. His tongue was decidedly Hanoverian, with its repetitions, its catchwords--"That's quite another thing! That's quite another thing!"--its rattling indomitability, its loud indiscreetness. His speeches, made repeatedly at the most inopportune junctures, and filled pell-mell with all the fancies and furies that happened at the moment to be whisking about in his head, were the consternation of Ministers. He was one part blackguard, people said, and three parts buffoon; but those who knew him better could not help liking him--he meant well; and he was really good-humoured and kind-hearted, if you took him the right way. If you took him the wrong way, however, you must look out for squalls, as the Duchess of Kent discovered. She had no notion of how to deal with him--could not understand him in the least. Occupied with her own position, her own responsibilities, her duty, and her daughter, she had no attention to spare for the peppery susceptibilities of a foolish, disreputable old man. She was the mother of the heiress of England; and it was for him to recognise the fact--to put her at once upon a proper footing--to give her the precedence of a dowager Princess of Wales, with a large annuity from the privy purse. It did not occur to her that such pretensions might be galling to a king who had no legitimate child of his own, and who yet had not altogether abandoned the hope of having one. She pressed on, with bulky vigour, along the course she had laid out. Sir John Conroy, an Irishman with no judgment and a great deal of self-importance, was her intimate counsellor, and egged her on. It was advisable that Victoria should become acquainted with the various districts of England, and through several summers a succession of tours--in the West, in the Midlands, in Wales--were arranged for her. The intention of the plan was excellent, but its execution was unfortunate. The journeys, advertised in the Press, attracting enthusiastic crowds, and involving official receptions, took on the air of royal progresses. Addresses were presented by loyal citizens, the delighted Duchess, swelling in sweeping feathers and almost obliterating the diminutive Princess, read aloud, in her German accent, gracious replies prepared beforehand by Sir John, who, bustling and ridiculous, seemed to be mingling the roles of major-domo and Prime Minister. Naturally the King fumed over his newspaper at Windsor. "That woman is a nuisance!" he exclaimed. Poor Queen Adelaide, amiable though disappointed, did her best to smooth things down, changed the subject, and wrote affectionate letters to Victoria; but it was useless. News arrived that the Duchess of Kent, sailing in the Solent, had insisted that whenever her yacht appeared it should be received by royal salutes from all the men-of-war and all the forts. The King declared that these continual poppings must cease; the Premier and the First Lord of the Admiralty were consulted; and they wrote privately to the Duchess, begging her to waive her rights. But she would not hear of it; Sir John Conroy was adamant. "As her Royal Highness's CONFIDENTIAL ADVISER," he said, "I cannot recommend her to give way on this point." Eventually the King, in a great state of excitement, issued a special Order in Council, prohibiting the firing of royal salutes to any ships except those which carried the reigning sovereign or his consort on board. When King William quarrelled with his Whig Ministers the situation grew still more embittered, for now the Duchess, in addition to her other shortcomings, was the political partisan of his enemies. In 1836 he made an attempt to prepare the ground for a match between the Princess Victoria and one of the sons of the Prince of Orange, and at the same time did his best to prevent the visit of the young Coburg princes to Kensington. He failed in both these objects; and the only result of his efforts was to raise the anger of the King of the Belgians, who, forgetting for a moment his royal reserve, addressed an indignant letter on the subject to his niece. "I am really ASTONISHED," he wrote, "at the conduct of your old Uncle the King; this invitation of the Prince of Orange and his sons, this forcing him on others, is very extraordinary... Not later than yesterday I got a half-official communication from England, insinuating that it would be HIGHLY desirable that the visit of YOUR relatives SHOULD NOT TAKE PLACE THIS YEAR--qu'en dites-vous? The relations of the Queen and the King, therefore, to the God-knows-what degree, are to come in shoals and rule the land, when YOUR RELATIONS are to be FORBIDDEN the country, and that when, as you know, the whole of your relations have ever been very dutiful and kind to the King. Really and truly I never heard or saw anything like it, and I hope it will a LITTLE ROUSE YOUR SPIRIT; now that slavery is even abolished in the British Colonies, I do not comprehend WHY YOUR LOT ALONE SHOULD BE TO BE KEPT A WHITE LITTLE SLAVEY IN ENGLAND, for the pleasure of the Court, who never bought you, as I am not aware of their ever having gone to any expense on that head, or the King's ever having SPENT A SIXPENCE FOR YOUR EXISTENCE... Oh, consistency and political or OTHER HONESTY, where must one look for you!" Shortly afterwards King Leopold came to England himself, and his reception was as cold at Windsor as it was warm at Kensington. "To hear dear Uncle speak on any subject," the Princess wrote in her diary, "is like reading a highly instructive book; his conversation is so enlightened, so clear. He is universally admitted to be one of the first politicians now extant. He speaks so mildly, yet firmly and impartially, about politics. Uncle tells me that Belgium is quite a pattern for its organisation, its industry, and prosperity; the finances are in the greatest perfection. Uncle is so beloved and revered by his Belgian subjects, that it must be a great compensation for all his extreme trouble." But her other uncle by no means shared her sentiments. He could not, he said, put up with a water-drinker; and King Leopold would touch no wine. "What's that you're drinking, sir?" he asked him one day at dinner. "Water, sir." "God damn it, sir!" was the rejoinder. "Why don't you drink wine? I never allow anybody to drink water at my table." It was clear that before very long there would be a great explosion; and in the hot days of August it came. The Duchess and the Princess had gone down to stay at Windsor for the King's birthday party, and the King himself, who was in London for the day to prorogue Parliament, paid a visit at Kensington Palace in their absence. There he found that the Duchess had just appropriated, against his express orders, a suite of seventeen apartments for her own use. He was extremely angry, and, when he returned to Windsor, after greeting the Princess with affection, he publicly rebuked the Duchess for what she had done. But this was little to what followed. On the next day was the birthday banquet; there were a hundred guests; the Duchess of Kent sat on the King's right hand, and the Princess Victoria opposite. At the end of the dinner, in reply to the toast of the King's health, he rose, and, in a long, loud, passionate speech, poured out the vials of his wrath upon the Duchess. She had, he declared, insulted him--grossly and continually; she had kept the Princess away from him in the most improper manner; she was surrounded by evil advisers, and was incompetent to act with propriety in the high station which she filled; but he would bear it no longer; he would have her to know he was King; he was determined that his authority should be respected; henceforward the Princess should attend at every Court function with the utmost regularity; and he hoped to God that his life might be spared for six months longer, so that the calamity of a regency might be avoided, and the functions of the Crown pass directly to the heiress-presumptive instead of into the hands of the "person now near him," upon whose conduct and capacity no reliance whatever could be placed. The flood of vituperation rushed on for what seemed an interminable period, while the Queen blushed scarlet, the Princess burst into tears, and the hundred guests sat aghast. The Duchess said not a word until the tirade was over and the company had retired; then in a tornado of rage and mortification, she called for her carriage and announced her immediate return to Kensington. It was only with the utmost difficulty that some show of a reconciliation was patched up, and the outraged lady was prevailed upon to put off her departure till the morrow. Her troubles, however, were not over when she had shaken the dust of Windsor from her feet. In her own household she was pursued by bitterness and vexation of spirit. The apartments at Kensington were seething with subdued disaffection, with jealousies and animosities virulently intensified by long years of propinquity and spite. There was a deadly feud between Sir John Conroy and Baroness Lehzen. But that was not all. The Duchess had grown too fond of her Major-Domo. There were familiarities, and one day the Princess Victoria discovered the fact. She confided what she had seen to the Baroness, and to the Baroness's beloved ally, Madame de Spath. Unfortunately, Madame de Spath could not hold her tongue, and was actually foolish enough to reprove the Duchess; whereupon she was instantly dismissed. It was not so easy to get rid of the Baroness. That lady, prudent and reserved, maintained an irreproachable demeanour. Her position was strongly entrenched; she had managed to secure the support of the King; and Sir John found that he could do nothing against her. But henceforward the household was divided into two camps.(*) The Duchess supported Sir John with all the abundance of her authority; but the Baroness, too, had an adherent who could not be neglected. The Princess Victoria said nothing, but she had been much attached to Madame de Spath, and she adored her Lehzen. The Duchess knew only too well that in this horrid embroilment her daughter was against her. Chagrin, annoyance, moral reprobation, tossed her to and fro. She did her best to console herself with Sir John's affectionate loquacity, or with the sharp remarks of Lady Flora Hastings, one of her maids of honour, who had no love for the Baroness. The subject lent itself to satire; for the pastor's daughter, with all her airs of stiff superiority, had habits which betrayed her origin. Her passion for caraway seeds, for instance, was uncontrollable. Little bags of them came over to her from Hanover, and she sprinkled them on her bread and butter, her cabbage, and even her roast beef. Lady Flora could not resist a caustic observation; it was repeated to the Baroness, who pursed her lips in fury, and so the mischief grew. (*) Greville, IV, 21; and August 15, 1839 (unpublished). "The cause of the Queen's alienation from the Duchess and hatred of Conroy, the Duke (of Wellington) said, was unquestionably owing to her having witnessed some familiarities between them. What she had seen she repeated to Baroness Spaeth, and Spaeth not only did not hold her tongue, but (he thinks) remonstrated with the Duchess herself on the subject. The consequence was that they got rid of Spaeth, and they would have got rid of Lehzen, too, if they had been able, but Lehzen, who knew very well what was going on, was prudent enough not to commit herself, and who was, besides, powerfully protected by George IV and William IV, so that they did not dare to attempt to expel her." V The King had prayed that he might live till his niece was of age; and a few days before her eighteenth birthday--the date of her legal majority--a sudden attack of illness very nearly carried him off. He recovered, however, and the Princess was able to go through her birthday festivities--a state ball and a drawing-room--with unperturbed enjoyment. "Count Zichy," she noted in her diary, "is very good-looking in uniform, but not in plain clothes. Count Waldstein looks remarkably well in his pretty Hungarian uniform." With the latter young gentleman she wished to dance, but there was an insurmountable difficulty. "He could not dance quadrilles, and, as in my station I unfortunately cannot valse and gallop, I could not dance with him." Her birthday present from the King was of a pleasing nature, but it led to a painful domestic scene. In spite of the anger of her Belgian uncle, she had remained upon good terms with her English one. He had always been very kind to her, and the fact that he had quarrelled with her mother did not appear to be a reason for disliking him. He was, she said, "odd, very odd and singular," but "his intentions were often ill interpreted." He now wrote her a letter, offering her an allowance of L10,000 a year, which he proposed should be at her own disposal, and independent of her mother. Lord Conyngham, the Lord Chamberlain, was instructed to deliver the letter into the Princess's own hands. When he arrived at Kensington, he was ushered into the presence of the Duchess and the Princess, and, when he produced the letter, the Duchess put out her hand to take it. Lord Conyngham begged her Royal Highness's pardon, and repeated the King's commands. Thereupon the Duchess drew back, and the Princess took the letter. She immediately wrote to her uncle, accepting his kind proposal. The Duchess was much displeased; L4000 a year, she said, would be quite enough for Victoria; as for the remaining L6000, it would be only proper that she should have that herself. King William had thrown off his illness, and returned to his normal life. Once more the royal circle at Windsor--their Majesties, the elder Princesses, and some unfortunate Ambassadress or Minister's wife--might be seen ranged for hours round a mahogany table, while the Queen netted a purse, and the King slept, occasionally waking from his slumbers to observe "Exactly so, ma'am, exactly so!" But this recovery was of short duration. The old man suddenly collapsed; with no specific symptoms besides an extreme weakness, he yet showed no power of rallying; and it was clear to everyone that his death was now close at hand. All eyes, all thoughts, turned towards the Princess Victoria; but she still remained, shut away in the seclusion of Kensington, a small, unknown figure, lost in the large shadow of her mother's domination. The preceding year had in fact been an important one in her development. The soft tendrils of her mind had for the first time begun to stretch out towards unchildish things. In this King Leopold encouraged her. After his return to Brussels, he had resumed his correspondance in a more serious strain; he discussed the details of foreign politics; he laid down the duties of kingship; he pointed out the iniquitous foolishness of the newspaper press. On the latter subject, indeed, he wrote with some asperity. "If all the editors," he said, "of the papers in the countries where the liberty of the press exists were to be assembled, we should have a crew to which you would NOT confide a dog that you would value, still less your honour and reputation." On the functions of a monarch, his views were unexceptionable. "The business of the highest in a State," he wrote, "is certainly, in my opinion, to act with great impartiality and a spirit of justice for the good of all." At the same time the Princess's tastes were opening out. Though she was still passionately devoted to riding and dancing, she now began to have a genuine love of music as well, and to drink in the roulades and arias of the Italian opera with high enthusiasm. She even enjoyed reading poetry--at any rate, the poetry of Sir Walter Scott. When King Leopold learnt that King William's death was approaching, he wrote several long letters of excellent advice to his niece. "In every letter I shall write to you," he said, "I mean to repeat to you, as a FUNDAMENTAL RULE, TO BE FIRM, AND COURAGEOUS, AND HONEST, AS YOU HAVE BEEN TILL NOW." For the rest, in the crisis that was approaching, she was not to be alarmed, but to trust in her "good natural sense and the TRUTH" of her character; she was to do nothing in a hurry; to hurt no one's amour-propre, and to continue her confidence in the Whig administration! Not content with letters, however, King Leopold determined that the Princess should not lack personal guidance, and sent over to her aid the trusted friend whom, twenty years before, he had taken to his heart by the death-bed at Claremont. Thus, once again, as if in accordance with some preordained destiny, the figure of Stockmar is discernible--inevitably present at a momentous hour. On June 18, the King was visibly sinking. The Archbishop of Canterbury was by his side, with all the comforts of the church. Nor did the holy words fall upon a rebellious spirit; for many years his Majesty had been a devout believer. "When I was a young man," he once explained at a public banquet, "as well as I can remember, I believed in nothing but pleasure and folly--nothing at all. But when I went to sea, got into a gale, and saw the wonders of the mighty deep, then I believed; and I have been a sincere Christian ever since." It was the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, and the dying man remembered it. He should be glad to live, he said, over that day; he would never see another sunset. "I hope your Majesty may live to see many," said Dr. Chambers. "Oh! that's quite another thing, that's quite another thing," was the answer. One other sunset he did live to see; and he died in the early hours of the following morning. It was on June 20, 1837. When all was over, the Archbishop and the Lord Chamberlain ordered a carriage, and drove post-haste from Windsor to Kensington. They arrived at the Palace at five o'clock, and it was only with considerable difficulty that they gained admittance. At six the Duchess woke up her daughter, and told her that the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham were there, and wished to see her. She got out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and went, alone, into the room where the messengers were standing. Lord Conyngham fell on his knees, and officially announced the death of the King; the Archbishop added some personal details. Looking at the bending, murmuring dignitaries before her, she knew that she was Queen of England. "Since it has pleased Providence," she wrote that day in her journal, "to place me in this station, I shall do my utmost to fulfil my duty towards my country; I am very young, and perhaps in many, though not in all things, inexperienced, but I am sure, that very few have more real good will and more real desire to do what is fit and right than I have." But there was scant time for resolutions and reflections. At once, affairs were thick upon her. Stockmar came to breakfast, and gave some good advice. She wrote a letter to her uncle Leopold, and a hurried note to her sister Feodora. A letter came from the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, announcing his approaching arrival. He came at nine, in full court dress, and kissed her hand. She saw him alone, and repeated to him the lesson which, no doubt, the faithful Stockmar had taught her at breakfast. "It has long been my intention to retain your Lordship and the rest of the present Ministry at the head of affairs;" whereupon Lord Melbourne again kissed her hand and shortly after left her. She then wrote a letter of condolence to Queen Adelaide. At eleven, Lord Melbourne came again; and at half-past eleven she went downstairs into the red saloon to hold her first Council. The great assembly of lords and notables, bishops, generals, and Ministers of State, saw the doors thrown open and a very short, very slim girl in deep plain mourning come into the room alone and move forward to her seat with extraordinary dignity and grace; they saw a countenance, not beautiful, but prepossessing--fair hair, blue prominent eyes, a small curved nose, an open mouth revealing the upper teeth, a tiny chin, a clear complexion, and, over all, the strangely mingled signs of innocence, of gravity, of youth, and of composure; they heard a high unwavering voice reading aloud with perfect clarity; and then, the ceremony was over, they saw the small figure rise and, with the same consummate grace, the same amazing dignity, pass out from among them, as she had come in, alone. CHAPTER III. LORD MELBOURNE I The new queen was almost entirely unknown to her subjects. In her public appearances her mother had invariably dominated the scene. Her private life had been that of a novice in a convent: hardly a human being from the outside world had ever spoken to her; and no human being at all, except her mother and the Baroness Lehzen, had ever been alone with her in a room. Thus it was not only the public at large that was in ignorance of everything concerning her; the inner circles of statesmen and officials and high-born ladies were equally in the dark. When she suddenly emerged from this deep obscurity, the impression that she created was immediate and profound. Her bearing at her first Council filled the whole gathering with astonishment and admiration; the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, even the savage Croker, even the cold and caustic Greville--all were completely carried away. Everything that was reported of her subsequent proceedings seemed to be of no less happy augury. Her perceptions were quick, her decisions were sensible, her language was discreet; she performed her royal duties with extraordinary facility. Among the outside public there was a great wave of enthusiasm. Sentiment and romance were coming into fashion; and the spectacle of the little girl-queen, innocent, modest, with fair hair and pink cheeks, driving through her capital, filled the hearts of the beholders with raptures of affectionate loyalty. What, above all, struck everybody with overwhelming force was the contrast between Queen Victoria and her uncles. The nasty old men, debauched and selfish, pig-headed and ridiculous, with their perpetual burden of debts, confusions, and disreputabilities--they had vanished like the snows of winter, and here at last, crowned and radiant, was the spring. Lord John Russell, in an elaborate oration, gave voice to the general sentiment. He hoped that Victoria might prove an Elizabeth without her tyranny, an Anne without her weakness. He asked England to pray that the illustrious Princess who had just ascended the throne with the purest intentions and the justest desires might see slavery abolished, crime diminished, and education improved. He trusted that her people would henceforward derive their strength, their conduct, and their loyalty from enlightened religious and moral principles, and that, so fortified, the reign of Victoria might prove celebrated to posterity and to all the nations of the earth. Very soon, however, there were signs that the future might turn out to be not quite so simple and roseate as a delighted public dreamed. The "illustrious Princess" might perhaps, after all, have something within her which squared ill with the easy vision of a well-conducted heroine in an edifying story-book. The purest intentions and the justest desires? No doubt; but was that all? To those who watched closely, for instance, there might be something ominous in the curious contour of that little mouth. When, after her first Council, she crossed the ante-room and found her mother waiting for her, she said, "And now, Mamma, am I really and truly Queen?" "You see, my dear, that it is so." "Then, dear Mamma, I hope you will grant me the first request I make to you, as Queen. Let me be by myself for an hour." For an hour she remained in solitude. Then she reappeared, and gave a significant order: her bed was to be moved out of her mother's room. It was the doom of the Duchess of Kent. The long years of waiting were over at last; the moment of a lifetime had come; her daughter was Queen of England; and that very moment brought her own annihilation. She found herself, absolutely and irretrievably, shut off from every vestige of influence, of confidence, of power. She was surrounded, indeed, by all the outward signs of respect and consideration; but that only made the inward truth of her position the more intolerable. Through the mingled formalities of Court etiquette and filial duty, she could never penetrate to Victoria. She was unable to conceal her disappointment and her rage. "Il n'y a plus d'avenir pour moi," she exclaimed to Madame de Lieven; "je ne suis plus rien." For eighteen years, she said, this child had been the sole object of her existence, of her thoughts, her hopes, and now--no! she would not be comforted, she had lost everything, she was to the last degree unhappy. Sailing, so gallantly and so pertinaciously, through the buffeting storms of life, the stately vessel, with sails still swelling and pennons flying, had put into harbour at last; to find there nothing--a land of bleak desolation. Within a month of the accession, the realities of the new situation assumed a visible shape. The whole royal household moved from Kensington to Buckingham Palace, and, in the new abode, the Duchess of Kent was given a suite of apartments entirely separate from the Queen's. By Victoria herself the change was welcomed, though, at the moment of departure, she could afford to be sentimental. "Though I rejoice to go into B. P. for many reasons," she wrote in her diary, "it is not without feelings of regret that I shall bid adieu for ever to this my birthplace, where I have been born and bred, and to which I am really attached!" Her memory lingered for a moment over visions of the past: her sister's wedding, pleasant balls and delicious concerts and there were other recollections. "I have gone through painful and disagreeable scenes here, 'tis true," she concluded, "but still I am fond of the poor old palace." At the same time she took another decided step. She had determined that she would see no more of Sir John Conroy. She rewarded his past services with liberality: he was given a baronetcy and a pension of L3000 a year; he remained a member of the Duchess's household, but his personal intercourse with the Queen came to an abrupt conclusion. II It was clear that these interior changes--whatever else they might betoken--marked the triumph of one person--the Baroness Lehzen. The pastor's daughter observed the ruin of her enemies. Discreet and victorious, she remained in possession of the field. More closely than ever did she cleave to the side of her mistress, her pupil, and her friend; and in the recesses of the palace her mysterious figure was at once invisible and omnipresent. When the Queen's Ministers came in at one door, the Baroness went out by another; when they retired, she immediately returned. Nobody knew--nobody ever will know--the precise extent and the precise nature of her influence. She herself declared that she never discussed public affairs with the Queen, that she was concerned with private matters only--with private letters and the details of private life. Certainly her hand is everywhere discernible in Victoria's early correspondence. The Journal is written in the style of a child; the Letters are not so simple; they are the work of a child, rearranged--with the minimum of alteration, no doubt, and yet perceptibly--by a governess. And the governess was no fool: narrow, jealous, provincial, she might be; but she was an acute and vigorous woman, who had gained by a peculiar insight, a peculiar ascendancy. That ascendancy she meant to keep. No doubt it was true that technically she took no part in public business; but the distinction between what is public and what is private is always a subtle one; and in the case of a reigning sovereign--as the next few years were to show--it is often imaginary. Considering all things--the characters of the persons, and the character of the times--it was something more than a mere matter of private interest that the bedroom of Baroness Lehzen at Buckingham Palace should have been next door to the bedroom of the Queen. But the influence wielded by the Baroness, supreme as it seemed within its own sphere, was not unlimited; there were other forces at work. For one thing, the faithful Stockmar had taken up his residence in the palace. During the twenty years which had elapsed since the death of the Princess Charlotte, his experiences had been varied and remarkable. The unknown counsellor of a disappointed princeling had gradually risen to a position of European importance. His devotion to his master had been not only whole--hearted but cautious and wise. It was Stockmar's advice that had kept Prince Leopold in England during the critical years which followed his wife's death, and had thus secured to him the essential requisite of a point d'appui in the country of his adoption. It was Stockmar's discretion which had smoothed over the embarrassments surrounding the Prince's acceptance and rejection of the Greek crown. It was Stockmar who had induced the Prince to become the constitutional Sovereign of Belgium. Above all, it was Stockmar's tact, honesty, and diplomatic skill which, through a long series of arduous and complicated negotiations, had led to the guarantee of Belgian neutrality by the Great Powers. His labours had been rewarded by a German barony and by the complete confidence of King Leopold. Nor was it only in Brussels that he was treated with respect and listened to with attention. The statesmen who governed England--Lord Grey, Sir Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston, Lord Melbourne--had learnt to put a high value upon his probity and his intelligence. "He is one of the cleverest fellows I ever saw," said Lord Melbourne, "the most discreet man, the most well-judging, and most cool man." And Lord Palmerston cited Baron Stockmar as the only absolutely disinterested man he had come across in life, At last he was able to retire to Coburg, and to enjoy for a few years the society of the wife and children whom his labours in the service of his master had hitherto only allowed him to visit at long intervals for a month or two at a time. But in 1836 he had been again entrusted with an important negotiation, which he had brought to a successful conclusion in the marriage of Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg, a nephew of King Leopold's, with Queen Maria II of Portugal. The House of Coburg was beginning to spread over Europe; and the establishment of the Baron at Buckingham Palace in 1837 was to be the prelude of another and a more momentous advance. King Leopold and his counsellor provide in their careers an example of the curious diversity of human ambitions. The desires of man are wonderfully various; but no less various are the means by which those desires may reach satisfaction: and so the work of the world gets done. The correct mind of Leopold craved for the whole apparatus of royalty. Mere power would have held no attractions for him; he must be an actual king--the crowned head of a people. It was not enough to do; it was essential also to be recognised; anything else would not be fitting. The greatness that he dreamt of was surrounded by every appropriate circumstance. To be a Majesty, to be a cousin of Sovereigns, to marry a Bourbon for diplomatic ends, to correspond with the Queen of England, to be very stiff and very punctual, to found a dynasty, to bore ambassadresses into fits, to live, on the highest pinnacle, an exemplary life devoted to the public service--such were his objects, and such, in fact, were his achievements. The "Marquis Peu-a-peu," as George IV called him, had what he wanted. But this would never have been the case if it had not happened that the ambition of Stockmar took a form exactly complementary to his own. The sovereignty that the Baron sought for was by no means obvious. The satisfaction of his essential being lay in obscurity, in invisibility--in passing, unobserved, through a hidden entrance, into the very central chamber of power, and in sitting there, quietly, pulling the subtle strings that set the wheels of the whole world in motion. A very few people, in very high places, and exceptionally well-informed, knew that Baron Stockmar was a most important person: that was enough. The fortunes of the master and the servant, intimately interacting, rose together. The Baron's secret skill had given Leopold his unexceptionable kingdom; and Leopold, in his turn, as time went on, was able to furnish the Baron with more and more keys to more and more back doors. Stockmar took up his abode in the Palace partly as the emissary of King Leopold, but more particularly as the friend and adviser of a queen who was almost a child, and who, no doubt, would be much in need of advice and friendship. For it would be a mistake to suppose that either of these two men was actuated by a vulgar selfishness. The King, indeed, was very well aware on which side his bread was buttered; during an adventurous and chequered life he had acquired a shrewd knowledge of the world's workings; and he was ready enough to use that knowledge to strengthen his position and to spread his influence. But then, the firmer his position and the wider his influence, the better for Europe; of that he was quite certain. And besides, he was a constitutional monarch; and it would be highly indecorous in a constitutional monarch to have any aims that were low or personal. As for Stockmar, the disinterestedness which Palmerston had noted was undoubtedly a basic element in his character. The ordinary schemer is always an optimist; and Stockmar, racked by dyspepsia and haunted by gloomy forebodings, was a constitutionally melancholy man. A schemer, no doubt, he was; but he schemed distrustfully, splenetically, to do good. To do good! What nobler end could a man scheme for? Yet it is perilous to scheme at all. With Lehzen to supervise every detail of her conduct, with Stockmar in the next room, so full of wisdom and experience of affairs, with her Uncle Leopold's letters, too, pouring out so constantly their stream of encouragements, general reflections, and highly valuable tips, Victoria, even had she been without other guidance, would have stood in no lack of private counsellor. But other guidance she had; for all these influences paled before a new star, of the first magnitude, which, rising suddenly upon her horizon, immediately dominated her life. III William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, was fifty-eight years of age, and had been for the last three years Prime Minister of England. In every outward respect he was one of the most fortunate of mankind. He had been born into the midst of riches, brilliance, and power. His mother, fascinating and intelligent, had been a great Whig hostess, and he had been bred up as a member of that radiant society which, during the last quarter of the eighteenth century, concentrated within itself the ultimate perfections of a hundred years of triumphant aristocracy. Nature had given him beauty and brains; the unexpected death of an elder brother brought him wealth, a peerage, and the possibility of high advancement. Within that charmed circle, whatever one's personal disabilities, it was difficult to fail; and to him, with all his advantages, success was well-nigh unavoidable. With little effort, he attained political eminence. On the triumph of the Whigs he became one of the leading members of the Government; and when Lord Grey retired from the premiership he quietly stepped into the vacant place. Nor was it only in the visible signs of fortune that Fate had been kind to him. Bound to succeed, and to succeed easily, he was gifted with so fine a nature that his success became him. His mind, at once supple and copious, his temperament, at once calm and sensitive, enabled him not merely to work, but to live with perfect facility and with the grace of strength. In society he was a notable talker, a captivating companion, a charming man. If one looked deeper, one saw at once that he was not ordinary, that the piquancies of his conversation and his manner--his free-and-easy vaguenesses, his abrupt questions, his lollings and loungings, his innumerable oaths--were something more than an amusing ornament, were the outward manifestation of an individuality that was fundamental. The precise nature of this individuality was very difficult to gauge: it was dubious, complex, perhaps self--contradictory. Certainly there was an ironical discordance between the inner history of the man and his apparent fortunes. He owed all he had to his birth, and his birth was shameful; it was known well enough that his mother had passionately loved Lord Egremont, and that Lord Melbourne was not his father. His marriage, which had seemed to be the crown of his youthful ardours, was a long, miserable, desperate failure: the incredible Lady Caroline, "With pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness to be ever taught, With too much thinking to have common thought," was very nearly the destruction of his life. When at last he emerged from the anguish and confusion of her folly, her extravagance, her rage, her despair, and her devotion, he was left alone with endless memories of intermingled farce and tragedy, and an only son, who was an imbecile. But there was something else that he owed to Lady Caroline. While she whirled with Byron in a hectic frenzy of love and fashion, he had stayed at home in an indulgence bordering on cynicism, and occupied his solitude with reading. It was thus that he had acquired those habits of study, that love of learning, and that wide and accurate knowledge of ancient and modern literature, which formed so unexpected a part of his mental equipment. His passion for reading never deserted him; even when he was Prime Minister he found time to master every new important book. With an incongruousness that was characteristic, his favourite study was theology. An accomplished classical scholar, he was deeply read in the Fathers of the Church; heavy volumes of commentary and exegesis he examined with scrupulous diligence; and at any odd moment he might be found turning over the pages of the Bible. To the ladies whom he most liked, he would lend some learned work on the Revelation, crammed with marginal notes in his own hand, or Dr. Lardner's "Observations upon the Jewish Errors with respect to the Conversion of Mary Magdalene." The more pious among them had high hopes that these studies would lead him into the right way; but of this there were no symptoms in his after-dinner conversations. The paradox of his political career was no less curious. By temperament an aristocrat, by conviction a conservative, he came to power as the leader of the popular party, the party of change. He had profoundly disliked the Reform Bill, which he had only accepted at last as a necessary evil; and the Reform Bill lay at the root of the very existence, of the very meaning, of his government. He was far too sceptical to believe in progress of any kind. Things were best as they were or rather, they were least bad. "You'd better try to do no good," was one of his dictums, "and then you'll get into no scrapes." Education at best was futile; education of the poor was positively dangerous. The factory children? "Oh, if you'd only have the goodness to leave them alone!" Free Trade was a delusion; the ballot was nonsense; and there was no such thing as a democracy. Nevertheless, he was not a reactionary; he was simply an opportunist. The whole duty of government, he said, was "to prevent crime and to preserve contracts." All one could really hope to do was to carry on. He himself carried on in a remarkable manner--with perpetual compromises, with fluctuations and contradictions, with every kind of weakness, and yet with shrewdness, with gentleness, even with conscientiousness, and a light and airy mastery of men and of events. He conducted the transactions of business with extraordinary nonchalance. Important persons, ushered up for some grave interview, found him in a towselled bed, littered with books and papers, or vaguely shaving in a dressing-room; but, when they went downstairs again, they would realise that somehow or other they had been pumped. When he had to receive a deputation, he could hardly ever do so with becoming gravity. The worthy delegates of the tallow-chandlers, or the Society for the Abolition of Capital Punishment, were distressed and mortified when, in the midst of their speeches, the Prime Minister became absorbed in blowing a feather, or suddenly cracked an unseemly joke. How could they have guessed that he had spent the night before diligently getting up the details of their case? He hated patronage and the making of appointments--a feeling rare in Ministers. "As for the Bishops," he burst out, "I positively believe they die to vex me." But when at last the appointment was made, it was made with keen discrimination. His colleagues observed another symptom--was it of his irresponsibility or his wisdom? He went to sleep in the Cabinet. Probably, if he had been born a little earlier, he would have been a simpler and a happier man. As it was, he was a child of the eighteenth century whose lot was cast in a new, difficult, unsympathetic age. He was an autumn rose. With all his gracious amenity, his humour, his happy-go-lucky ways, a deep disquietude possessed him. A sentimental cynic, a sceptical believer, he was restless and melancholy at heart. Above all, he could never harden himself; those sensitive petals shivered in every wind. Whatever else he might be, one thing was certain: Lord Melbourne was always human, supremely human--too human, perhaps. And now, with old age upon him, his life took a sudden, new, extraordinary turn. He became, in the twinkling of an eye, the intimate adviser and the daily companion of a young girl who had stepped all at once from a nursery to a throne. His relations with women had been, like everything else about him, ambiguous. Nobody had ever been able quite to gauge the shifting, emotional complexities of his married life; Lady Caroline vanished; but his peculiar susceptibilities remained. Female society of some kind or other was necessary to him, and he did not stint himself; a great part of every day was invariably spent in it. The feminine element in him made it easy, made it natural and inevitable for him to be the friend of a great many women; but the masculine element in him was strong as well. In such circumstances it is also easy, it is even natural, perhaps it is even inevitable, to be something more than a friend. There were rumours and combustions. Lord Melbourne was twice a co-respondent in a divorce action; but on each occasion he won his suit. The lovely Lady Brandon, the unhappy and brilliant Mrs. Norton... the law exonerated them both. Beyond that hung an impenetrable veil. But at any rate it was clear that, with such a record, the Prime Minister's position in Buckingham Palace must be a highly delicate one. However, he was used to delicacies, and he met the situation with consummate success. His behaviour was from the first moment impeccable. His manner towards the young Queen mingled, with perfect facility, the watchfulness and the respect of a statesman and a courtier with the tender solicitude of a parent. He was at once reverential and affectionate, at once the servant and the guide. At the same time the habits of his life underwent a surprising change. His comfortable, unpunctual days became subject to the unaltering routine of a palace; no longer did he sprawl on sofas; not a single "damn" escaped his lips. The man of the world who had been the friend of Byron and the regent, the talker whose paradoxes had held Holland House enthralled, the cynic whose ribaldries had enlivened so many deep potations, the lover whose soft words had captivated such beauty and such passion and such wit, might now be seen, evening after evening, talking with infinite politeness to a schoolgirl, bolt upright, amid the silence and the rigidity of Court etiquette. IV On her side, Victoria was instantaneously fascinated by Lord Melbourne. The good report of Stockmar had no doubt prepared the way; Lehzen was wisely propitiated; and the first highly favourable impression was never afterwards belied. She found him perfect; and perfect in her sight he remained. Her absolute and unconcealed adoration was very natural; what innocent young creature could have resisted, in any circumstances, the charm and the devotion of such a man? But, in her situation, there was a special influence which gave a peculiar glow to all she felt. After years of emptiness and dullness and suppression, she had come suddenly, in the heyday of youth, into freedom and power. She was mistress of herself, of great domains and palaces; she was Queen of England. Responsibilities and difficulties she might have, no doubt, and in heavy measure; but one feeling dominated and absorbed all others--the feeling of joy. Everything pleased her. She was in high spirits from morning till night. Mr. Creevey, grown old now, and very near his end, catching a glimpse of her at Brighton, was much amused, in his sharp fashion, by the ingenuous gaiety of "little Vic." "A more homely little being you never beheld, when she is at her ease, and she is evidently dying to be always more so. She laughs in real earnest, opening her mouth as wide as it can go, showing not very pretty gums... She eats quite as heartily as she laughs, I think I may say she gobbles... She blushes and laughs every instant in so natural a way as to disarm anybody." But it was not merely when she was laughing or gobbling that she enjoyed herself; the performance of her official duties gave her intense satisfaction. "I really have immensely to do," she wrote in her Journal a few days after her accession; "I receive so many communications from my Ministers, but I like it very much." And again, a week later, "I repeat what I said before that I have so many communications from the Ministers, and from me to them, and I get so many papers to sign every day, that I have always a very great deal to do. I delight in this work." Through the girl's immaturity the vigorous predestined tastes of the woman were pushing themselves into existence with eager velocity, with delicious force. One detail of her happy situation deserves particular mention. Apart from the splendour of her social position and the momentousness of her political one, she was a person of great wealth. As soon as Parliament met, an annuity of L385,000 was settled upon her. When the expenses of her household had been discharged, she was left with L68,000 a year of her own. She enjoyed besides the revenues of the Duchy of Lancaster, which amounted annually to over L27,000. The first use to which she put her money was characteristic: she paid off her father's debts. In money matters, no less than in other matters, she was determined to be correct. She had the instincts of a man of business; and she never could have borne to be in a position that was financially unsound. With youth and happiness gilding every hour, the days passed merrily enough. And each day hinged upon Lord Melbourne. Her diary shows us, with undiminished clarity, the life of the young sovereign during the early months of her reign--a life satisfactorily regular, full of delightful business, a life of simple pleasures, mostly physical--riding, eating, dancing--a quick, easy, highly unsophisticated life, sufficient unto itself. The light of the morning is upon it; and, in the rosy radiance, the figure of "Lord M." emerges, glorified and supreme. If she is the heroine of the story, he is the hero; but indeed they are more than hero and heroine, for there are no other characters at all. Lehzen, the Baron, Uncle Leopold, are unsubstantial shadows--the incidental supers of the piece. Her paradise was peopled by two persons, and surely that was enough. One sees them together still, a curious couple, strangely united in those artless pages, under the magical illumination of that dawn of eighty years ago: the polished high fine gentleman with the whitening hair and whiskers and the thick dark eyebrows and the mobile lips and the big expressive eyes; and beside him the tiny Queen--fair, slim, elegant, active, in her plain girl's dress and little tippet, looking up at him earnestly, adoringly, with eyes blue and projecting, and half-open mouth. So they appear upon every page of the Journal; upon every page Lord M. is present, Lord M. is speaking, Lord M. is being amusing, instructive, delightful, and affectionate at once, while Victoria drinks in the honied words, laughs till she shows her gums, tries hard to remember, and runs off, as soon as she is left alone, to put it all down. Their long conversations touched upon a multitude of topics. Lord M. would criticise books, throw out a remark or two on the British Constitution, make some passing reflections on human life, and tell story after story of the great people of the eighteenth century. Then there would be business a despatch perhaps from Lord Durham in Canada, which Lord M. would read. But first he must explain a little. "He said that I must know that Canada originally belonged to the French, and was only ceded to the English in 1760, when it was taken in an expedition under Wolfe: 'a very daring enterprise,' he said. Canada was then entirely French, and the British only came afterwards... Lord M. explained this very clearly (and much better than I have done) and said a good deal more about it. He then read me Durham's despatch, which is a very long one and took him more than 1/2 an hour to read. Lord M. read it beautifully with that fine soft voice of his, and with so much expression, so that it is needless to say I was much interested by it." And then the talk would take a more personal turn. Lord M. would describe his boyhood, and she would learn that "he wore his hair long, as all boys then did, till he was 17; (how handsome he must have looked!)." Or she would find out about his queer tastes and habits--how he never carried a watch, which seemed quite extraordinary. "'I always ask the servant what o'clock it is, and then he tells me what he likes,' said Lord M." Or, as the rooks wheeled about round the trees, "in a manner which indicated rain," he would say that he could sit looking at them for an hour, and "was quite surprised at my disliking them. M. said, 'The rooks are my delight.'" The day's routine, whether in London or at Windsor, was almost invariable. The morning was devoted to business and Lord M. In the afternoon the whole Court went out riding. The Queen, in her velvet riding--habit and a top-hat with a veil draped about the brim, headed the cavalcade; and Lord M. rode beside her. The lively troupe went fast and far, to the extreme exhilaration of Her Majesty. Back in the Palace again, there was still time for a little more fun before dinner--a game of battledore and shuttlecock perhaps, or a romp along the galleries with some children. Dinner came, and the ceremonial decidedly tightened. The gentleman of highest rank sat on the right hand of the Queen; on her left--it soon became an established rule--sat Lord Melbourne. After the ladies had left the dining-room, the gentlemen were not permitted to remain behind for very long; indeed, the short time allowed them for their wine-drinking formed the subject--so it was rumoured--of one of the very few disputes between the Queen and her Prime Minister;(*) but her determination carried the day, and from that moment after-dinner drunkenness began to go out of fashion. When the company was reassembled in the drawing-room the etiquette was stiff. For a few moments the Queen spoke in turn to each one of her guests; and during these short uneasy colloquies the aridity of royalty was apt to become painfully evident. One night Mr. Greville, the Clerk of the Privy Council, was present; his turn soon came; the middle-aged, hard-faced viveur was addressed by his young hostess. "Have you been riding to-day, Mr. Greville?" asked the Queen. "No, Madam, I have not," replied Mr. Greville. "It was a fine day," continued the Queen. "Yes, Madam, a very fine day," said Mr. Greville. "It was rather cold, though," said the Queen. "It was rather cold, Madam," said Mr. Greville. "Your sister, Lady Frances Egerton, rides, I think, doesn't she?" said the Queen. "She does ride sometimes, Madam," said Mr. Greville. There was a pause, after which Mr. Greville ventured to take the lead, though he did not venture to change the subject. "Has your Majesty been riding today?" asked Mr. Greville. "Oh yes, a very long ride," answered the Queen with animation. "Has your Majesty got a nice horse?" said Mr. Greville. "Oh, a very nice horse," said the Queen. It was over. Her Majesty gave a smile and an inclination of the head, Mr. Greville a profound bow, and the next conversation began with the next gentleman. When all the guests had been disposed of, the Duchess of Kent sat down to her whist, while everybody else was ranged about the round table. Lord Melbourne sat beside the Queen, and talked pertinaciously--very often a propos to the contents of one of the large albums of engravings with which the round table was covered--until it was half-past eleven and time to go to bed. (*) The Duke of Bedford told Greville he was "sure there was a battle between her and Melbourne... He is sure there was one about the men's sitting after dinner, for he heard her say to him rather angrily, 'it is a horrid custom-' but when the ladies left the room (he dined there) directions were given that the men should remain five minutes longer." Greville Memoirs, February 26, 1840 (unpublished). Occasionally, there were little diversions: the evening might be spent at the opera or at the play. Next morning the royal critic was careful to note down her impressions. "It was Shakespeare's tragedy of Hamlet, and we came in at the beginning of it. Mr. Charles Kean (son of old Kean) acted the part of Hamlet, and I must say beautifully. His conception of this very difficult, and I may almost say incomprehensible, character is admirable; his delivery of all the fine long speeches quite beautiful; he is excessively graceful and all his actions and attitudes are good, though not at all good-looking in face... I came away just as Hamlet was over." Later on, she went to see Macready in King Lear. The story was new to her; she knew nothing about it, and at first she took very little interest in what was passing on the stage; she preferred to chatter and laugh with the Lord Chamberlain. But, as the play went on, her mood changed; her attention was fixed, and then she laughed no more. Yet she was puzzled; it seemed a strange, a horrible business. What did Lord M. think? Lord M. thought it was a very fine play, but to be sure, "a rough, coarse play, written for those times, with exaggerated characters." "I'm glad you've seen it," he added. But, undoubtedly, the evenings which she enjoyed most were those on which there was dancing. She was always ready enough to seize any excuse--the arrival of cousins--a birthday--a gathering of young people--to give the command for that. Then, when the band played, and the figures of the dancers swayed to the music, and she felt her own figure swaying too, with youthful spirits so close on every side--then her happiness reached its height, her eyes sparkled, she must go on and on into the small hours of the morning. For a moment Lord M. himself was forgotten. V The months flew past. The summer was over: "the pleasantest summer I EVER passed in MY LIFE, and I shall never forget this first summer of my reign." With surprising rapidity, another summer was upon her. The coronation came and went--a curious dream. The antique, intricate, endless ceremonial worked itself out as best it could, like some machine of gigantic complexity which was a little out of order. The small central figure went through her gyrations. She sat; she walked; she prayed; she carried about an orb that was almost too heavy to hold; the Archbishop of Canterbury came and crushed a ring upon the wrong finger, so that she was ready to cry out with the pain; old Lord Rolle tripped up in his mantle and fell down the steps as he was doing homage; she was taken into a side chapel, where the altar was covered with a table-cloth, sandwiches, and bottles of wine; she perceived Lehzen in an upper box and exchanged a smile with her as she sat, robed and crowned, on the Confessor's throne. "I shall ever remember this day as the PROUDEST of my life," she noted. But the pride was soon merged once more in youth and simplicity. When she returned to Buckingham Palace at last she was not tired; she ran up to her private rooms, doffed her splendours, and gave her dog Dash its evening bath. Life flowed on again with its accustomed smoothness--though, of course, the smoothness was occasionally disturbed. For one thing, there was the distressing behaviour of Uncle Leopold. The King of the Belgians had not been able to resist attempting to make use of his family position to further his diplomatic ends. But, indeed, why should there be any question of resisting? Was not such a course of conduct, far from being a temptation, simply "selon les regles?" What were royal marriages for, if they did not enable sovereigns, in spite of the hindrances of constitutions, to control foreign politics? For the highest purposes, of course; that was understood. The Queen of England was his niece--more than that--almost his daughter; his confidential agent was living, in a position of intimate favour, at her court. Surely, in such circumstances, it would be preposterous, it would be positively incorrect, to lose the opportunity of bending to his wishes by means of personal influence, behind the backs of the English Ministers, the foreign policy of England. He set about the task with becoming precautions. He continued in his letters his admirable advice. Within a few days of her accession, he recommended the young Queen to lay emphasis, on every possible occasion, upon her English birth; to praise the English nation; "the Established Church I also recommend strongly; you cannot, without PLEDGING yourself to anything PARTICULAR, SAY TOO MUCH ON THE SUBJECT." And then "before you decide on anything important I should be glad if you would consult me; this would also have the advantage of giving you time;" nothing was more injurious than to be hurried into wrong decisions unawares. His niece replied at once with all the accustomed warmth of her affection; but she wrote hurriedly--and, perhaps, a trifle vaguely too. "YOUR advice is always of the GREATEST IMPORTANCE to me," she said. Had he, possibly, gone too far? He could not be certain; perhaps Victoria HAD been hurried. In any case, he would be careful; he would draw back--"pour mieux sauter" he added to himself with a smile. In his next letters he made no reference to his suggestion of consultations with himself; he merely pointed out the wisdom, in general, of refusing to decide upon important questions off-hand. So far, his advice was taken; and it was noticed that the Queen, when applications were made to her, rarely gave an immediate answer. Even with Lord Melbourne, it was the same; when he asked for her opinion upon any subject, she would reply that she would think it over, and tell him her conclusions next day. King Leopold's counsels continued. The Princess de Lieven, he said, was a dangerous woman; there was reason to think that she would make attempts to pry into what did not concern her, let Victoria beware. "A rule which I cannot sufficiently recommend is NEVER TO PERMIT people to speak on subjects concerning yourself or your affairs, without you having yourself desired them to do so." Should such a thing occur, "change the conversation, and make the individual feel that he has made a mistake." This piece of advice was also taken; for it fell out as the King had predicted. Madame de Lieven sought an audience, and appeared to be verging towards confidential topics; whereupon the Queen, becoming slightly embarrassed, talked of nothing but commonplaces. The individual felt that she had made a mistake. The King's next warning was remarkable. Letters, he pointed out, are almost invariably read in the post. This was inconvenient, no doubt; but the fact, once properly grasped, was not without its advantages. "I will give you an example: we are still plagued by Prussia concerning those fortresses; now to tell the Prussian Government many things, which we SHOULD NOT LIKE to tell them officially, the Minister is going to write a despatch to our man at Berlin, sending it BY POST; the Prussians ARE SURE to read it, and to learn in this way what we wish them to hear. Analogous circumstances might very probably occur in England. I tell you the TRICK," wrote His Majesty, "that you should be able to guard against it." Such were the subtleties of constitutional sovereignty. It seemed that the time had come for another step. The King's next letter was full of foreign politics--the situation in Spain and Portugal, the character of Louis Philippe; and he received a favourable answer. Victoria, it is true, began by saying that she had shown the POLITICAL PART of his letter to Lord Melbourne; but she proceeded to a discussion of foreign affairs. It appeared that she was not unwilling to exchange observations on such matters with her uncle. So far so good. But King Leopold was still cautious; though a crisis was impending in his diplomacy, he still hung back; at last, however, he could keep silence no longer. It was of the utmost importance to him that, in his manoeuvrings with France and Holland, he should have, or at any rate appear to have, English support. But the English Government appeared to adopt a neutral attitude; it was too bad; not to be for him was to be against him, could they not see that? Yet, perhaps, they were only wavering, and a little pressure upon them from Victoria might still save all. He determined to put the case before her, delicately yet forcibly--just as he saw it himself. "All I want from your kind Majesty," he wrote, "is, that you will OCCASIONALLY express to your Ministers, and particularly to good Lord Melbourne, that, as far as it is COMPATIBLE with the interests of your own dominions, you do NOT wish that your Government should take the lead in such measures as might in a short time bring on the DESTRUCTION of this country, as well as that of your uncle and his family." The result of this appeal was unexpected; there was dead silence for more than a week. When Victoria at last wrote, she was prodigal of her affection. "It would, indeed, my dearest Uncle, be VERY WRONG of you, if you thought my feelings of warm and devoted attachment to you, and of great affection for you, could be changed--nothing can ever change them"--but her references to foreign politics, though they were lengthy and elaborate, were non-committal in the extreme; they were almost cast in an official and diplomatic form. Her Ministers, she said, entirely shared her views upon the subject; she understood and sympathised with the difficulties of her beloved uncle's position; and he might rest assured "that both Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston are most anxious at all times for the prosperity and welfare of Belgium." That was all. The King in his reply declared himself delighted, and re-echoed the affectionate protestations of his niece. "My dearest and most beloved Victoria," he said, "you have written me a VERY DEAR and long letter, which has given me GREAT PLEASURE AND SATISFACTION." He would not admit that he had had a rebuff. A few months later the crisis came. King Leopold determined to make a bold push, and to carry Victoria with him, this time, by a display of royal vigour and avuncular authority. In an abrupt, an almost peremptory letter, he laid his case, once more, before his niece. "You know from experience," he wrote, "that I NEVER ASK ANYTHING OF YOU... But, as I said before, if we are not careful we may see serious consequences which may affect more or less everybody, and THIS ought to be the object of our most anxious attention. I remain, my dear Victoria, your affectionate uncle, Leopold R." The Queen immediately despatched this letter to Lord Melbourne, who replied with a carefully thought-out form of words, signifying nothing whatever, which, he suggested, she should send to her uncle. She did so, copying out the elaborate formula, with a liberal scattering of "dear Uncles" interspersed; and she concluded her letter with a message of "affectionate love to Aunt Louise and the children." Then at last King Leopold was obliged to recognise the facts. His next letter contained no reference at all to politics. "I am glad," he wrote, "to find that you like Brighton better than last year. I think Brighton very agreeable at this time of the year, till the east winds set in. The pavilion, besides, is comfortable; that cannot be denied. Before my marriage, it was there that I met the Regent. Charlotte afterwards came with old Queen Charlotte. How distant all this already, but still how present to one's memory." Like poor Madame de Lieven, His Majesty felt that he had made a mistake. Nevertheless, he could not quite give up all hope. Another opportunity offered, and he made another effort--but there was not very much conviction in it, and it was immediately crushed. "My dear Uncle," the Queen wrote, "I have to thank you for your last letter which I received on Sunday. Though you seem not to dislike my political sparks, I think it is better not to increase them, as they might finally take fire, particularly as I see with regret that upon this one subject we cannot agree. I shall, therefore, limit myself to my expressions of very sincere wishes for the welfare and prosperity of Belgium." After that, it was clear that there was no more to be said. Henceforward there is audible in the King's letters a curiously elegiac note. "My dearest Victoria, your DELIGHTFUL little letter has just arrived and went like AN ARROW TO MY HEART. Yes, my beloved Victoria! I DO LOVE YOU TENDERLY... I love you FOR YOURSELF, and I love in you the dear child whose welfare I tenderly watched." He had gone through much; yet, if life had its disappointments, it had its satisfactions too. "I have all the honours that can be given, and I am, politically speaking, very solidly established." But there were other things besides politics, there were romantic yearnings in his heart. "The only longing I still have is for the Orient, where I perhaps shall once end my life, rising in the west and setting in the east." As for his devotion to his niece, that could never end. "I never press my services on you, nor my councils, though I may say with some truth that from the extraordinary fate which the higher powers had ordained for me, my experience, both political and of private life, is great. I am ALWAYS READY to be useful to you when and where and it may be, and I repeat it, ALL I WANT IN RETURN IS SOME LITTLE SINCERE AFFECTION FROM YOU." VI The correspondence with King Leopold was significant of much that still lay partly hidden in the character of Victoria. Her attitude towards her uncle had never wavered for a moment. To all his advances she had presented an absolutely unyielding front. The foreign policy of England was not his province; it was hers and her Ministers'; his insinuations, his entreaties, his struggles--all were quite useless; and he must understand that this was so. The rigidity of her position was the more striking owing to the respectfulness and the affection with which it was accompanied. From start to finish the unmoved Queen remained the devoted niece. Leopold himself must have envied such perfect correctitude; but what may be admirable in an elderly statesman is alarming in a maiden of nineteen. And privileged observers were not without their fears. The strange mixture of ingenuous light-heartedness and fixed determination, of frankness and reticence, of childishness and pride, seemed to augur a future that was perplexed and full of dangers. As time passed the less pleasant qualities in this curious composition revealed themselves more often and more seriously. There were signs of an imperious, a peremptory temper, an egotism that was strong and hard. It was noticed that the palace etiquette, far from relaxing, grew ever more and more inflexible. By some, this was attributed to Lehzen's influence; but, if that was so, Lehzen had a willing pupil; for the slightest infringements of the freezing rules of regularity and deference were invariably and immediately visited by the sharp and haughty glances of the Queen. Yet Her Majesty's eyes, crushing as they could be, were less crushing than her mouth. The self-will depicted in those small projecting teeth and that small receding chin was of a more dismaying kind than that which a powerful jaw betokens; it was a self--will imperturbable, impenetrable, unintelligent; a self-will dangerously akin to obstinacy. And the obstinacy of monarchs is not as that of other men. Within two years of her accession, the storm-clouds which, from the first, had been dimly visible on the horizon, gathered and burst. Victoria's relations with her mother had not improved. The Duchess of Kent, still surrounded by all the galling appearances of filial consideration, remained in Buckingham Palace a discarded figure, powerless and inconsolable. Sir John Conroy, banished from the presence of the Queen, still presided over the Duchess's household, and the hostilities of Kensington continued unabated in the new surroundings. Lady Flora Hastings still cracked her malicious jokes; the animosity of the Baroness was still unappeased. One day, Lady Flora found the joke was turned against her. Early in 1839, travelling in the suite of the Duchess, she had returned from Scotland in the same carriage with Sir John. A change in her figure became the subject of an unseemly jest; tongues wagged; and the jest grew serious. It was whispered that Lady Flora was with child. The state of her health seemed to confirm the suspicion; she consulted Sir James Clark, the royal physician, and, after the consultation, Sir James let his tongue wag, too. On this, the scandal flared up sky-high. Everyone was talking; the Baroness was not surprised; the Duchess rallied tumultuously to the support of her lady; the Queen was informed. At last the extraordinary expedient of a medical examination was resorted to, during which Sir James, according to Lady Flora, behaved with brutal rudeness, while a second doctor was extremely polite. Finally, both physicians signed a certificate entirely exculpating the lady. But this was by no means the end of the business. The Hastings family, socially a very powerful one, threw itself into the fray with all the fury of outraged pride and injured innocence; Lord Hastings insisted upon an audience of the Queen, wrote to the papers, and demanded the dismissal of Sir James Clark. The Queen expressed her regret to Lady Flora, but Sir James Clark was not dismissed. The tide of opinion turned violently against the Queen and her advisers; high society was disgusted by all this washing of dirty linen in Buckingham Palace; the public at large was indignant at the ill-treatment of Lady Flora. By the end of March, the popularity, so radiant and so abundant, with which the young Sovereign had begun her reign, had entirely disappeared. There can be no doubt that a great lack of discretion had been shown by the Court. Ill-natured tittle-tattle, which should have been instantly nipped in the bud, had been allowed to assume disgraceful proportions; and the Throne itself had become involved in the personal malignities of the palace. A particularly awkward question had been raised by the position of Sir James Clark. The Duke of Wellington, upon whom it was customary to fall back, in cases of great difficulty in high places, had been consulted upon this question, and he had given it as his opinion that, as it would be impossible to remove Sir James without a public enquiry, Sir James must certainly stay where he was. Probably the Duke was right; but the fact that the peccant doctor continued in the Queen's service made the Hastings family irreconcilable and produced an unpleasant impression of unrepentant error upon the public mind. As for Victoria, she was very young and quite inexperienced; and she can hardly be blamed for having failed to control an extremely difficult situation. That was clearly Lord Melbourne's task; he was a man of the world, and, with vigilance and circumspection, he might have quietly put out the ugly flames while they were still smouldering. He did not do so; he was lazy and easy-going; the Baroness was persistent, and he let things slide. But doubtless his position was not an easy one; passions ran high in the palace; and Victoria was not only very young, she was very headstrong, too. Did he possess the magic bridle which would curb that fiery steed? He could not be certain. And then, suddenly, another violent crisis revealed more unmistakably than ever the nature of the mind with which he had to deal. VII The Queen had for long been haunted by a terror that the day might come when she would be obliged to part with her Minister. Ever since the passage of the Reform Bill, the power of the Whig Government had steadily declined. The General Election of 1837 had left them with a very small majority in the House of Commons; since then, they had been in constant difflculties--abroad, at home, in Ireland; the Radical group had grown hostile; it became highly doubtful how much longer they could survive. The Queen watched the development of events in great anxiety. She was a Whig by birth, by upbringing, by every association, public and private; and, even if those ties had never existed, the mere fact that Lord M. was the head of the Whigs would have amply sufficed to determine her politics. The fall of the Whigs would mean a sad upset for Lord M. But it would have a still more terrible consequence: Lord M. would have to leave her; and the daily, the hourly, presence of Lord M. had become an integral part of her life. Six months after her accession she had noted in her diary "I shall be very sorry to lose him even for one night;" and this feeling of personal dependence on her Minister steadily increased. In these circumstances it was natural that she should have become a Whig partisan. Of the wider significance of political questions she knew nothing; all she saw was that her friends were in office and about her, and that it would be dreadful if they ceased to be so. "I cannot say," she wrote when a critical division was impending, "(though I feel confident of our success) how low, how sad I feel, when I think of the possibility of this excellent and truly kind man not remaining my Minister! Yet I trust fervently that He who has so wonderfully protected me through such manifold difficulties will not now desert me! I should have liked to have expressed to Lord M. my anxiety, but the tears were nearer than words throughout the time I saw him, and I felt I should have choked, had I attempted to say anything." Lord Melbourne realised clearly enough how undesirable was such a state of mind in a constitutional sovereign who might be called upon at any moment to receive as her Ministers the leaders of the opposite party; he did what he could to cool her ardour; but in vain. With considerable lack of foresight, too, he had himself helped to bring about this unfortunate condition of affairs. From the moment of her accession, he had surrounded the Queen with ladies of his own party; the Mistress of the Robes and all the Ladies of the Bedchamber were Whigs. In the ordinary course, the Queen never saw a Tory: eventually she took pains never to see one in any circumstances. She disliked the whole tribe; and she did not conceal the fact. She particularly disliked Sir Robert Peel, who would almost certainly be the next Prime Minister. His manners were detestable, and he wanted to turn out Lord M. His supporters, without exception, were equally bad; and as for Sir James Graham, she could not bear the sight of him; he was exactly like Sir John Conroy. The affair of Lady Flora intensified these party rumours still further. The Hastings were Tories, and Lord Melbourne and the Court were attacked by the Tory press in unmeasured language. The Queen's sectarian zeal proportionately increased. But the dreaded hour was now fast approaching. Early in May the Ministers were visibly tottering; on a vital point of policy they could only secure a majority of five in the House of Commons; they determined to resign. When Victoria heard the news she burst into tears. Was it possible, then, that all was over? Was she, indeed, about to see Lord M. for the last time? Lord M. came; and it is a curious fact that, even in this crowning moment of misery and agitation, the precise girl noted, to the minute, the exact time of the arrival and the departure of her beloved Minister. The conversation was touching and prolonged; but it could only end in one way--the Queen must send for the Duke of Wellington. When, next morning, the Duke came, he advised her Majesty to send for Sir Robert Peel. She was in "a state of dreadful grief," but she swallowed down her tears, and braced herself, with royal resolution, for the odious, odious interview. Peel was by nature reserved, proud, and shy. His manners were not perfect, and he knew it; he was easily embarrassed, and, at such moments, he grew even more stiff and formal than before, while his feet mechanically performed upon the carpet a dancing-master's measure. Anxious as he now was to win the Queen's good graces, his very anxiety to do so made the attainment of his object the more difficult. He entirely failed to make any headway whatever with the haughty hostile girl before him. She coldly noted that he appeared to be unhappy and "put out," and, while he stood in painful fixity, with an occasional uneasy pointing of the toe, her heart sank within her at the sight of that manner, "Oh! how different, how dreadfully different, to the frank, open, natural, and most kind warm manner of Lord Melbourne." Nevertheless, the audience passed without disaster. Only at one point had there been some slight hint of a disagreement. Peel had decided that a change would be necessary in the composition of the royal Household: the Queen must no longer be entirely surrounded by the wives and sisters of his opponents; some, at any rate, of the Ladies of the Bedchamber should be friendly to his Government. When this matter was touched upon, the Queen had intimated that she wished her Household to remain unchanged; to which Sir Robert had replied that the question could be settled later, and shortly afterwards withdrew to arrange the details of his Cabinet. While he was present, Victoria had remained, as she herself said, "very much collected, civil and high, and betrayed no agitation;" but as soon as she was alone she completely broke down. Then she pulled herself together to write to Lord Melbourne an account of all that had happened, and of her own wretchedness. "She feels," she said, "Lord Melbourne will understand it, amongst enemies to those she most relied on and most esteemed; but what is worst of all is the being deprived of seeing Lord Melbourne as she used to do." Lord Melbourne replied with a very wise letter. He attempted to calm the Queen and to induce her to accept the new position gracefully; and he had nothing but good words for the Tory leaders. As for the question of the Ladies of the Household, the Queen, he said, should strongly urge what she desired, as it was a matter which concerned her personally, "but," he added, "if Sir Robert is unable to concede it, it will not do to refuse and to put off the negotiation upon it." On this point there can be little doubt that Lord Melbourne was right. The question was a complicated and subtle one, and it had never arisen before; but subsequent constitutional practice has determined that a Queen Regnant must accede to the wishes of her Prime Minister as to the personnel of the female part of her Household. Lord Melbourne's wisdom, however, was wasted. The Queen would not be soothed, and still less would she take advice. It was outrageous of the Tories to want to deprive her of her Ladies, and that night she made up her mind that, whatever Sir Robert might say, she would refuse to consent to the removal of a single one of them. Accordingly, when, next morning, Peel appeared again, she was ready for action. He began by detailing the Cabinet appointments, and then he added "Now, ma'am, about the Ladies-" when the Queen sharply interrupted him. "I cannot give up any of my Ladies," she said. "What, ma'am!" said Sir Robert, "does your Majesty mean to retain them all?" "All," said the Queen. Sir Robert's face worked strangely; he could not conceal his agitation. "The Mistress of the Robes and the Ladies of the Bedchamber?" he brought out at last. "All," replied once more her Majesty. It was in vain that Peel pleaded and argued; in vain that he spoke, growing every moment more pompous and uneasy, of the constitution, and Queens Regnant, and the public interest; in vain that he danced his pathetic minuet. She was adamant; but he, too, through all his embarrassment, showed no sign of yielding; and when at last he left her nothing had been decided--the whole formation of the Government was hanging in the wind. A frenzy of excitement now seized upon Victoria. Sir Robert, she believed in her fury, had tried to outwit her, to take her friends from her, to impose his will upon her own; but that was not all: she had suddenly perceived, while the poor man was moving so uneasily before her, the one thing that she was desperately longing for--a loop-hole of escape. She seized a pen and dashed off a note to Lord Melbourne. "Sir Robert has behaved very ill," she wrote, "he insisted on my giving up my Ladies, to which I replied that I never would consent, and I never saw a man so frightened... I was calm but very decided, and I think you would have been pleased to see my composure and great firmness; the Queen of England will not submit to such trickery. Keep yourself in readiness, for you may soon be wanted." Hardly had she finished when the Duke of Wellington was announced. "Well, Ma'am," he said as he entered, "I am very sorry to find there is a difficulty." "Oh!" she instantly replied, "he began it, not me." She felt that only one thing now was needed: she must be firm. And firm she was. The venerable conqueror of Napoleon was outfaced by the relentless equanimity of a girl in her teens. He could not move the Queen one inch. At last, she even ventured to rally him. "Is Sir Robert so weak," she asked, "that even the Ladies must be of his opinion?" On which the Duke made a brief and humble expostulation, bowed low, and departed. Had she won? Time would show; and in the meantime she scribbled down another letter. "Lord Melbourne must not think the Queen rash in her conduct... The Queen felt this was an attempt to see whether she could be led and managed like a child."(*) The Tories were not only wicked but ridiculous. Peel, having, as she understood, expressed a wish to remove only those members of the Household who were in Parliament, now objected to her Ladies. "I should like to know," she exclaimed in triumphant scorn, "if they mean to give the Ladies seats in Parliament?" (*) The exclamation "They wished to treat me like a girl, but I will show them that I am Queen of England!" often quoted as the Queen's, is apocryphal. It is merely part of Greville's summary of the two letters to Melbourne. It may be noted that the phrase "the Queen of England will not submit to such trickery" is omitted in "Girlhood," and in general there are numerous verbal discrepancies between the versions of the journal and the letters in the two books. The end of the crisis was now fast approaching. Sir Robert returned, and told her that if she insisted upon retaining all her Ladies he could not form a Government. She replied that she would send him her final decision in writing. Next morning the late Whig Cabinet met. Lord Melbourne read to them the Queen's letters, and the group of elderly politicians were overcome by an extraordinary wave of enthusiasm. They knew very well that, to say the least, it was highly doubtful whether the Queen had acted in strict accordance with the constitution; that in doing what she had done she had brushed aside Lord Melbourne's advice; that, in reality, there was no public reason whatever why they should go back upon their decision to resign. But such considerations vanished before the passionate urgency of Victoria. The intensity of her determination swept them headlong down the stream of her desire. They unanimously felt that "it was impossible to abandon such a Queen and such a woman." Forgetting that they were no longer her Majesty's Ministers, they took the unprecedented course of advising the Queen by letter to put an end to her negotiation with Sir Robert Peel. She did so; all was over; she had triumphed. That evening there was a ball at the Palace. Everyone was present. "Peel and the Duke of Wellington came by looking very much put out." She was perfectly happy; Lord M. was Prime Minister once more, and he was by her side. VIII Happiness had returned with Lord M., but it was happiness in the midst of agitation. The domestic imbroglio continued unabated, until at last the Duke, rejected as a Minister, was called in once again in his old capacity as moral physician to the family. Something was accomplished when, at last, he induced Sir John Conroy to resign his place about the Duchess of Kent and leave the Palace for ever; something more when he persuaded the Queen to write an affectionate letter to her mother. The way seemed open for a reconciliation, but the Duchess was stormy still. She didn't believe that Victoria had written that letter; it was not in her handwriting; and she sent for the Duke to tell him so. The Duke, assuring her that the letter was genuine, begged her to forget the past. But that was not so easy. "What am I to do if Lord Melbourne comes up to me?" "Do, ma'am? Why, receive him with civility." Well, she would make an effort... "But what am I to do if Victoria asks me to shake hands with Lehzen?" "Do, ma'am? Why, take her in your arms and kiss her." "What!" The Duchess bristled in every feather, and then she burst into a hearty laugh. "No, ma'am, no," said the Duke, laughing too. "I don't mean you are to take Lehzen in your arms and kiss her, but the Queen." The Duke might perhaps have succeeded, had not all attempts at conciliation been rendered hopeless by a tragical event. Lady Flora, it was discovered, had been suffering from a terrible internal malady, which now grew rapidly worse. There could be little doubt that she was dying. The Queen's unpopularity reached an extraordinary height. More than once she was publicly insulted. "Mrs. Melbourne," was shouted at her when she appeared at her balcony; and, at Ascot, she was hissed by the Duchess of Montrose and Lady Sarah Ingestre as she passed. Lady Flora died. The whole scandal burst out again with redoubled vehemence; while, in the Palace, the two parties were henceforth divided by an impassable, a Stygian, gulf. Nevertheless, Lord M. was back, and every trouble faded under the enchantment of his presence and his conversation. He, on his side, had gone through much; and his distresses were intensified by a consciousness of his own shortcomings. He realised clearly enough that, if he had intervened at the right moment, the Hastings scandal might have been averted; and, in the bedchamber crisis, he knew that he had allowed his judgment to be overruled and his conduct to be swayed by private feelings and the impetuosity of Victoria. But he was not one to suffer too acutely from the pangs of conscience. In spite of the dullness and the formality of the Court, his relationship with the Queen had come to be the dominating interest in his life; to have been deprived of it would have been heartrending; that dread eventuality had been--somehow--avoided; he was installed once more, in a kind of triumph; let him enjoy the fleeting hours to the full! And so, cherished by the favour of a sovereign and warmed by the adoration of a girl, the autumn rose, in those autumn months of 1839, came to a wondrous blooming. The petals expanded, beautifully, for the last time. For the last time in this unlooked--for, this incongruous, this almost incredible intercourse, the old epicure tasted the exquisiteness of romance. To watch, to teach, to restrain, to encourage the royal young creature beside him--that was much; to feel with such a constant intimacy the impact of her quick affection, her radiant vitality--that was more; most of all, perhaps, was it good to linger vaguely in humorous contemplation, in idle apostrophe, to talk disconnectedly, to make a little joke about an apple or a furbelow, to dream. The springs of his sensibility, hidden deep within him, were overflowing. Often, as he bent over her hand and kissed it, he found himself in tears. Upon Victoria, with all her impermeability, it was inevitable that such a companionship should have produced, eventually, an effect. She was no longer the simple schoolgirl of two years since. The change was visible even in her public demeanour. Her expression, once "ingenuous and serene," now appeared to a shrewd observer to be "bold and discontented." She had learnt something of the pleasures of power and the pains of it; but that was not all. Lord Melbourne with his gentle instruction had sought to lead her into the paths of wisdom and moderation, but the whole unconscious movement of his character had swayed her in a very different direction. The hard clear pebble, subjected for so long and so constantly to that encircling and insidious fluidity, had suffered a curious corrosion; it seemed to be actually growing a little soft and a little clouded. Humanity and fallibility are infectious things; was it possible that Lehzen's prim pupil had caught them? That she was beginning to listen to siren voices? That the secret impulses of self-expression, of self-indulgence even, were mastering her life? For a moment the child of a new age looked back, and wavered towards the eighteenth century. It was the most critical moment of her career. Had those influences lasted, the development of her character, the history of her life, would have been completely changed. And why should they not last? She, for one, was very anxious that they should. Let them last for ever! She was surrounded by Whigs, she was free to do whatever she wanted, she had Lord M.; she could not believe that she could ever be happier. Any change would be for the worse; and the worst change of all... no, she would not hear of it; it would be quite intolerable, it would upset everything, if she were to marry. And yet everyone seemed to want her to--the general public, the Ministers, her Saxe-Coburg relations--it was always the same story. Of course, she knew very well that there were excellent reasons for it. For one thing, if she remained childless, and were to die, her uncle Cumberland, who was now the King of Hanover, would succeed to the Throne of England. That, no doubt, would be a most unpleasant event; and she entirely sympathised with everybody who wished to avoid it. But there was no hurry; naturally, she would marry in the end--but not just yet--not for three or four years. What was tiresome was that her uncle Leopold had apparently determined, not only that she ought to marry, but that her cousin Albert ought to be her husband. That was very like her uncle Leopold, who wanted to have a finger in every pie; and it was true that long ago, in far-off days, before her accession even, she had written to him in a way which might well have encouraged him in such a notion. She had told him then that Albert possessed "every quality that could be desired to render her perfectly happy," and had begged her "dearest uncle to take care of the health of one, now so dear to me, and to take him under your special protection," adding, "I hope and trust all will go on prosperously and well on this subject of so much importance to me." But that had been years ago, when she was a mere child; perhaps, indeed, to judge from the language, the letter had been dictated by Lehzen; at any rate, her feelings, and all the circumstances, had now entirely changed. Albert hardly interested her at all. In later life the Queen declared that she had never for a moment dreamt of marrying anyone but her cousin; her letters and diaries tell a very different story. On August 26, 1837, she wrote in her journal: "To-day is my dearest cousin Albert's 18th birthday, and I pray Heaven to pour its choicest blessings on his beloved head!" In the subsequent years, however, the date passes unnoticed. It had been arranged that Stockmar should accompany the Prince to Italy, and the faithful Baron left her side for that purpose. He wrote to her more than once with sympathetic descriptions of his young companion; but her mind was by this time made up. She liked and admired Albert very much, but she did not want to marry him. "At present," she told Lord Melbourne in April, 1839, "my feeling is quite against ever marrying." When her cousin's Italian tour came to an end, she began to grow nervous; she knew that, according to a long-standing engagement, his next journey would be to England. He would probably arrive in the autumn, and by July her uneasiness was intense. She determined to write to her uncle, in order to make her position clear. It must be understood she said, that "there is no no engagement between us." If she should like Albert, she could "make no final promise this year, for, at the very earliest, any such event could not take place till two or three years hence." She had, she said, "a great repugnance" to change her present position; and, if she should not like him, she was "very anxious that it should be understood that she would not be guilty of any breach of promise, for she never gave any." To Lord Melbourne she was more explicit. She told him that she "had no great wish to see Albert, as the whole subject was an odious one;" she hated to have to decide about it; and she repeated once again that seeing Albert would be "a disagreeable thing." But there was no escaping the horrid business; the visit must be made, and she must see him. The summer slipped by and was over; it was the autumn already; on the evening of October 10 Albert, accompanied by his brother Ernest, arrived at Windsor. Albert arrived; and the whole structure of her existence crumbled into nothingness like a house of cards. He was beautiful--she gasped--she knew no more. Then, in a flash, a thousand mysteries were revealed to her; the past, the present, rushed upon her with a new significance; the delusions of years were abolished, and an extraordinary, an irresistible certitude leapt into being in the light of those blue eyes, the smile of that lovely mouth. The succeeding hours passed in a rapture. She was able to observe a few more details--the "exquisite nose," the "delicate moustachios and slight but very slight whiskers," the "beautiful figure, broad in the shoulders and a fine waist." She rode with him, danced with him, talked with him, and it was all perfection. She had no shadow of a doubt. He had come on a Thursday evening, and on the following Sunday morning she told Lord Melbourne that she had "a good deal changed her opinion as to marrying." Next morning, she told him that she had made up her mind to marry Albert. The morning after that, she sent for her cousin. She received him alone, and "after a few minutes I said to him that I thought he must be aware why I wished them to come here--and that it would make me too happy if he would consent to what I wished (to marry me.)" Then "we embraced each other, and he was so kind, so affectionate." She said that she was quite unworthy of him, while he murmured that he would be very happy "Das Leben mit dir zu zubringen." They parted, and she felt "the happiest of human beings," when Lord M. came in. At first she beat about the bush, and talked of the weather, and indifferent subjects. Somehow or other she felt a little nervous with her old friend. At last, summoning up her courage, she said, "I have got well through this with Albert." "Oh! you have," said Lord M. CHAPTER IV. MARRIAGE I It was decidedly a family match. Prince Francis Charles Augustus Albert Emmanuel of Saxe-Coburg--Gotha--for such was his full title--had been born just three months after his cousin Victoria, and the same midwife had assisted at the two births. The children's grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Coburg, had from the first looked forward to their marriage, as they grew up, the Duke, the Duchess of Kent, and King Leopold came equally to desire it. The Prince, ever since the time when, as a child of three, his nurse had told him that some day "the little English May flower" would be his wife, had never thought of marrying anyone else. When eventually Baron Stockmar himself signified his assent, the affair seemed as good as settled. The Duke had one other child--Prince Ernest, Albert's senior by one year, and heir to the principality. The Duchess was a sprightly and beautiful woman, with fair hair and blue eyes; Albert was very like her and was her declared favourite. But in his fifth year he was parted from her for ever. The ducal court was not noted for the strictness of its morals; the Duke was a man of gallantry, and it was rumoured that the Duchess followed her husband's example. There were scandals: one of the Court Chamberlains, a charming and cultivated man of Jewish extraction, was talked of; at last there was a separation, followed by a divorce. The Duchess retired to Paris, and died unhappily in 1831. Her memory was always very dear to Albert. He grew up a pretty, clever, and high-spirited boy. Usually well-behaved, he was, however, sometimes violent. He had a will of his own, and asserted it; his elder brother was less passionate, less purposeful, and, in their wrangles, it was Albert who came out top. The two boys, living for the most part in one or other of the Duke's country houses, among pretty hills and woods and streams, had been at a very early age--Albert was less than four--separated from their nurses and put under a tutor, in whose charge they remained until they went to the University. They were brought up in a simple and unostentatious manner, for the Duke was poor and the duchy very small and very insignificant. Before long it became evident that Albert was a model lad. Intelligent and painstaking, he had been touched by the moral earnestness of his generation; at the age of eleven he surprised his father by telling him that he hoped to make himself "a good and useful man." And yet he was not over-serious; though, perhaps, he had little humour, he was full of fun--of practical jokes and mimicry. He was no milksop; he rode, and shot, and fenced; above all did he delight in being out of doors, and never was he happier than in his long rambles with his brother through the wild country round his beloved Rosenau--stalking the deer, admiring the scenery, and returning laden with specimens for his natural history collection. He was, besides, passionately fond of music. In one particular it was observed that he did not take after his father: owing either to his peculiar upbringing or to a more fundamental idiosyncrasy he had a marked distaste for the opposite sex. At the age of five, at a children's dance, he screamed with disgust and anger when a little girl was led up to him for a partner; and though, later on, he grew more successful in disguising such feelings, the feelings remained. The brothers were very popular in Coburg, and, when the time came for them to be confirmed, the preliminary examination which, according to ancient custom, was held in public in the "Giants' Hall" of the Castle, was attended by an enthusiastic crowd of functionaries, clergy, delegates from the villages of the duchy, and miscellaneous onlookers. There were also present, besides the Duke and the Dowager Duchess, their Serene Highnesses the Princes Alexander and Ernest of Wurtemberg, Prince Leiningen, Princess Hohenlohe-Langenburg, and Princess Hohenlohe-Schillingsfurst. Dr. Jacobi, the Court chaplain, presided at an altar, simply but appropriately decorated, which had been placed at the end of the hall; and the proceedings began by the choir singing the first verse of the hymn, "Come, Holy Ghost." After some introductory remarks, Dr. Jacobi began the examination. "The dignified and decorous bearing of the Princes," we are told in a contemporary account, "their strict attention to the questions, the frankness, decision, and correctness of their answers, produced a deep impression on the numerous assembly. Nothing was more striking in their answers than the evidence they gave of deep feeling and of inward strength of conviction. The questions put by the examiner were not such as to be met by a simple 'yes' or 'no.' They were carefully considered in order to give the audience a clear insight into the views and feelings of,the young princes. One of the most touching moments was when the examiner asked the hereditary prince whether he intended steadfastly to hold to the Evangelical Church, and the Prince answered not only 'Yes!' but added in a clear and decided tone: 'I and my brother are firmly resolved ever to remain faithful to the acknowledged truth.' The examination having lasted an hour, Dr. Jacobi made some concluding observations, followed by a short prayer; the second and third verses of the opening hymn were sung; and the ceremony was over. The Princes, stepping down from the altar, were embraced by the Duke and the Dowager Duchess; after which the loyal inhabitants of Coburg dispersed, well satisfied with their entertainment." Albert's mental development now proceeded apace. In his seventeenth year he began a careful study of German literature and German philosophy. He set about, he told his tutor, "to follow the thoughts of the great Klopstock into their depths--though in this, for the most part," he modestly added, "I do not succeed." He wrote an essay on the "Mode of Thought of the Germans, and a Sketch of the History of German Civilisation," "making use," he said, "in its general outlines, of the divisions which the treatment of the subject itself demands," and concluding with "a retrospect of the shortcomings of our time, with an appeal to every one to correct those shortcomings in his own case, and thus set a good example to others." Placed for some months under the care of King Leopold at Brussels, he came under the influence of Adolphe Quetelet, a mathematical professor, who was particularly interested in the application of the laws of probability to political and moral phenomena; this line of inquiry attracted the Prince, and the friendship thus begun continued till the end of his life. From Brussels he went to the University of Bonn, where he was speedily distinguished both by his intellectual and his social activities; his energies were absorbed in metaphysics, law, political economy, music, fencing, and amateur theatricals. Thirty years later his fellow--students recalled with delight the fits of laughter into which they had been sent by Prince Albert's mimicry. The verve with which his Serene Highness reproduced the tones and gestures of one of the professors who used to point to a picture of a row of houses in Venice with the remark, "That is the Ponte-Realte," and of another who fell down in a race and was obliged to look for his spectacles, was especially appreciated. After a year at Bonn, the time had come for a foreign tour, and Baron Stockmar arrived from England to accompany the Prince on an expedition to Italy. The Baron had been already, two years previously, consulted by King Leopold as to his views upon the proposed marriage of Albert and Victoria. His reply had been remarkable. With a characteristic foresight, a characteristic absence of optimism, a characteristic sense of the moral elements in the situation, Stockmar had pointed out what were, in his opinion, the conditions essential to make the marriage a success. Albert, he wrote, "was a fine young fellow, well grown for his age, with agreeable and valuable qualities; and it was probable that in a few years he would turn out a strong handsome man, of a kindly, simple, yet dignified demeanour. Thus, externally, he possesses all that pleases the sex, and at all times and in all countries must please." Supposing, therefore, that Victoria herself was in favour of the marriage, the further question arose as to whether Albert's mental qualities were such as to fit him for the position of husband of the Queen of England. On this point, continued the Baron, one heard much to his credit; the Prince was said to be discreet and intelligent; but all such judgments were necessarily partial, and the Baron preferred to reserve his opinion until he could come to a trustworthy conclusion from personal observation. And then he added: "But all this is not enough. The young man ought to have not merely great ability, but a right ambition, and great force of will as well. To pursue for a lifetime a political career so arduous demands more than energy and inclination--it demands also that earnest frame of mind which is ready of its own accord to sacrifice mere pleasure to real usefulness. If he is not satisfied hereafter with the consciousness of having achieved one of the most influential positions in Europe, how often will he feel tempted to repent his adventure! If he does not from the very outset accept it as a vocation of grave responsibility, on the efficient performance of which his honour and happiness depend, there is small likelihood of his succeeding." Such were the views of Stockmar on the qualifications necessary for the due fulfilment of that destiny which Albert's family had marked out for him; and he hoped, during the tour in Italy, to come to some conclusion as to how far the prince possessed them. Albert on his side was much impressed by the Baron, whom he had previously seen but rarely; he also became acquainted, for the first time in his life, with a young Englishman, Lieutenant Francis Seymour, who had been engaged to accompany him, whom he found sehr liebens-wurdig, and with whom he struck up a warm friendship. He delighted in the galleries and scenery of Florence, though with Rome he was less impressed. "But for some beautiful palaces," he said, "it might just as well be any town in Germany." In an interview with Pope Gregory XVI, he took the opportunity of displaying his erudition. When the Pope observed that the Greeks had taken their art from the Etruscans, Albert replied that, on the contrary, in his opinion, they had borrowed from the Egyptians: his Holiness politely acquiesced. Wherever he went he was eager to increase his knowledge, and, at a ball in Florence, he was observed paying no attention whatever to the ladies, and deep in conversation with the learned Signor Capponi. "Voila un prince dont nous pouvons etre fiers," said the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who was standing by: "la belle danseuse l'attend, le savant l'occupe." On his return to Germany, Stockmar's observations, imparted to King Leopold, were still critical. Albert, he said, was intelligent, kind, and amiable; he was full of the best intentions and the noblest resolutions, and his judgment was in many things beyond his years. But great exertion was repugnant to him; he seemed to be too willing to spare himself, and his good resolutions too often came to nothing. It was particularly unfortunate that he took not the slightest interest in politics, and never read a newspaper. In his manners, too, there was still room for improvement. "He will always," said the Baron, "have more success with men than with women, in whose society he shows too little empressement, and is too indifferent and retiring." One other feature of the case was noted by the keen eye of the old physician: the Prince's constitution was not a strong one. Yet, on the whole, he was favourable to the projected marriage. But by now the chief obstacle seemed to lie in another quarter, Victoria was apparently determined to commit herself to nothing. And so it happened that when Albert went to England he had made up his mind to withdraw entirely from the affair. Nothing would induce him, he confessed to a friend, to be kept vaguely waiting; he would break it all off at once. His reception at Windsor threw an entirely new light upon the situation. The wheel of fortune turned with a sudden rapidity; and he found, in the arms of Victoria, the irrevocable assurance of his overwhelming fate. II He was not in love with her. Affection, gratitude, the natural reactions to the unqualified devotion of a lively young cousin who was also a queen--such feelings possessed him, but the ardours of reciprocal passion were not his. Though he found that he liked Victoria very much, what immediately interested him in his curious position was less her than himself. Dazzled and delighted, riding, dancing, singing, laughing, amid the splendours of Windsor, he was aware of a new sensation--the stirrings of ambition in his breast. His place would indeed be a high, an enviable one! And then, on the instant, came another thought. The teaching of religion, the admonitions of Stockmar, his own inmost convictions, all spoke with the same utterance. He would not be there to please himself, but for a very different purpose--to do good. He must be "noble, manly, and princely in all things," he would have "to live and to sacrifice himself for the benefit of his new country;" to "use his powers and endeavours for a great object--that of promoting the welfare of multitudes of his fellowmen." One serious thought led on to another. The wealth and the bustle of the English Court might be delightful for the moment, but, after all, it was Coburg that had his heart. "While I shall be untiring," he wrote to his grandmother, "in my efforts and labours for the country to which I shall in future belong, and where I am called to so high a position, I shall never cease ein treuer Deutscher, Coburger, Gothaner zu sein." And now he must part from Coburg for ever! Sobered and sad, he sought relief in his brother Ernest's company; the two young men would shut themselves up together, and, sitting down at the pianoforte, would escape from the present and the future in the sweet familiar gaiety of a Haydn duet. They returned to Germany; and while Albert, for a few farewell months, enjoyed, for the last time, the happiness of home, Victoria, for the last time, resumed her old life in London and Windsor. She corresponded daily with her future husband in a mingled flow of German and English; but the accustomed routine reasserted itself; the business and the pleasures of the day would brook no interruption; Lord M. was once more constantly beside her; and the Tories were as intolerable as ever. Indeed, they were more so. For now, in these final moments, the old feud burst out with redoubled fury. The impetuous sovereign found, to her chagrin, that there might be disadvantages in being the declared enemy of one of the great parties in the State. On two occasions, the Tories directly thwarted her in a matter on which she had set her heart. She wished her husband's rank to be axed by statute, and their opposition prevented it. She wished her husband to receive a settlement from the nation of L50,000 a year; and, again owing to the Tories, he was only allowed L30,000. It was too bad. When the question was discussed in Parliament, it had been pointed out that the bulk of the population was suffering from great poverty, and that L30,000 was the whole revenue of Coburg; but her uncle Leopold had been given L50,000, and it would be monstrous to give Albert less. Sir Robert Peel--it might have been expected--had had the effrontery to speak and vote for the smaller sum. She was very angry; and determined to revenge herself by omitting to invite a single Tory to her wedding. She would make an exception in favour of old Lord Liverpool, but even the Duke of Wellington she refused to ask. When it was represented to her that it would amount to a national scandal if the Duke were absent from her wedding, she was angrier than ever. "What! That old rebel! I won't have him:" she was reported to have said. Eventually she was induced to send him an invitation; but she made no attempt to conceal the bitterness of her feelings, and the Duke himself was only too well aware of all that had passed. Nor was it only against the Tories that her irritation rose. As the time for her wedding approached, her temper grew steadily sharper and more arbitrary. Queen Adelaide annoyed her. King Leopold, too, was "ungracious" in his correspondence; "Dear Uncle," she told Albert, "is given to believe that he must rule the roost everywhere. However," she added with asperity, "that is not a necessity." Even Albert himself was not impeccable. Engulfed in Coburgs, he failed to appreciate the complexity of English affairs. There were difficulties about his household. He had a notion that he ought not to be surrounded by violent Whigs; very likely, but he would not understand that the only alternatives to violent Whigs were violent Tories; and it would be preposterous if his Lords and Gentlemen were to be found voting against the Queen's. He wanted to appoint his own Private Secretary. But how could he choose the right person? Lord M. was obviously best qualified to make the appointment; and Lord M. had decided that the Prince should take over his own Private Secretary--George Anson, a staunch Whig. Albert protested, but it was useless; Victoria simply announced that Anson was appointed, and instructed Lehzen to send the Prince an explanation of the details of the case. Then, again, he had written anxiously upon the necessity of maintaining unspotted the moral purity of the Court. Lord M's pupil considered that dear Albert was strait-laced, and, in a brisk Anglo-German missive, set forth her own views. "I like Lady A. very much," she told him, "only she is a little strict awl particular, and too severe towards others, which is not right; for I think one ought always to be indulgent towards other people, as I always think, if we had not been well taken care of, we might also have gone astray. That is always my feeling. Yet it is always right to show that one does not like to see what is obviously wrong; but it is very dangerous to be too severe, and I am certain that as a rule such people always greatly regret that in their youth they have not been so careful as they ought to have been. I have explained this so badly and written it so badly, that I fear you will hardly be able to make it out." On one other matter she was insistent. Since the affair of Lady Flora Hastings, a sad fate had overtaken Sir James Clark. His flourishing practice had quite collapsed; nobody would go to him any more. But the Queen remained faithful. She would show the world how little she cared for their disapproval, and she desired Albert to make "poor Clark" his physician in ordinary. He did as he was told; but, as it turned out, the appointment was not a happy one. The wedding-day was fixed, and it was time for Albert to tear himself away from his family and the scenes of his childhood. With an aching heart, he had revisited his beloved haunts--the woods and the valleys where he had spent so many happy hours shooting rabbits and collecting botanical specimens; in deep depression, he had sat through the farewell banquets in the Palace and listened to the Freischutz performed by the State band. It was time to go. The streets were packed as he drove through them; for a short space his eyes were gladdened by a sea of friendly German faces, and his ears by a gathering volume of good guttural sounds. He stopped to bid a last adieu to his grandmother. It was a heartrending moment. "Albert! Albert!" she shrieked, and fell fainting into the arms of her attendants as his carriage drove away. He was whirled rapidly to his destiny. At Calais a steamboat awaited him, and, together with his father and his brother, he stepped, dejected, on board. A little later, he was more dejected still. The crossing was a very rough one; the Duke went hurriedly below; while the two Princes, we are told, lay on either side of the cabin staircase "in an almost helpless state." At Dover a large crowd was collected on the pier, and "it was by no common effort that Prince Albert, who had continued to suffer up to the last moment, got up to bow to the people." His sense of duty triumphed. It was a curious omen: his whole life in England was foreshadowed as he landed on English ground. Meanwhile Victoria, in growing agitation, was a prey to temper and to nerves. She grew feverish, and at last Sir James Clark pronounced that she was going to have the measles. But, once again, Sir James's diagnosis was incorrect. It was not the measles that were attacking her, but a very different malady; she was suddenly prostrated by alarm, regret, and doubt. For two years she had been her own mistress--the two happiest years, by far, of her life. And now it was all to end! She was to come under an alien domination--she would have to promise that she would honour and obey... someone, who might, after all, thwart her, oppose her--and how dreadful that would be! Why had she embarked on this hazardous experiment? Why had she not been contented with Lord M.? No doubt, she loved Albert; but she loved power too. At any rate, one thing was certain: she might be Albert's wife, but she would always be Queen of England. He reappeared, in an exquisite uniform, and her hesitations melted in his presence like mist before the sun. On February 10, 1840, the marriage took place. The wedded pair drove down to Windsor; but they were not, of course, entirely alone. They were accompanied by their suites, and, in particular, by two persons--the Baron Stockmar and the Baroness Lehzen. III Albert had foreseen that his married life would not be all plain sailing; but he had by no means realised the gravity and the complication of the difficulties which he would have to face. Politically, he was a cipher. Lord Melbourne was not only Prime Minister, he was in effect the Private Secretary of the Queen, and thus controlled the whole of the political existence of the sovereign. A queen's husband was an entity unknown to the British Constitution. In State affairs there seemed to be no place for him; nor was Victoria herself at all unwilling that this should be so. "The English," she had told the Prince when, during their engagement, a proposal had been made to give him a peerage, "are very jealous of any foreigner interfering in the government of this country, and have already in some of the papers expressed a hope that you would not interfere. Now, though I know you never would, still, if you were a Peer, they would all say, the Prince meant to play a political part. I know you never would!" In reality, she was not quite so certain; but she wished Albert to understand her views. He would, she hoped, make a perfect husband; but, as for governing the country, he would see that she and Lord M. between them could manage that very well, without his help. But it was not only in politics that the Prince discovered that the part cut out for him was a negligible one. Even as a husband, he found, his functions were to be of an extremely limited kind. Over the whole of Victoria's private life the Baroness reigned supreme; and she had not the slightest intention of allowing that supremacy to be diminished by one iota. Since the accession, her power had greatly increased. Besides the undefined and enormous influence which she exercised through her management of the Queen's private correspondence, she was now the superintendent of the royal establishment and controlled the important office of Privy Purse. Albert very soon perceived that he was not master in his own house. Every detail of his own and his wife's existence was supervised by a third person: nothing could be done until the consent of Lehzen had first been obtained. And Victoria, who adored Lehzen with unabated intensity, saw nothing in all this that was wrong. Nor was the Prince happier in his social surroundings. A shy young foreigner, awkward in ladies' company, unexpansive and self-opinionated, it was improbable that, in any circumstances, he would have been a society success. His appearance, too, was against him. Though in the eyes of Victoria he was the mirror of manly beauty, her subjects, whose eyes were of a less Teutonic cast, did not agree with her. To them--and particularly to the high-born ladies and gentlemen who naturally saw him most--what was immediately and distressingly striking in Albert's face and figure and whole demeanour was his un-English look. His features were regular, no doubt, but there was something smooth and smug about them; he was tall, but he was clumsily put together, and he walked with a slight slouch. Really, they thought, this youth was more like some kind of foreign tenor than anything else. These were serious disadvantages; but the line of conduct which the Prince adopted from the first moment of his arrival was far from calculated to dispel them. Owing partly to a natural awkwardness, partly to a fear of undue familiarity, and partly to a desire to be absolutely correct, his manners were infused with an extraordinary stiffness and formality. Whenever he appeared in company, he seemed to be surrounded by a thick hedge of prickly etiquette. He never went out into ordinary society; he never walked in the streets of London; he was invariably accompanied by an equerry when he rode or drove. He wanted to be irreproachable and, if that involved friendlessness, it could not be helped. Besides, he had no very high opinion of the English. So far as he could see, they cared for nothing but fox-hunting and Sunday observances; they oscillated between an undue frivolity and an undue gloom; if you spoke to them of friendly joyousness they stared; and they did not understand either the Laws of Thought or the wit of a German University. Since it was clear that with such people he could have very little in common, there was no reason whatever for relaxing in their favour the rules of etiquette. In strict privacy, he could be natural and charming; Seymour and Anson were devoted to him, and he returned their affection; but they were subordinates--the receivers of his confidences and the agents of his will. From the support and the solace of true companionship he was utterly cut off. A friend, indeed, he had--or rather, a mentor. The Baron, established once more in the royal residence, was determined to work with as wholehearted a detachment for the Prince's benefit as, more than twenty years before, he had worked for his uncle's. The situations then and now, similar in many respects, were yet full of differences. Perhaps in either case the difficulties to be encountered were equally great; but the present problem was the more complex and the more interesting. The young doctor who, unknown and insignificant, had nothing at the back of him but his own wits and the friendship of an unimportant Prince, had been replaced by the accomplished confidant of kings and ministers, ripe in years, in reputation, and in the wisdom of a vast experience. It was possible for him to treat Albert with something of the affectionate authority of a father; but, on the other hand, Albert was no Leopold. As the Baron was very well aware, he had none of his uncle's rigidity of ambition, none of his overweening impulse to be personally great. He was virtuous and well-intentioned; he was clever and well-informed; but he took no interest in politics, and there were no signs that he possessed any commanding force of character. Left to himself, he would almost certainly have subsided into a high-minded nonentity, an aimless dilettante busy over culture, a palace appendage without influence or power. But he was not left to himself: Stockmar saw to that. For ever at his pupil's elbow, the hidden Baron pushed him forward, with tireless pressure, along the path which had been trod by Leopold so many years ago. But, this time, the goal at the end of it was something more than the mediocre royalty that Leopold had reached. The prize which Stockmar, with all the energy of disinterested devotion, had determined should be Albert's was a tremendous prize indeed. The beginning of the undertaking proved to be the most arduous part of it. Albert was easily dispirited: what was the use of struggling to perform in a role which bored him and which, it was quite clear, nobody but the dear good Baron had any desire that he should take up? It was simpler, and it saved a great deal of trouble, to let things slide. But Stockmar would not have it. Incessantly, he harped upon two strings--Albert's sense of duty and his personal pride. Had the Prince forgotten the noble aims to which his life was to be devoted? And was he going to allow himself, his wife, his family, his whole existence, to be governed by Baroness Lehzen? The latter consideration was a potent one. Albert had never been accustomed to giving way; and now, more than ever before, it would be humiliating to do so. Not only was he constantly exasperated by the position of the Baroness in the royal household; there was another and a still more serious cause of complaint. He was, he knew very well, his wife's intellectual superior, and yet he found, to his intense annoyance, that there were parts of her mind over which he exercised no influence. When, urged on by the Baron, he attempted to discuss politics with Victoria, she eluded the subject, drifted into generalities, and then began to talk of something else. She was treating him as she had once treated their uncle Leopold. When at last he protested, she replied that her conduct was merely the result of indolence; that when she was with him she could not bear to bother her head with anything so dull as politics. The excuse was worse than the fault: was he the wife and she the husband? It almost seemed so. But the Baron declared that the root of the mischief was Lehzen: that it was she who encouraged the Queen to have secrets; who did worse--undermined the natural ingenuousness of Victoria, and induced her to give, unconsciously no doubt, false reasons to explain away her conduct. Minor disagreements made matters worse. The royal couple differed in their tastes. Albert, brought up in a regime of Spartan simplicity and early hours, found the great Court functions intolerably wearisome, and was invariably observed to be nodding on the sofa at half-past ten; while the Queen's favourite form of enjoyment was to dance through the night, and then, going out into the portico of the Palace, watch the sun rise behind St. Paul's and the towers of Westminster. She loved London and he detested it. It was only in Windsor that he felt he could really breathe; but Windsor too had its terrors: though during the day there he could paint and walk and play on the piano, after dinner black tedium descended like a pall. He would have liked to summon distinguished scientific and literary men to his presence, and after ascertaining their views upon various points of art and learning, to set forth his own; but unfortunately Victoria "had no fancy to encourage such people;" knowing that she was unequal to taking a part in their conversation, she insisted that the evening routine should remain unaltered; the regulation interchange of platitudes with official persons was followed as usual by the round table and the books of engravings, while the Prince, with one of his attendants, played game after game of double chess. It was only natural that in so peculiar a situation, in which the elements of power, passion, and pride were so strangely apportioned, there should have been occasionally something more than mere irritation--a struggle of angry wills. Victoria, no more than Albert, was in the habit of playing second fiddle. Her arbitrary temper flashed out. Her vitality, her obstinacy, her overweening sense of her own position, might well have beaten down before them his superiorities and his rights. But she fought at a disadvantage; she was, in very truth, no longer her own mistress; a profound preoccupation dominated her, seizing upon her inmost purposes for its own extraordinary ends. She was madly in love. The details of those curious battles are unknown to us; but Prince Ernest, who remained in England with his brother for some months, noted them with a friendly and startled eye. One story, indeed, survives, ill-authenticated and perhaps mythical, yet summing up, as such stories often do, the central facts of the case. When, in wrath, the Prince one day had locked himself into his room, Victoria, no less furious, knocked on the door to be admitted. "Who is there?" he asked. "The Queen of England" was the answer. He did not move, and again there was a hail of knocks. The question and the answer were repeated many times; but at last there was a pause, and then a gentler knocking. "Who is there?" came once more the relentless question. But this time the reply was different. "Your wife, Albert." And the door was immediately opened. Very gradually the Prince's position changed. He began to find the study of politics less uninteresting than he had supposed; he read Blackstone, and took lessons in English Law; he was occasionally present when the Queen interviewed her Ministers; and at Lord Melbourne's suggestion he was shown all the despatches relating to Foreign Affairs. Sometimes he would commit his views to paper, and read them aloud to the Prime Minister, who, infinitely kind and courteous, listened with attention, but seldom made any reply. An important step was taken when, before the birth of the Princess Royal, the Prince, without any opposition in Parliament, was appointed Regent in case of the death of the Queen. Stockmar, owing to whose intervention with the Tories this happy result had been brought about, now felt himself at liberty to take a holiday with his family in Coburg; but his solicitude, poured out in innumerable letters, still watched over his pupil from afar. "Dear Prince," he wrote, "I am satisfied with the news you have sent me. Mistakes, misunderstandings, obstructions, which come in vexatious opposition to one's views, are always to be taken for just what they are--namely, natural phenomena of life, which represent one of its sides, and that the shady one. In overcoming them with dignity, your mind has to exercise, to train, to enlighten itself; and your character to gain force, endurance, and the necessary hardness." The Prince had done well so far; but he must continue in the right path; above all, he was "never to relax." "Never to relax in putting your magnanimity to the proof; never to relax in logical separation of what is great and essential from what is trivial and of no moment; never to relax in keeping yourself up to a high standard--in the determination, daily renewed, to be consistent, patient, courageous." It was a hard programme perhaps, for a young man of twenty-one; and yet there was something in it which touched the very depths of Albert's soul. He sighed, but he listened--listened as to the voice of a spiritual director inspired with divine truth. "The stars which are needful to you now," the voice continued, "and perhaps for some time to come, are Love, Honesty, Truth. All those whose minds are warped, or who are destitute of true feeling, will BE APT TO MISTAKE YOU, and to persuade themselves and the world that you are not the man you are--or, at least, may become... Do you, therefore, be on the alert be times, with your eyes open in every direction... I wish for my Prince a great, noble, warm, and true heart, such as shall serve as the richest and surest basis for the noblest views of human nature, and the firmest resolve to give them development." Before long, the decisive moment came. There was a General Election, and it became certain that the Tories, at last, must come into power. The Queen disliked them as much as ever; but, with a large majority in the House of Commons, they would now be in a position to insist upon their wishes being attended to. Lord Melbourne himself was the first to realise the importance of carrying out the inevitable transition with as little friction as possible; and with his consent, the Prince, following up the rapprochement which had begun over the Regency Act, opened, through Anson, a negotiation with Sir Robert Peel. In a series of secret interviews, a complete understanding was reached upon the difficult and complex question of the Bedchamber. It was agreed that the constitutional point should not be raised, but that on the formation of the Tory Government, the principal Whig ladies should retire, and their places be filled by others appointed by Sir Robert. Thus, in effect, though not in form, the Crown abandoned the claims of 1839, and they have never been subsequently put forward. The transaction was a turning point in the Prince's career. He had conducted an important negotiation with skill and tact; he had been brought into close and friendly relations with the new Prime Minister; it was obvious that a great political future lay before him. Victoria was much impressed and deeply grateful. "My dearest Angel," she told King Leopold, "is indeed a great comfort to me. He takes the greatest interest in what goes on, feeling with and for me, and yet abstaining as he ought from biasing me either way, though we talk much on the subject, and his judgment is, as you say, good and mild." She was in need of all the comfort and assistance he could give her. Lord M. was going, and she could hardly bring herself to speak to Peel. Yes; she would discuss everything with Albert now! Stockmar, who had returned to England, watched the departure of Lord Melbourne with satisfaction. If all went well, the Prince should now wield a supreme political influence over Victoria. But would all go well?? An unexpected development put the Baron into a serious fright. When the dreadful moment finally came, and the Queen, in anguish, bade adieu to her beloved Minister, it was settled between them that, though it would be inadvisable to meet very often, they could continue to correspond. Never were the inconsistencies of Lord Melbourne's character shown more clearly than in what followed. So long as he was in office, his attitude towards Peel had been irreproachable; he had done all he could to facilitate the change of government, he had even, through more than one channel, transmitted privately to his successful rival advice as to the best means of winning the Queen's good graces. Yet, no sooner was he in opposition than his heart failed him. He could not bear the thought of surrendering altogether the privilege and the pleasure of giving counsel to Victoria--of being cut off completely from the power and the intimacy which had been his for so long and in such abundant measure. Though he had declared that he would be perfectly discreet in his letters, he could not resist taking advantage of the opening they afforded. He discussed in detail various public questions, and, in particular, gave the Queen a great deal of advice in the matter of appointments. This advice was followed. Lord Melbourne recommended that Lord Heytesbury, who, he said, was an able man, should be made Ambassador at Vienna; and a week later the Queen wrote to the Foreign Secretary urging that Lord Heytesbury, whom she believed to be a very able man, should be employed "on some important mission." Stockmar was very much alarmed. He wrote a memorandum, pointing out the unconstitutional nature of Lord Melbourne's proceedings and the unpleasant position in which the Queen might find herself if they were discovered by Peel; and he instructed Anson to take this memorandum to the ex-Minister. Lord Melbourne, lounging on a sofa, read it through with compressed lips. "This is quite an apple-pie opinion," he said. When Anson ventured to expostulate further, suggesting that it was unseemly in the leader of the Opposition to maintain an intimate relationship with the Sovereign, the old man lost his temper. "God eternally damn it!" he exclaimed, leaping up from his sofa, and dashing about the room. "Flesh and blood cannot stand this!" He continued to write to the Queen, as before; and two more violent bombardments from the Baron were needed before he was brought to reason. Then, gradually, his letters grew less and less frequent, with fewer and fewer references to public concerns; at last, they were entirely innocuous. The Baron smiled; Lord M. had accepted the inevitable. The Whig Ministry resigned in September, 1841; but more than a year was to elapse before another and an equally momentous change was effected--the removal of Lehzen. For, in the end, the mysterious governess was conquered. The steps are unknown by which Victoria was at last led to accept her withdrawal with composure--perhaps with relief; but it is clear that Albert's domestic position must have been greatly strengthened by the appearance of children. The birth of the Princess Royal had been followed in November, 1841, by that of the Prince of Wales; and before very long another baby was expected. The Baroness, with all her affection, could have but a remote share in such family delights. She lost ground perceptibly. It was noticed as a phenomenon that, once or twice, when the Court travelled, she was left behind at Windsor. The Prince was very cautious; at the change of Ministry, Lord Melbourne had advised him to choose that moment for decisive action; but he judged it wiser to wait. Time and the pressure of inevitable circumstances were for him; every day his predominance grew more assured--and every night. At length he perceived that he need hesitate no longer--that every wish, every velleity of his had only to be expressed to be at once Victoria's. He spoke, and Lehzen vanished for ever. No more would she reign in that royal heart and those royal halls. No more, watching from a window at Windsor, would she follow her pupil and her sovereign walking on the terrace among the obsequious multitude, with the eye of triumphant love. Returning to her native Hanover she established herself at Buckeburg in a small but comfortable house, the walls of which were entirely covered by portraits of Her Majesty. The Baron, in spite of his dyspepsia, smiled again: Albert was supreme. IV The early discords had passed away completely--resolved into the absolute harmony of married life. Victoria, overcome by a new, an unimagined revelation, had surrendered her whole soul to her husband. The beauty and the charm which so suddenly had made her his at first were, she now saw, no more than but the outward manifestation of the true Albert. There was an inward beauty, an inward glory which, blind that she was, she had then but dimly apprehended, but of which now she was aware in every fibre of her being--he was good--he was great! How could she ever have dreamt of setting up her will against his wisdom, her ignorance against his knowledge, her fancies against his perfect taste? Had she really once loved London and late hours and dissipation? She who now was only happy in the country, she who jumped out of bed every morning--oh, so early!--with Albert, to take a walk, before breakfast, with Albert alone! How wonderful it was to be taught by him! To be told by him which trees were which; and to learn all about the bees! And then to sit doing cross-stitch while he read aloud to her Hallam's Constitutional History of England! Or to listen to him playing on his new organ 'The organ is the first of instruments,' he said; or to sing to him a song by Mendelssohn, with a great deal of care over the time and the breathing, and only a very occasional false note! And, after dinner, to--oh, how good of him! He had given up his double chess! And so there could be round games at the round table, or everyone could spend the evening in the most amusing way imaginable--spinning counters and rings.' When the babies came it was still more wonderful. Pussy was such a clever little girl ("I am not Pussy! I am the Princess Royal!" she had angrily exclaimed on one occasion); and Bertie--well, she could only pray MOST fervently that the little Prince of Wales would grow up to "resemble his angelic dearest Father in EVERY, EVERY respect, both in body and mind." Her dear Mamma, too, had been drawn once more into the family circle, for Albert had brought about a reconciliation, and the departure of Lehzen had helped to obliterate the past. In Victoria's eyes, life had become an idyll, and, if the essential elements of an idyll are happiness, love and simplicity, an idyll it was; though, indeed, it was of a kind that might have disconcerted Theocritus. "Albert brought in dearest little Pussy," wrote Her Majesty in her journal, "in such a smart white merino dress trimmed with blue, which Mamma had given her, and a pretty cap, and placed her on my bed, seating himself next to her, and she was very dear and good. And, as my precious, invaluable Albert sat there, and our little Love between us, I felt quite moved with happiness and gratitude to God." The past--the past of only three years since--when she looked back upon it, seemed a thing so remote and alien that she could explain it to herself in no other way than as some kind of delusion--an unfortunate mistake. Turning over an old volume of her diary, she came upon this sentence--"As for 'the confidence of the Crown,' God knows! No MINISTER, NO FRIEND, EVER possessed it so entirely as this truly excellent Lord Melbourne possesses mine!" A pang shot through her--she seized a pen, and wrote upon the margin--"Reading this again, I cannot forbear remarking what an artificial sort of happiness MINE was THEN, and what a blessing it is I have now in my beloved Husband REAL and solid happiness, which no Politics, no worldly reverses CAN change; it could not have lasted long as it was then, for after all, kind and excellent as Lord M. is, and kind as he was to me, it was but in Society that I had amusement, and I was only living on that superficial resource, which I THEN FANCIED was happiness! Thank God! for ME and others, this is changed, and I KNOW WHAT REAL HAPPINESS IS--V. R." How did she know? What is the distinction between happiness that is real and happiness that is felt? So a philosopher--Lord M. himself perhaps--might have inquired. But she was no philosopher, and Lord M. was a phantom, and Albert was beside her, and that was enough. Happy, certainly, she was; and she wanted everyone to know it. Her letters to King Leopold are sprinkled thick with raptures. "Oh! my dearest uncle, I am sure if you knew HOW happy, how blessed I feel, and how PROUD I feel in possessing SUCH a perfect being as my husband..." such ecstasies seemed to gush from her pen unceasingly and almost of their own accord. When, one day, without thinking, Lady Lyttelton described someone to her as being "as happy as a queen," and then grew a little confused, "Don't correct yourself, Lady Lyttelton," said Her Majesty. "A queen IS a very happy woman." But this new happiness was no lotus dream. On the contrary, it was bracing, rather than relaxing. Never before had she felt so acutely the necessity for doing her duty. She worked more methodically than ever at the business of State; she watched over her children with untiring vigilance. She carried on a large correspondence; she was occupied with her farm--her dairy--a whole multitude of household avocations--from morning till night. Her active, eager little body hurrying with quick steps after the long strides of Albert down the corridors and avenues of Windsor, seemed the very expression of her spirit. Amid all the softness, the deliciousness of unmixed joy, all the liquescence, the overflowings of inexhaustible sentiment, her native rigidity remained. "A vein of iron," said Lady Lyttelton, who, as royal governess, had good means of observation, "runs through her most extraordinary character." Sometimes the delightful routine of domestic existence had to be interrupted. It was necessary to exchange Windsor for Buckingham Palace, to open Parliament, or to interview official personages, or, occasionally, to entertain foreign visitors at the Castle. Then the quiet Court put on a sudden magnificence, and sovereigns from over the seas--Louis Philippe, or the King of Prussia, or the King of Saxony--found at Windsor an entertainment that was indeed a royal one. Few spectacles in Europe, it was agreed, produced an effect so imposing as the great Waterloo banqueting hall, crowded with guests in sparkling diamonds and blazing uniforms, the long walls hung with the stately portraits of heroes, and the tables loaded with the gorgeous gold plate of the kings of England. But, in that wealth of splendour, the most imposing spectacle of all was the Queen. The little hausfrau, who had spent the day before walking out with her children, inspecting her livestock, practicing shakes at the piano, and filling up her journal with adoring descriptions of her husband, suddenly shone forth, without art, without effort, by a spontaneous and natural transition, the very culmination of Majesty. The Tsar of Russia himself was deeply impressed. Victoria on her side viewed with secret awe the tremendous Nicholas. "A great event and a great compliment HIS visit certainly is," she told her uncle, "and the people HERE are extremely flattered at it. He is certainly a VERY STRIKING man; still very handsome. His profile is BEAUTIFUL and his manners MOST dignified and graceful; extremely civil--quite alarmingly so, as he is so full of attentions and POLITENESS. But the expression of the EYES is FORMIDABLE and unlike anything I ever saw before." She and Albert and "the good King of Saxony," who happened to be there at the same time, and whom, she said, "we like much--he is so unassuming-" drew together like tame villatic fowl in the presence of that awful eagle. When he was gone, they compared notes about his face, his unhappiness, and his despotic power over millions. Well! She for her part could not help pitying him, and she thanked God she was Queen of England. When the time came for returning some of these visits, the royal pair set forth in their yacht, much to Victoria's satisfaction. "I do love a ship!" she exclaimed, ran up and down ladders with the greatest agility, and cracked jokes with the sailors. The Prince was more aloof. They visited Louis Philippe at the Chateau d'Eu; they visited King Leopold in Brussels. It happened that a still more remarkable Englishwoman was in the Belgian capital, but she was not remarked; and Queen Victoria passed unknowing before the steady gaze of one of the mistresses in M. Heger's pensionnat. "A little stout, vivacious lady, very plainly dressed--not much dignity or pretension about her," was Charlotte Bronte's comment as the royal carriage and six flashed by her, making her wait on the pavement for a moment, and interrupting the train of her reflections. Victoria was in high spirits, and even succeeded in instilling a little cheerfulness into her uncle's sombre Court. King Leopold, indeed, was perfectly contented. His dearest hopes had been fulfilled; all his ambitions were satisfied; and for the rest of his life he had only to enjoy, in undisturbed decorum, his throne, his respectability, the table of precedence, and the punctual discharge of his irksome duties. But unfortunately the felicity of those who surrounded him was less complete. His Court, it was murmured, was as gloomy as a conventicle, and the most dismal of all the sufferers was his wife. "Pas de plaisanteries, madame!" he had exclaimed to the unfortunate successor of the Princess Charlotte, when, in the early days of their marriage, she had attempted a feeble joke. Did she not understand that the consort of a constitutional sovereign must not be frivolous? She understood, at last, only too well; and when the startled walls of the state apartments re-echoed to the chattering and the laughter of Victoria, the poor lady found that she had almost forgotten how to smile. Another year, Germany was visited, and Albert displayed the beauties of his home. When Victoria crossed the frontier, she was much excited--and she was astonished as well. "To hear the people speak German," she noted in her diary, "and to see the German soldiers, etc., seemed to me so singular." Having recovered from this slight shock, she found the country charming. She was feted everywhere, crowds of the surrounding royalties swooped down to welcome her, and the prettiest groups of peasant children, dressed in their best clothes, presented her with bunches of flowers. The principality of Coburg, with its romantic scenery and its well-behaved inhabitants, particularly delighted her; and when she woke up one morning to find herself in "dear Rosenau, my Albert's birthplace," it was "like a beautiful dream." On her return home, she expatiated, in a letter to King Leopold, upon the pleasures of the trip, dwelling especially upon the intensity of her affection for Albert's native land. "I have a feeling," she said, "for our dear little Germany, which I cannot describe. I felt it at Rosenau so much. It is a something which touches me, and which goes to my heart, and makes me inclined to cry. I never felt at any other place that sort of pensive pleasure and peace which I felt there. I fear I almost like it too much." V The husband was not so happy as the wife. In spite of the great improvement in his situation, in spite of a growing family and the adoration of Victoria, Albert was still a stranger in a strange land, and the serenity of spiritual satisfaction was denied him. It was something, no doubt, to have dominated his immediate environment; but it was not enough; and, besides, in the very completeness of his success, there was a bitterness. Victoria idolised him; but it was understanding that he craved for, not idolatry; and how much did Victoria, filled to the brim though she was with him, understand him? How much does the bucket understand the well? He was lonely. He went to his organ and improvised with learned modulations until the sounds, swelling and subsiding through elaborate cadences, brought some solace to his heart. Then, with the elasticity of youth, he hurried off to play with the babies, or to design a new pigsty, or to read aloud the "Church History of Scotland" to Victoria, or to pirouette before her on one toe, like a ballet-dancer, with a fixed smile, to show her how she ought to behave when she appeared in public places. Thus did he amuse himself; but there was one distraction in which he did not indulge. He never flirted--no, not with the prettiest ladies of the Court. When, during their engagement, the Queen had remarked with pride to Lord Melbourne that the Prince paid no attention to any other woman, the cynic had answered, "No, that sort of thing is apt to come later;" upon which she had scolded him severely, and then hurried off to Stockmar to repeat what Lord M. had said. But the Baron had reassured her; though in other cases, he had replied, that might happen, he did not think it would in Albert's. And the Baron was right. Throughout their married life no rival female charms ever had cause to give Victoria one moment's pang of jealousy. What more and more absorbed him--bringing with it a curious comfort of its own--was his work. With the advent of Peel, he began to intervene actively in the affairs of the State. In more ways than one--in the cast of their intelligence, in their moral earnestness, even in the uneasy formalism of their manners--the two men resembled each other; there was a sympathy between them; and thus Peel was ready enough to listen to the advice of Stockmar, and to urge the Prince forward into public life. A royal commission was about to be formed to enquire whether advantage might not be taken of the rebuilding of the Houses of Parliament to encourage the Fine Arts in the United Kingdom; and Peel, with great perspicacity, asked the Prince to preside over it. The work was of a kind which precisely suited Albert: his love of art, his love of method, his love of coming into contact--close yet dignified--with distinguished men--it satisfied them all; and he threw himself into it con amore. Some of the members of the commission were somewhat alarmed when, in his opening speech, he pointed out the necessity of dividing the subjects to be considered into "categories-" the word, they thought, smacked dangerously of German metaphysics; but their confidence returned when they observed His Royal Highness's extraordinary technical acquaintance with the processes of fresco painting. When the question arose as to whether the decorations upon the walls of the new buildings should, or should not, have a moral purpose, the Prince spoke strongly for the affirmative. Although many, he observed, would give but a passing glance to the works, the painter was not therefore to forget that others might view them with more thoughtful eyes. This argument convinced the commission, and it was decided that the subjects to be depicted should be of an improving nature. The frescoes were carried out in accordance with the commission's instructions, but unfortunately before very long they had become, even to the most thoughtful eyes, totally invisible. It seems that His Royal Highness's technical acquaintance with the processes of fresco painting was incomplete! The next task upon which the Prince embarked was a more arduous one: he determined to reform the organisation of the royal household. This reform had been long overdue. For years past the confusion, discomfort, and extravagance in the royal residences, and in Buckingham Palace particularly, had been scandalous; no reform had been practicable under the rule of the Baroness; but her functions had now devolved upon the Prince, and in 1844, he boldly attacked the problem. Three years earlier, Stockmar, after careful enquiry, had revealed in an elaborate memorandum an extraordinary state of affairs. The control of the household, it appeared, was divided in the strangest manner between a number of authorities, each independent of the other, each possessed of vague and fluctuating powers, without responsibility, and without co-ordination. Of these authorities, the most prominent were the Lord Steward and the Lord Chamberlain--noblemen of high rank and political importance, who changed office with every administration, who did not reside with the Court, and had no effective representatives attached to it. The distribution of their respective functions was uncertain and peculiar. In Buckingham Palace, it was believed that the Lord Chamberlain had charge of the whole of the rooms, with the exception of the kitchen, sculleries, and pantries, which were claimed by the Lord Steward. At the same time, the outside of the Palace was under the control of neither of these functionaries--but of the Office of Woods and Forests; and thus, while the insides of the windows were cleaned by the Department of the Lord Chamberlain--or possibly, in certain cases, of the Lord Steward--the Office of Woods and Forests cleaned their outsides. Of the servants, the housekeepers, the pages, and the housemaids were under the authority of the Lord Chamberlain; the clerk of the kitchen, the cooks, and the porters were under that of the Lord Steward; but the footmen, the livery-porters, and the under-butlers took their orders from yet another official--the Master of the Horse. Naturally, in these circumstances the service was extremely defective and the lack of discipline among the servants disgraceful. They absented themselves for as long as they pleased and whenever the fancy took them; "and if," as the Baron put it, "smoking, drinking, and other irregularities occur in the dormitories, where footmen, etc., sleep ten and twelve in each room, no one can help it." As for Her Majesty's guests, there was nobody to show them to their rooms, and they were often left, having utterly lost their way in the complicated passages, to wander helpless by the hour. The strange divisions of authority extended not only to persons but to things. The Queen observed that there was never a fire in the dining-room. She enquired why. The answer was "the Lord Steward lays the fire, and the Lord Chamberlain lights it;" the underlings of those two great noblemen having failed to come to an accommodation, there was no help for it--the Queen must eat in the cold. A surprising incident opened everyone's eyes to the confusion and negligence that reigned in the Palace. A fortnight after the birth of the Princess Royal the nurse heard a suspicious noise in the room next to the Queen's bedroom. She called to one of the pages, who, looking under a large sofa, perceived there a crouching figure "with a most repulsive appearance." It was "the boy Jones." This enigmatical personage, whose escapades dominated the newspapers for several ensuing months, and whose motives and character remained to the end ambiguous, was an undersized lad of 17, the son of a tailor, who had apparently gained admittance to the Palace by climbing over the garden wall and walking in through an open window. Two years before he had paid a similar visit in the guise of a chimney-sweep. He now declared that he had spent three days in the Palace, hiding under various beds, that he had "helped himself to soup and other eatables," and that he had "sat upon the throne, seen the Queen, and heard the Princess Royal squall." Every detail of the strange affair was eagerly canvassed. The Times reported that the boy Jones had "from his infancy been fond of reading," but that "his countenance is exceedingly sullen." It added: "The sofa under which the boy Jones was discovered, we understand, is one of the most costly and magnificent material and workmanship, and ordered expressly for the accommodation of the royal and illustrious visitors who call to pay their respects to Her Majesty." The culprit was sent for three months to the "House of Correction." When he emerged, he immediately returned to Buckingham Palace. He was discovered, and sent back to the "House of Correction" for another three months, after which he was offered L4 a week by a music hall to appear upon the stage. He refused this offer, and shortly afterwards was found by the police loitering round Buckingham Palace. The authorities acted vigorously, and, without any trial or process of law, shipped the boy Jones off to sea. A year later his ship put into Portsmouth to refit, and he at once disembarked and walked to London. He was re-arrested before he reached the Palace, and sent back to his ship, the Warspite. On this occasion it was noticed that he had "much improved in personal appearance and grown quite corpulent;" and so the boy Jones passed out of history, though we catch one last glimpse of him in 1844 falling overboard in the night between Tunis and Algiers. He was fished up again; but it was conjectured--as one of the Warspite's officers explained in a letter to The Times--that his fall had not been accidental, but that he had deliberately jumped into the Mediterranean in order to "see the life-buoy light burning." Of a boy with such a record, what else could be supposed? But discomfort and alarm were not the only results of the mismanagement of the household; the waste, extravagance, and peculation that also flowed from it were immeasurable. There were preposterous perquisites and malpractices of every kind. It was, for instance, an ancient and immutable rule that a candle that had once been lighted should never be lighted again; what happened to the old candles, nobody knew. Again, the Prince, examining the accounts, was puzzled by a weekly expenditure of thirty-five shillings on "Red Room Wine." He enquired into the matter, and after great difficulty discovered that in the time of George III a room in Windsor Castle with red hangings had once been used as a guard-room, and that five shillings a day had been allowed to provide wine for the officers. The guard had long since been moved elsewhere, but the payment for wine in the Red Room continued, the money being received by a half-pay officer who held the sinecure position of under-butler. After much laborious investigation, and a stiff struggle with the multitude of vested interests which had been brought into being by long years of neglect, the Prince succeeded in effecting a complete reform. The various conflicting authorities were induced to resign their powers into the hands of a single official, the Master of the Household, who became responsible for the entire management of the royal palaces. Great economies were made, and the whole crowd of venerable abuses was swept away. Among others, the unlucky half-pay officer of the Red Room was, much to his surprise, given the choice of relinquishing his weekly emolument or of performing the duties of an under-butler. Even the irregularities among the footmen, etc., were greatly diminished. There were outcries and complaints; the Prince was accused of meddling, of injustice, and of saving candle-ends; but he held on his course, and before long the admirable administration of the royal household was recognised as a convincing proof of his perseverance and capacity. At the same time his activity was increasing enormously in a more important sphere. He had become the Queen's Private Secretary, her confidential adviser, her second self. He was now always present at her interviews with Ministers. He took, like the Queen, a special interest in foreign policy; but there was no public question in which his influence was not felt. A double process was at work; while Victoria fell more and more absolutely under his intellectual predominance, he, simultaneously, grew more and more completely absorbed by the machinery of high politics--the incessant and multifarious business of a great State. Nobody any more could call him a dilettante; he was a worker, a public personage, a man of affairs. Stockmar noted the change with exultation. "The Prince," he wrote, "has improved very much lately. He has evidently a head for politics. He has become, too, far more independent. His mental activity is constantly on the increase, and he gives the greater part of his time to business, without complaining." "The relations between husband and wife," added the Baron, "are all one could desire." Long before Peel's ministry came to an end, there had been a complete change in Victoria's attitude towards him. His appreciation of the Prince had softened her heart; the sincerity and warmth of his nature, which, in private intercourse with those whom he wished to please, had the power of gradually dissipating the awkwardness of his manners, did the rest. She came in time to regard him with intense feelings of respect and attachment. She spoke of "our worthy Peel," for whom, she said, she had "an EXTREME admiration" and who had shown himself "a man of unbounded LOYALTY, COURAGE patriotism, and HIGH-MINDEDNESS, and his conduct towards me has been CHIVALROUS almost, I might say." She dreaded his removal from office almost as frantically as she had once dreaded that of Lord M. It would be, she declared, a GREAT CALAMITY. Six years before, what would she have said, if a prophet had told her that the day would come when she would be horrified by the triumph of the Whigs? Yet there was no escaping it; she had to face the return of her old friends. In the ministerial crises of 1845 and 1846, the Prince played a dominating part. Everybody recognised that he was the real centre of the negotiations--the actual controller of the forces and the functions of the Crown. The process by which this result was reached had been so gradual as to be almost imperceptible; but it may be said with certainty that, by the close of Peel's administration, Albert had become, in effect, the King of England. VI With the final emergence of the Prince came the final extinction of Lord Melbourne. A year after his loss of office, he had been struck down by a paralytic seizure; he had apparently recovered, but his old elasticity had gone for ever. Moody, restless, and unhappy, he wandered like a ghost about the town, bursting into soliloquies in public places, or asking odd questions, suddenly, a propos de bottes. "I'll be hanged if I do it for you, my Lord," he was heard to say in the hall at Brooks's, standing by himself, and addressing the air after much thought. "Don't you consider," he abruptly asked a fellow-guest at Lady Holland's, leaning across the dinner-table in a pause of the conversation, "that it was a most damnable act of Henri Quatre to change his religion with a view to securing the Crown?" He sat at home, brooding for hours in miserable solitude. He turned over his books--his classics and his Testaments--but they brought him no comfort at all. He longed for the return of the past, for the impossible, for he knew not what, for the devilries of Caro, for the happy platitudes of Windsor. His friends had left him, and no wonder, he said in bitterness--the fire was out. He secretly hoped for a return to power, scanning the newspapers with solicitude, and occasionally making a speech in the House of Lords. His correspondence with the Queen continued, and he appeared from time to time at Court; but he was a mere simulacrum of his former self; "the dream," wrote Victoria, "is past." As for his political views, they could no longer be tolerated. The Prince was an ardent Free Trader, and so, of course, was the Queen; and when, dining at Windsor at the time of the repeal of the Corn Laws, Lord Melbourne suddenly exclaimed, "Ma'am, it's a damned dishonest act!" everyone was extremely embarrassed. Her Majesty laughed and tried to change the conversation, but without avail; Lord Melbourne returned to the charge again and again with--"I say, Ma'am, it's damned dishonest!"--until the Queen said "Lord Melbourne, I must beg you not to say anything more on this subject now;" and then he held his tongue. She was kind to him, writing him long letters, and always remembering his birthday; but it was kindness at a distance, and he knew it. He had become "poor Lord Melbourne." A profound disquietude devoured him. He tried to fix his mind on the condition of Agriculture and the Oxford Movement. He wrote long memoranda in utterly undecipherable handwriting. He was convinced that he had lost all his money, and could not possibly afford to be a Knight of the Garter. He had run through everything, and yet--if Peel went out, he might be sent for--why not? He was never sent for. The Whigs ignored him in their consultations, and the leadership of the party passed to Lord John Russell. When Lord John became Prime Minister, there was much politeness, but Lord Melbourne was not asked to join the Cabinet. He bore the blow with perfect amenity; but he understood, at last, that that was the end. For two years more he lingered, sinking slowly into unconsciousness and imbecility. Sometimes, propped up in his chair, he would be heard to murmur, with unexpected appositeness, the words of Samson:-- "So much I feel my general spirit droop, My hopes all flat, nature within me seems, In all her functions weary of herself, My race of glory run, and race of shame, And I shall shortly be with them that rest." A few days before his death, Victoria, learning that there was no hope of his recovery, turned her mind for a little towards that which had once been Lord M. "You will grieve to hear," she told King Leopold, "that our good, dear, old friend Melbourne is dying... One cannot forget how good and kind and amiable he was, and it brings back so many recollections to my mind, though, God knows! I never wish that time back again." She was in little danger. The tide of circumstance was flowing now with irresistible fullness towards a very different consummation. The seriousness of Albert, the claims of her children, her own inmost inclinations, and the movement of the whole surrounding world, combined to urge her forward along the narrow way of public and domestic duty. Her family steadily increased. Within eighteen months of the birth of the Prince of Wales the Princess Alice appeared, and a year later the Prince Alfred, and then the Princess Helena, and, two years afterwards, the Princess Louise; and still there were signs that the pretty row of royal infants was not complete. The parents, more and more involved in family cares and family happiness, found the pomp of Windsor galling, and longed for some more intimate and remote retreat. On the advice of Peel they purchased the estate of Osborne, in the Isle of Wight. Their skill and economy in financial matters had enabled them to lay aside a substantial sum of money; and they could afford, out of their savings, not merely to buy the property but to build a new house for themselves and to furnish it at a cost of L200,000. At Osborne, by the sea-shore, and among the woods, which Albert, with memories of Rosenau in his mind, had so carefully planted, the royal family spent every hour that could be snatched from Windsor and London--delightful hours of deep retirement and peaceful work. The public looked on with approval. A few aristocrats might sniff or titter; but with the nation at large the Queen was now once more extremely popular. The middle-classes, in particular, were pleased. They liked a love-match; they liked a household which combined the advantages of royalty and virtue, and in which they seemed to see, reflected as in some resplendent looking-glass, the ideal image of the very lives they led themselves. Their own existences, less exalted, but oh! so soothingly similar, acquired an added excellence, an added succulence, from the early hours, the regularity, the plain tuckers, the round games, the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding oft Osborne. It was indeed a model Court. Not only were its central personages the patterns of propriety, but no breath of scandal, no shadow of indecorum, might approach its utmost boundaries. For Victoria, with all the zeal of a convert, upheld now the standard of moral purity with an inflexibility surpassing, if that were possible, Albert's own. She blushed to think how she had once believed--how she had once actually told HIM--that one might be too strict and particular in such matters, and that one ought to be indulgent towards other people's dreadful sins. But she was no longer Lord M's pupil: she was Albert's wife. She was more--the embodiment, the living apex of a new era in the generations of mankind. The last vestige of the eighteenth century had disappeared; cynicism and subtlety were shrivelled into powder; and duty, industry, morality, and domesticity triumphed over them. Even the very chairs and tables had assumed, with a singular responsiveness, the forms of prim solidity. The Victorian Age was in full swing. VII Only one thing more was needed: material expression must be given to the new ideals and the new forces so that they might stand revealed, in visible glory, before the eyes of an astonished world. It was for Albert to supply this want. He mused, and was inspired: the Great Exhibition came into his head. Without consulting anyone, he thought out the details of his conception with the minutest care. There had been exhibitions before in the world, but this should surpass them all. It should contain specimens of what every country could produce in raw materials, in machinery and mechanical inventions, in manufactures, and in the applied and plastic arts. It should not be merely useful and ornamental; it should teach a high moral lesson. It should be an international monument to those supreme blessings of civilisation--peace, progress, and prosperity. For some time past the Prince had been devoting much of his attention to the problems of commerce and industry. He had a taste for machinery of every kind, and his sharp eye had more than once detected, with the precision of an expert, a missing cog-wheel in some vast and complicated engine. A visit to Liverpool, where he opened the Albert Dock, impressed upon his mind the immensity of modern industrial forces, though in a letter to Victoria describing his experiences, he was careful to retain his customary lightness of touch. "As I write," he playfully remarked, "you will be making your evening toilette, and not be ready in time for dinner. I must set about the same task, and not, let me hope, with the same result... The loyalty and enthusiasm of the inhabitants are great; but the heat is greater still. I am satisfied that if the population of Liverpool had been weighed this morning, and were to be weighed again now, they would be found many degrees lighter. The docks are wonderful, and the mass of shipping incredible." In art and science he had been deeply interested since boyhood; his reform of the household had put his talent for organisation beyond a doubt; and thus from every point of view the Prince was well qualified for his task. Having matured his plans, he summoned a small committee and laid an outline of his scheme before it. The committee approved, and the great undertaking was set on foot without delay. Two years, however, passed before it was completed. For two years the Prince laboured with extraordinary and incessant energy. At first all went smoothly. The leading manufacturers warmly took up the idea; the colonies and the East India Company were sympathetic; the great foreign nations were eager to send in their contributions; the powerful support of Sir Robert Peel was obtained, and the use of a site in Hyde Park, selected by the Prince, was sanctioned by the Government. Out of 234 plans for the exhibition building, the Prince chose that of Joseph Paxton, famous as a designer of gigantic conservatories; and the work was on the point of being put in hand when a series of unexpected difficulties arose. Opposition to the whole scheme, which had long been smouldering in various quarters, suddenly burst forth. There was an outcry, headed by The Times, against the use of the park for the exhibition; for a moment it seemed as if the building would be relegated to a suburb; but, after a fierce debate in the House, the supporters of the site in the Park won the day. Then it appeared that the project lacked a sufficient financial backing; but this obstacle, too, was surmounted, and eventually L200,000 was subscribed as a guarantee fund. The enormous glass edifice rose higher and higher, covering acres and enclosing towering elm trees beneath its roof: and then the fury of its enemies reached a climax. The fashionable, the cautious, the Protectionists, the pious, all joined in the hue and cry. It was pointed out that the Exhibition would serve as a rallying point for all the ruffians in England, for all the malcontents in Europe; and that on the day of its opening there would certainly be a riot and probably a revolution. It was asserted that the glass roof was porous, and that the droppings of fifty million sparrows would utterly destroy every object beneath it. Agitated nonconformists declared that the Exhibition was an arrogant and wicked enterprise which would infallibly bring down God's punishment upon the nation. Colonel Sibthorpe, in the debate on the Address, prayed that hail and lightning might descend from heaven on the accursed thing. The Prince, with unyielding perseverance and infinite patience, pressed on to his goal. His health was seriously affected; he suffered from constant sleeplessness; his strength was almost worn out. But he remembered the injunctions of Stockmar and never relaxed. The volume of his labours grew more prodigious every day; he toiled at committees, presided over public meetings, made speeches, and carried on communications with every corner of the civilised world--and his efforts were rewarded. On May 1, 1851, the Great Exhibition was opened by the Queen before an enormous concourse of persons, amid scenes of dazzling brilliancy and triumphant enthusiasm. Victoria herself was in a state of excitement which bordered on delirium. She performed her duties in a trance of joy, gratitude, and amazement, and, when it was all over, her feelings poured themselves out into her journal in a torrential flood. The day had been nothing but an endless succession of glories--or rather one vast glory--one vast radiation of Albert. Everything she had seen, everything she had felt or heard, had been so beautiful, so wonderful that even the royal underlinings broke down under the burden of emphasis, while her remembering pen rushed on, regardless, from splendour to splendour--the huge crowds, so well--behaved and loyal-flags of all the nations floating--the inside of the building, so immense, with myriads of people and the sun shining through the roof--a little side room, where we left our shawls--palm-trees and machinery--dear Albert--the place so big that we could hardly hear the organ--thankfulness to God--a curious assemblage of political and distinguished men--the March from Athalie--God bless my dearest Albert, God bless my dearest country!--a glass fountain--the Duke and Lord Anglesey walking arm in arm--a beautiful Amazon, in bronze, by Kiss--Mr. Paxton, who might be justly proud, and rose from being a common gardener's boy--Sir George Grey in tears, and everybody astonished and delighted. A striking incident occurred when, after a short prayer by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the choir of 600 voices burst into the "Hallelujah Chorus." At that moment a Chinaman, dressed in full national costume, stepped out into the middle of the central nave, and, advancing slowly towards the royal group, did obeisance to Her Majesty. The Queen, much impressed, had no doubt that he was an eminent mandarin; and, when the final procession was formed, orders were given that, as no representative of the Celestial Empire was present, he should be included in the diplomatic cortege. He accordingly, with the utmost gravity, followed immediately behind the Ambassadors. He subsequently disappeared, and it was rumoured, among ill-natured people, that, far from being a mandarin, the fellow was a mere impostor. But nobody ever really discovered the nature of the comments that had been lurking behind the matchless impassivity of that yellow face. A few days later Victoria poured out her heart to her uncle. The first of May, she said, was "the GREATEST day in our history, the most BEAUTIFUL and IMPOSING and TOUCHING spectacle ever seen, and the triumph of my beloved Albert... It was the HAPPIEST, PROUDEST day in my life, and I can think of nothing else. Albert's dearest name is immortalised with this GREAT conception, HIS own, and my OWN dear country SHOWED she was WORTHY of it. The triumph is IMMENSE." It was. The enthusiasm was universal; even the bitterest scoffers were converted, and joined in the chorus of praise. Congratulations from public bodies poured in; the City of Paris gave a great fete to the Exhibition committee; and the Queen and the Prince made a triumphal progress through the North of England. The financial results were equally remarkable. The total profit made by the Exhibition amounted to a sum of L165,000, which was employed in the purchase of land for the erection of a permanent National Museum in South Kensington. During the six months of its existence in Hyde Park over six million persons visited it, and not a single accident occurred. But there is an end to all things; and the time had come for the Crystal Palace to be removed to the salubrious seclusion of Sydenham. Victoria, sad but resigned, paid her final visit. "It looked so beautiful," she said. "I could not believe it was the last time I was to see it. An organ, accompanied by a fine and powerful wind instrument called the sommerophone, was being played, and it nearly upset me. The canvas is very dirty, the red curtains are faded and many things are very much soiled, still the effect is fresh and new as ever and most beautiful. The glass fountain was already removed... and the sappers and miners were rolling about the little boxes just as they did at the beginning. It made us all very melancholy." But more cheerful thoughts followed. When all was over, she expressed her boundless satisfaction in a dithyrambic letter to the Prime Minister. Her beloved husband's name, she said, was for ever immortalised, and that this was universally recognised by the country was a source to her of immense happiness and gratitude. "She feels grateful to Providence," Her Majesty concluded, "to have permitted her to be united to so great, so noble, so excellent a Prince, and this year will ever remain the proudest and happiest of her life. The day of the closing of the Exhibition (which the Queen regretted much she could not witness), was the twelfth anniversary of her betrothal to the Prince, which is a curious coincidence." CHAPTER V. LORD PALMERSTON I In 1851 the Prince's fortunes reached their high-water mark. The success of the Great Exhibition enormously increased his reputation and seemed to assure him henceforward a leading place in the national life. But before the year was out another triumph, in a very different sphere of action, was also his. This triumph, big with fateful consequences, was itself the outcome of a series of complicated circumstances which had been gathering to a climax for many years. The unpopularity of Albert in high society had not diminished with time. Aristocratic persons continued to regard him with disfavour; and he on his side, withdrew further and further into a contemptuous reserve. For a moment, indeed, it appeared as if the dislike of the upper classes was about to be suddenly converted into cordiality; for they learnt with amazement that the Prince, during a country visit, had ridden to hounds and acquitted himself remarkably well. They had always taken it for granted that his horsemanship was of some second-rate foreign quality, and here he was jumping five-barred gates and tearing after the fox as if he had been born and bred in Leicestershire. They could hardly believe it; was it possible that they had made a mistake, and that Albert was a good fellow after all? Had he wished to be thought so he would certainly have seized this opportunity, purchased several hunters, and used them constantly. But he had no such desire; hunting bored him, and made Victoria nervous. He continued, as before, to ride, as he himself put it, for exercise or convenience, not for amusement; and it was agreed that though the Prince, no doubt, could keep in his saddle well enough, he was no sportsman. This was a serious matter. It was not merely that Albert was laughed at by fine ladies and sneered at by fine gentlemen; it was not merely that Victoria, who before her marriage had cut some figure in society, had, under her husband's influence, almost completely given it up. Since Charles the Second the sovereigns of England had, with a single exception, always been unfashionable; and the fact that the exception was George the Fourth seemed to give an added significance to the rule. What was grave was not the lack of fashion, but the lack of other and more important qualities. The hostility of the upper classes was symptomatic of an antagonism more profound than one of manners or even of tastes. The Prince, in a word, was un-English. What that word precisely meant it was difficult to say; but the fact was patent to every eye. Lord Palmerston, also, was not fashionable; the great Whig aristocrats looked askance at him, and only tolerated him as an unpleasant necessity thrust upon them by fate. But Lord Palmerston was English through and through, there was something in him that expressed, with extraordinary vigour, the fundamental qualities of the English race. And he was the very antithesis of the Prince. By a curious chance it so happened that this typical Englishman was brought into closer contact than any other of his countrymen with the alien from over the sea. It thus fell out that differences which, in more fortunate circumstances, might have been smoothed away and obliterated, became accentuated to the highest pitch. All the mysterious forces in Albert's soul leapt out to do battle with his adversary, and, in the long and violent conflict that followed, it almost seemed as if he was struggling with England herself. Palmerston's whole life had been spent in the government of the country. At twenty-two he had been a Minister; at twenty-five he had been offered the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which, with that prudence which formed so unexpected a part of his character, he had declined to accept. His first spell of office had lasted uninterruptedly for twenty-one years. When Lord Grey came into power he received the Foreign Secretaryship, a post which he continued to occupy, with two intervals, for another twenty-one years. Throughout this period his reputation with the public had steadily grown, and when, in 1846, he became Foreign Secretary for the third time, his position in the country was almost, if not quite, on an equality with that of the Prime Minister, Lord John Russell. He was a tall, big man of sixty-two, with a jaunty air, a large face, dyed whiskers, and a long sardonic upper lip. His private life was far from respectable, but he had greatly strengthened his position in society by marrying, late in life, Lady Cowper, the sister of Lord Melbourne, and one of the most influential of the Whig hostesses. Powerful, experienced, and supremely self-confident, he naturally paid very little attention to Albert. Why should he? The Prince was interested in foreign affairs? Very well, then; let the Prince pay attention to him--to him, who had been a Cabinet Minister when Albert was in the cradle, who was the chosen leader of a great nation, and who had never failed in anything he had undertaken in the whole course of his life. Not that he wanted the Prince's attention--far from it: so far as he could see, Albert was merely a young foreigner, who suffered from having no vices, and whose only claim to distinction was that he had happened to marry the Queen of England. This estimate, as he found out to his cost, was a mistaken one. Albert was by no means insignificant, and, behind Albert, there was another figure by no means insignificant either--there was Stockmar. But Palmerston, busy with his plans, his ambitions, and the management of a great department, brushed all such considerations on one side; it was his favourite method of action. He lived by instinct--by a quick eye and a strong hand, a dexterous management of every crisis as it arose, a half-unconscious sense of the vital elements in a situation. He was very bold; and nothing gave him more exhilaration than to steer the ship of state in a high wind, on a rough sea, with every stitch of canvas on her that she could carry. But there is a point beyond which boldness becomes rashness--a point perceptible only to intuition and not to reason; and beyond that point Palmerston never went. When he saw that the cast demanded it, he could go slow--very slow indeed in fact, his whole career, so full of vigorous adventure, was nevertheless a masterly example of the proverb, "tout vient a point a qui sait attendre." But when he decided to go quick, nobody went quicker. One day, returning from Osborne, he found that he had missed the train to London; he ordered a special, but the station master told him that to put a special train upon the line at that time of day would be dangerous and he could not allow it. Palmerston insisted declaring that he had important business in London, which could not wait. The station-master supported by all the officials, continued to demur the company, he said, could not possibly take the responsibility. "On MY responsibility, then!" said Palmerston, in his off-hand, peremptory way whereupon the station-master ordered up the train and the Foreign Secretary reached London in time for his work, without an accident. The story, is typical of the happy valiance with which he conducted both his own affairs and those of the nation. "England," he used to say, "is strong enough to brave consequences." Apparently, under Palmerston's guidance, she was. While the officials protested and shook in their shoes, he would wave them away with his airy "MY responsibility!" and carry the country swiftly along the line of his choice, to a triumphant destination--without an accident. His immense popularity was the result partly of his diplomatic successes, partly of his extraordinary personal affability, but chiefly of the genuine intensity with which he responded to the feelings and supported the interests of his countrymen. The public knew that it had in Lord Palmerston not only a high-mettled master, but also a devoted servant--that he was, in every sense of the word, a public man. When he was Prime Minister, he noticed that iron hurdles had been put up on the grass in the Green Park; he immediately wrote to the Minister responsible, ordering, in the severest language, their instant removal, declaring that they were "an intolerable nuisance," and that the purpose of the grass was "to be walked upon freely and without restraint by the people, old and young, for whose enjoyment the parks are maintained." It was in this spirit that, as Foreign Secretary, he watched over the interests of Englishmen abroad. Nothing could be more agreeable for Englishmen; but foreign governments were less pleased. They found Lord Palmerston interfering, exasperating, and alarming. In Paris they spoke with bated breath of "ce terrible milord Palmerston;" and in Germany they made a little song about him-- "Hat der Teufel einen Sohn, So ist er sicher Palmerston." But their complaints, their threats, and their agitations were all in vain. Palmerston, with his upper lip sardonically curving, braved consequences, and held on his course. The first diplomatic crisis which arose after his return to office, though the Prince and the Queen were closely concerned with it, passed off without serious disagreement between the Court and the Minister. For some years past a curious problem had been perplexing the chanceries of Europe. Spain, ever since the time of Napoleon a prey to civil convulsions, had settled down for a short interval to a state of comparative quiet under the rule of Christina, the Queen Mother, and her daughter Isabella, the young Queen. In 1846, the question of Isabella's marriage, which had for long been the subject of diplomatic speculations, suddenly became acute. Various candidates for her hand were proposed--among others, two cousins of her own, another Spanish prince, and Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, a first cousin of Victoria's and Albert's; for different reasons, however, none of these young men seemed altogether satisfactory. Isabella was not yet sixteen; and it might have been supposed that her marriage could be put off for a few years more; but this was considered to be out of the question. "Vous ne savez pas," said a high authority, "ce que c'est que ces princesses espagnoles; elles ont le diable au corps, et on a toujours dit que si nous ne nous hations pas, l'heritier viendrait avant le mari." It might also have been supposed that the young Queen's marriage was a matter to be settled by herself, her mother, and the Spanish Government; but this again was far from being the case. It had become, by one of those periodical reversions to the ways of the eighteenth century, which, it is rumoured, are still not unknown in diplomacy, a question of dominating importance in the foreign policies both of France and England. For several years, Louis Philippe and his Prime Minister Guizot had been privately maturing a very subtle plan. It was the object of the French King to repeat the glorious coup of Louis XIV, and to abolish the Pyrenees by placing one of his grandsons on the throne of Spain. In order to bring this about, he did not venture to suggest that his younger son, the Duc de Montpensier, should marry Isabella; that would have been too obvious a move, which would have raised immediate and insurmountable opposition. He therefore proposed that Isabella should marry her cousin, the Duke of Cadiz, while Montpensier married Isabella's younger sister, the Infanta Fernanda; and pray, what possible objection could there be to that? The wily old King whispered into the chaste ears of Guizot the key to the secret; he had good reason to believe that the Duke of Cadiz was incapable of having children, and therefore the offspring of Fernanda would inherit the Spanish crown. Guizot rubbed his hands, and began at once to set the necessary springs in motion; but, of course, the whole scheme was very soon divulged and understood. The English Government took an extremely serious view of the matter; the balance of power was clearly at stake, and the French intrigue must be frustrated at all hazards. A diplomatic struggle of great intensity followed; and it occasionally appeared that a second War of the Spanish Succession was about to break out. This was avoided, but the consequences of this strange imbroglio were far-reaching and completely different from what any of the parties concerned could have guessed. In the course of the long and intricate negotiations there was one point upon which Louis Philippe laid a special stress--the candidature of Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. The prospect of a marriage between a Coburg Prince and the Queen of Spain was, he declared, at least as threatening to the balance of power in Europe as that of a marriage between the Duc de Montpensier and the Infanta; and, indeed, there was much to be said for this contention. The ruin which had fallen upon the House of Coburg during the Napoleonic wars had apparently only served to multiply its vitality, for that princely family had by now extended itself over Europe in an extraordinary manner. King Leopold was firmly fixed in Belgium; his niece was Queen of England; one of his nephews was the husband of the Queen of England, and another the husband of the Queen of Portugal; yet another was Duke of Wurtemberg. Where was this to end? There seemed to be a Coburg Trust ready to send out one of its members at any moment to fill up any vacant place among the ruling families of Europe. And even beyond Europe there were signs of this infection spreading. An American who had arrived in Brussels had assured King Leopold that there was a strong feeling in the United States in favour of monarchy instead of the misrule of mobs, and had suggested, to the delight of His Majesty, that some branch of the Coburg family might be available for the position. That danger might, perhaps, be remote; but the Spanish danger was close at hand; and if Prince Leopold were to marry Queen Isabella the position of France would be one of humiliation, if not of positive danger. Such were the asseverations of Louis Philippe. The English Government had no wish to support Prince Leopold, and though Albert and Victoria had some hankerings for the match, the wisdom of Stockmar had induced them to give up all thoughts of it. The way thus seemed open for a settlement: England would be reasonable about Leopold, if France would be reasonable about Montpensier. At the Chateau d'Eu, the agreement was made, in a series of conversations between the King and Guizot on the one side, and the Queen, the Prince, and Lord Aberdeen on the other. Aberdeen, as Foreign Minister, declared that England would neither recognise nor support Prince Leopold as a candidate for the hand of the Queen of Spain; while Louis Philippe solemnly promised, both to Aberdeen and to Victoria, that the Duc de Montpensier should not marry the Infanta Fernanda until after the Queen was married and had issue. All went well, and the crisis seemed to be over, when the whole question was suddenly re-opened by Palmerston, who had succeeded Aberdeen at the Foreign Office. In a despatch to the English Minister at Madrid, he mentioned, in a list of possible candidates for Queen Isabella's hand, Prince Leopold of Coburg; and at the same time he took occasion to denounce in violent language the tyranny and incompetence of the Spanish Government. This despatch, indiscreet in any case, was rendered infinitely more so by being communicated to Guizot. Louis Philippe saw his opportunity and pounced on it. Though there was nothing in Palmerston's language to show that he either recognised or supported Prince Leopold, the King at once assumed that the English had broken their engagement, and that he was therefore free to do likewise. He then sent the despatch to the Queen Mother, declared that the English were intriguing for the Coburg marriage, bade her mark the animosity of Palmerston against the Spanish Government, and urged her to escape from her difficulties and ensure the friendship of France by marrying Isabella to the Duke of Cadiz and Fernanda to Montpensier. The Queen Mother, alarmed and furious, was easily convinced. There was only one difficulty: Isabella loathed the very sight of her cousin. But this was soon surmounted; there was a wild supper-party at the Palace, and in the course of it the young girl was induced to consent to anything that was asked of her. Shortly after, and on the same day, both the marriages took place. The news burst like a bomb on the English Government, who saw with rage and mortification that they had been completely outmanoeuvred by the crafty King. Victoria, in particular, was outraged. Not only had she been the personal recipient of Louis Philippe's pledge, but he had won his way to her heart by presenting the Prince of Wales with a box of soldiers and sending the Princess Royal a beautiful Parisian doll with eyes that opened and shut. And now insult was added to injury. The Queen of the French wrote her a formal letter, calmly announcing, as a family event in which she was sure Victoria would be interested, the marriage of her son, Montpensier--"qui ajoutera a notre bonheur interieur, le seul vrai dans ce monde, et que vous, madame, savez si bien apprecier." But the English Queen had not long to wait for her revenge. Within eighteen months the monarchy of Louis Philippe, discredited, unpopular, and fatally weakened by the withdrawal of English support, was swept into limbo, while he and his family threw themselves as suppliant fugitives at the feet of Victoria. II In this affair both the Queen and the Prince had been too much occupied with the delinquencies of Louis Philippe to have any wrath to spare for those of Palmerston; and, indeed, on the main issue, Palmerston's attitude and their own had been in complete agreement. But in this the case was unique. In every other foreign complication--and they were many and serious--during the ensuing years, the differences between the royal couple and the Foreign Secretary were constant and profound. There was a sharp quarrel over Portugal, where violently hostile parties were flying at each other's throats. The royal sympathy was naturally enlisted on behalf of the Queen and her Coburg husband, while Palmerston gave his support to the progressive elements in the country. It was not until 1848, however, that the strain became really serious. In that year of revolutions, when, in all directions and with alarming frequency, crowns kept rolling off royal heads, Albert and Victoria were appalled to find that the policy of England was persistently directed--in Germany, in Switzerland, in Austria, in Italy, in Sicily--so as to favour the insurgent forces. The situation, indeed, was just such a one as the soul of Palmerston loved. There was danger and excitement, the necessity of decision, the opportunity for action, on every hand. A disciple of Canning, with an English gentleman's contempt and dislike of foreign potentates deep in his heart, the spectacle of the popular uprisings, and of the oppressors bundled ignominiously out of the palaces they had disgraced, gave him unbounded pleasure, and he was determined that there should be no doubt whatever, all over the Continent, on which side in the great struggle England stood. It was not that he had the slightest tincture in him of philosophical radicalism; he had no philosophical tinctures of any kind; he was quite content to be inconsistent--to be a Conservative at home and a Liberal abroad. There were very good reasons for keeping the Irish in their places; but what had that to do with it? The point was this--when any decent man read an account of the political prisons in Naples his gorge rose. He did not want war; but he saw that without war a skilful and determined use of England's power might do much to further the cause of the Liberals in Europe. It was a difficult and a hazardous game to play, but he set about playing it with delighted alacrity. And then, to his intense annoyance, just as he needed all his nerve and all possible freedom of action, he found himself being hampered and distracted at every turn by... those people at Osborne. He saw what it was; the opposition was systematic and informed, and the Queen alone would have been incapable of it; the Prince was at the bottom of the whole thing. It was exceedingly vexatious; but Palmerston was in a hurry, and could not wait; the Prince, if he would insist upon interfering, must be brushed on one side. Albert was very angry. He highly disapproved both of Palmerston's policy and of his methods of action. He was opposed to absolutism; but in his opinion Palmerston's proceedings were simply calculated to substitute for absolutism, all over Europe, something no better and very possibly worse--the anarchy of faction and mob violence. The dangers of this revolutionary ferment were grave; even in England Chartism was rampant--a sinister movement, which might at any moment upset the Constitution and abolish the Monarchy. Surely, with such dangers at home, this was a very bad time to choose for encouraging lawlessness abroad. He naturally took a particular interest in Germany. His instincts, his affections, his prepossessions, were ineradicably German; Stockmar was deeply involved in German politics; and he had a multitude of relatives among the ruling German families, who, from the midst of the hurly-burly of revolution, wrote him long and agitated letters once a week. Having considered the question of Germany's future from every point of view, he came to the conclusion, under Stockmar's guidance, that the great aim for every lover of Germany should be her unification under the sovereignty of Prussia. The intricacy of the situation was extreme, and the possibilities of good or evil which every hour might bring forth were incalculable; yet he saw with horror that Palmerston neither understood nor cared to understand the niceties of this momentous problem, but rushed on blindly, dealing blows to right and left, quite--so far as he could see--without system, and even without motive--except, indeed, a totally unreasonable distrust of the Prussian State. But his disagreement with the details of Palmerston's policy was in reality merely a symptom of the fundamental differences between the characters of the two men. In Albert's eyes Palmerston was a coarse, reckless egotist, whose combined arrogance and ignorance must inevitably have their issue in folly and disaster. Nothing could be more antipathetic to him than a mind so strangely lacking in patience, in reflection, in principle, and in the habits of ratiocination. For to him it was intolerable to think in a hurry, to jump to slapdash decisions, to act on instincts that could not be explained. Everything must be done in due order, with careful premeditation; the premises of the position must first be firmly established; and he must reach the correct conclusion by a regular series of rational steps. In complicated questions--and what questions, rightly looked at, were not complicated?--to commit one's thoughts to paper was the wisest course, and it was the course which Albert, laborious though it might be, invariably adopted. It was as well, too, to draw up a reasoned statement after an event, as well as before it; and accordingly, whatever happened, it was always found that the Prince had made a memorandum. On one occasion he reduced to six pages of foolscap the substance of a confidential conversation with Sir Robert Peel, and, having read them aloud to him, asked him to append his signature; Sir Robert, who never liked to commit himself, became extremely uneasy; upon which the Prince, understanding that it was necessary to humour the singular susceptibilities of Englishmen, with great tact dropped that particular memorandum into the fire. But as for Palmerston, he never even gave one so much as a chance to read him a memorandum, he positively seemed to dislike discussion; and, before one knew where one was, without any warning whatever, he would plunge into some hare-brained, violent project, which, as likely as not, would logically involve a European war. Closely connected, too, with this cautious, painstaking reasonableness of Albert's, was his desire to examine questions thoroughly from every point of view, to go down to the roots of things, and to act in strict accordance with some well-defined principle. Under Stockmar's tutelage he was constantly engaged in enlarging his outlook and in endeavouring to envisage vital problems both theoretically and practically--both with precision and with depth. To one whose mind was thus habitually occupied, the empirical activities of Palmerston, who had no notion what a principle meant, resembled the incoherent vagaries of a tiresome child. What did Palmerston know of economics, of science, of history? What did he care for morality and education? How much consideration had he devoted in the whole course of his life to the improvement of the condition of the working-classes and to the general amelioration of the human race? The answers to such questions were all too obvious; and yet it is easy to imagine, also, what might have been Palmerston's jaunty comment. "Ah! your Royal Highness is busy with fine schemes and beneficent calculations exactly! Well, as for me, I must say I'm quite satisfied with my morning's work--I've had the iron hurdles taken out of the Green Park." The exasperating man, however, preferred to make no comment, and to proceed in smiling silence on his inexcusable way. The process of "brushing on one side" very soon came into operation. Important Foreign Office despatches were either submitted to the Queen so late that there was no time to correct them, or they were not submitted to her at all; or, having been submitted, and some passage in them being objected to and an alteration suggested, they were after all sent off in their original form. The Queen complained, the Prince complained: both complained together. It was quite useless. Palmerston was most apologetic--could not understand how it had occurred--must give the clerks a wigging--certainly Her Majesty's wishes should be attended to, and such a thing should never happen again. But, of course, it very soon happened again, and the royal remonstrances redoubled. Victoria, her partisan passions thoroughly aroused, imported into her protests a personal vehemence which those of Albert lacked. Did Lord Palmerston forget that she was Queen of England? How could she tolerate a state of affairs in which despatches written in her name were sent abroad without her approval or even her knowledge? What could be more derogatory to her position than to be obliged to receive indignant letters from the crowned heads to whom those despatches were addressed--letters which she did not know how to answer, since she so thoroughly agreed with them? She addressed herself to the Prime Minister. "No remonstrance has any effect with Lord Palmerston," she said. "Lord Palmerston," she told him on another occasion, "has as usual pretended not to have had time to submit the draft to the Queen before he had sent it off." She summoned Lord John to her presence, poured out her indignation, and afterwards, on the advice of Albert, noted down what had passed in a memorandum: "I said that I thought that Lord Palmerston often endangered the honour of England by taking a very prejudiced and one-sided view of a question; that his writings were always as bitter as gall and did great harm, which Lord John entirely assented to, and that I often felt quite ill from anxiety." Then she turned to her uncle. "The state of Germany," she wrote in a comprehensive and despairing review of the European situation, "is dreadful, and one does feel quite ashamed about that once really so peaceful and happy country. That there are still good people there I am sure, but they allow themselves to be worked upon in a frightful and shameful way. In France a crisis seems at hand. WHAT a very bad figure we cut in this mediation! Really it is quite immoral, with Ireland quivering in our grasp and ready to throw off her allegiance at any moment, for us to force Austria to give up her lawful possessions. What shall we say if Canada, Malta, etc., begin to trouble us? It hurts me terribly." But what did Lord Palmerston care? Lord John's position grew more and more irksome. He did not approve of his colleague's treatment of the Queen. When he begged him to be more careful, he was met with the reply that 28,000 despatches passed through the Foreign Office in a single year, that, if every one of these were to be subjected to the royal criticism, the delay would be most serious, that, as it was, the waste of time and the worry involved in submitting drafts to the meticulous examination of Prince Albert was almost too much for an overworked Minister, and that, as a matter of fact, the postponement of important decisions owing to this cause had already produced very unpleasant diplomatic consequences. These excuses would have impressed Lord John more favourably if he had not himself had to suffer from a similar neglect. As often as not Palmerston failed to communicate even to him the most important despatches. The Foreign Secretary was becoming an almost independent power, acting on his own initiative, and swaying the policy of England on his own responsibility. On one occasion, in 1847, he had actually been upon the point of threatening to break off diplomatic relations with France without consulting either the Cabinet or the Prime Minister. And such incidents were constantly recurring. When this became known to the Prince, he saw that his opportunity had come. If he could only drive in to the utmost the wedge between the two statesmen, if he could only secure the alliance of Lord John, then the suppression or the removal of Lord Palmerston would be almost certain to follow. He set about the business with all the pertinacity of his nature. Both he and the Queen put every kind of pressure upon the Prime Minister. They wrote, they harangued, they relapsed into awful silence. It occurred to them that Lord Clarendon, an important member of the Cabinet, would be a useful channel for their griefs. They commanded him to dine at the Palace, and, directly the meal was over, "the Queen," as he described it afterwards, "exploded, and went with the utmost vehemence and bitterness into the whole of Palmerston's conduct, all the effects produced all over the world, and all her own feelings and sentiments about it." When she had finished, the Prince took up the tale, with less excitement, but with equal force. Lord Clarendon found himself in an awkward situation; he disliked Palmerston's policy, but he was his colleague, and he disapproved of the attitude of his royal hosts. In his opinion, they were "wrong in wishing that courtiers rather than Ministers should conduct the affairs of the country," and he thought that they "laboured under the curious mistake that the Foreign Office was their peculiar department, and that they had the right to control, if not to direct, the foreign policy of England." He, therefore, with extreme politeness, gave it to be understood that he would not commit himself in any way. But Lord John, in reality, needed no pressure. Attacked by his Sovereign, ignored by his Foreign Secretary, he led a miserable life. With the advent of the dreadful Schleswig-Holstein question--the most complex in the whole diplomatic history of Europe--his position, crushed between the upper and the nether mill-stones, grew positively unbearable. He became anxious above all things to get Palmerston out of the Foreign Office. But then--supposing Palmerston refused to go? In a memorandum made by the Prince, at about this time, of an interview between himself, the Queen, and the Prime Minister, we catch a curious glimpse of the states of mind of those three high personages--the anxiety and irritation of Lord John, the vehement acrimony of Victoria, and the reasonable animosity of Albert--drawn together, as it were, under the shadow of an unseen Presence, the cause of that celestial anger--the gay, portentous Palmerston. At one point in the conversation Lord John observed that he believed the Foreign Secretary would consent to a change of offices; Lord Palmerston, he said, realised that he had lost the Queen's confidence--though only on public, and not on personal, grounds. But on that, the Prince noted, "the Queen interrupted Lord John by remarking that she distrusted him on PERSONAL grounds also, but I remarked that Lord Palmerston had so far at least seen rightly; that he had become disagreeable to the Queen, not on account of his person, but of his political doings--to which the Queen assented." Then the Prince suggested that there was a danger of the Cabinet breaking up, and of Lord Palmerston returning to office as Prime Minister. But on that point Lord John was reassuring: he "thought Lord Palmerston too old to do much in the future (having passed his sixty-fifth year)." Eventually it was decided that nothing could be done for the present, but that the UTMOST SECRECY must be observed; and so the conclave ended. At last, in 1850, deliverance seemed to be at hand. There were signs that the public were growing weary of the alarums and excursions of Palmerston's diplomacy; and when his support of Don Pacifico, a British subject, in a quarrel with the Greek Government, seemed to be upon the point of involving the country in a war not only with Greece but also with France, and possibly with Russia into the bargain, a heavy cloud of distrust and displeasure appeared to be gathering and about to burst over his head. A motion directed against him in the House of Lords was passed by a substantial majority. The question was next to be discussed in the House of Commons, where another adverse vote was not improbable, and would seal the doom of the Minister. Palmerston received the attack with complete nonchalance, and then, at the last possible moment, he struck. In a speech of over four hours, in which exposition, invective, argument, declamation, plain talk and resounding eloquence were mingled together with consummate art and extraordinary felicity, he annihilated his enemies. The hostile motion was defeated, and Palmerston was once more the hero of the hour. Simultaneously, Atropos herself conspired to favour him. Sir Robert Peel was thrown from his horse and killed. By this tragic chance, Palmerston saw the one rival great enough to cope with him removed from his path. He judged--and judged rightly--that he was the most popular man in England; and when Lord John revived the project of his exchanging the Foreign Office for some other position in the Cabinet, he absolutely refused to stir. Great was the disappointment of Albert; great was the indignation of Victoria. "The House of Commons," she wrote, "is becoming very unmanageable and troublesome." The Prince, perceiving that Palmerston was more firmly fixed in the saddle than ever, decided that something drastic must be done. Five months before, the prescient Baron had drawn up, in case of emergency, a memorandum, which had been carefully docketed, and placed in a pigeon-hole ready to hand. The emergency had now arisen, and the memorandum must be used. The Queen copied out the words of Stockmar, and sent them to the Prime Minister, requesting him to show her letter to Palmerston. "She thinks it right," she wrote, "in order TO PREVENT ANY MISTAKE for the FUTURE, shortly to explain WHAT IT IS SHE EXPECTS FROM HER FOREIGN SECRETARY. She requires: (1) That he will distinctly state what he proposes in a given case, in order that the Queen may know as distinctly to WHAT she has given her Royal sanction; (2) Having ONCE GIVEN her sanction to a measure, that it be not arbitrarily altered or modified by the Minister; such an act she must consider as failing in sincerity towards the Crown, and justly to be visited by the exercise of her Constitutional right of dismissing that Minister." Lord John Russell did as he was bid, and forwarded the Queen's letter to Lord Palmerston. This transaction, which was of grave constitutional significance, was entirely unknown to the outside world. If Palmerston had been a sensitive man, he would probably have resigned on the receipt of the Queen's missive. But he was far from sensitive; he loved power, and his power was greater than ever; an unerring instinct told him that this was not the time to go. Nevertheless, he was seriously perturbed. He understood at last that he was struggling with a formidable adversary, whose skill and strength, unless they were mollified, might do irreparable injury to his career. He therefore wrote to Lord John, briefly acquiescing in the Queen's requirements--"I have taken a copy of this memorandum of the Queen and will not fail to attend to the directions which it contains"--and at the same time, he asked for an interview with the Prince. Albert at once summoned him to the Palace, and was astonished to observe, as he noted in a memorandum, that when Palmerston entered the room "he was very much agitated, shook, and had tears in his eyes, so as quite to move me, who never under any circumstances had known him otherwise than with a bland smile on his face." The old statesman was profuse in protestations and excuses; the young one was coldly polite. At last, after a long and inconclusive conversation, the Prince, drawing himself up, said that, in order to give Lord Palmerston "an example of what the Queen wanted," he would "ask him a question point-blank." Lord Palmerston waited in respectful silence, while the Prince proceeded as follows: "You are aware that the Queen has objected to the Protocol about Schleswig, and of the grounds on which she has done so. Her opinion has been overruled, the Protocol stating the desire of the Great Powers to see the integrity of the Danish monarchy preserved has been signed, and upon this the King of Denmark has invaded Schleswig, where the war is raging. If Holstein is attacked also, which is likely, the Germans will not be restrained from flying to her assistance; Russia has menaced to interfere with arms, if the Schleswigers are successful. What will you do, if this emergency arises (provoking most likely an European war), and which will arise very probably when we shall be at Balmoral and Lord John in another part of Scotland? The Queen expects from your foresight that you have contemplated this possibility, and requires a categorical answer as to what you would do in the event supposed." Strangely enough, to this pointblank question, the Foreign Secretary appeared to be unable to reply. The whole matter, he said, was extremely complicated, and the contingencies mentioned by His Royal Highness were very unlikely to arise. The Prince persisted; but it was useless; for a full hour he struggled to extract a categorical answer, until at length Palmerston bowed himself out of the room. Albert threw up his hands in shocked amazement: what could one do with such a man? What indeed? For, in spite of all his apologies and all his promises, within a few weeks the incorrigible reprobate was at his tricks again. The Austrian General Haynau, notorious as a rigorous suppressor of rebellion in Hungary and Italy, and in particular as a flogger of women, came to England and took it into his head to pay a visit to Messrs. Barclay and Perkins's brewery. The features of "General Hyena," as he was everywhere called--his grim thin face, his enormous pepper-and-salt moustaches--had gained a horrid celebrity; and it so happened that among the clerks at the brewery there was a refugee from Vienna, who had given his fellow-workers a first-hand account of the General's characteristics. The Austrian Ambassador, scenting danger, begged his friend not to appear in public, or, if he must do so, to cut off his moustaches first. But the General would take no advice. He went to the brewery, was immediately recognised, surrounded by a crowd of angry draymen, pushed about, shouted at, punched in the ribs, and pulled by the moustaches until, bolting down an alley with the mob at his heels brandishing brooms and roaring "Hyena!" he managed to take refuge in a public house, whence he was removed under the protection of several policemen. The Austrian Government was angry and demanded explanations. Palmerston, who, of course, was privately delighted by the incident, replied regretting what had occurred, but adding that in his opinion the General had "evinced a want of propriety in coming to England at the present moment;" and he delivered his note to the Ambassador without having previously submitted it to the Queen or to the Prime Minister. Naturally, when this was discovered, there was a serious storm. The Prince was especially indignant; the conduct of the draymen he regarded, with disgust and alarm, as "a slight foretaste of what an unregulated mass of illiterate people is capable;" and Palmerston was requested by Lord John to withdraw his note, and to substitute for it another from which all censure of the General had been omitted. On this the Foreign Secretary threatened resignation, but the Prime Minister was firm. For a moment the royal hopes rose high, only to be dashed to the ground again by the cruel compliance of the enemy. Palmerston, suddenly lamblike, agreed to everything; the note was withdrawn and altered, and peace was patched up once more. It lasted for a year, and then, in October, 1851, the arrival of Kossuth in England brought on another crisis. Palmerston's desire to receive the Hungarian patriot at his house in London was vetoed by Lord John; once more there was a sharp struggle; once more Palmerston, after threatening resignation, yielded. But still the insubordinate man could not keep quiet. A few weeks later a deputation of Radicals from Finsbury and Islington waited on him at the Foreign Office and presented him with an address, in which the Emperors of Austria and Russia were stigmatised as "odious and detestable assassins" and "merciless tyrants and despots." The Foreign Secretary in his reply, while mildly deprecating these expressions, allowed his real sentiments to appear with a most undiplomatic insouciance There was an immediate scandal, and the Court flowed over with rage and vituperation. "I think," said the Baron, "the man has been for some time insane." Victoria, in an agitated letter, urged Lord John to assert his authority. But Lord John perceived that on this matter the Foreign Secretary had the support of public opinion, and he judged it wiser to bide his time. He had not long to wait. The culmination of the long series of conflicts, threats, and exacerbations came before the year was out. On December 2, Louis Napoleon's coup d'etat took place in Paris; and on the following day Palmerston, without consulting anybody, expressed in a conversation with the French Ambassador his approval of Napoleon's act. Two days later, he was instructed by the Prime Minister, in accordance with a letter from the Queen, that it was the policy of the English Government to maintain an attitude of strict neutrality towards the affairs of France. Nevertheless, in an official despatch to the British Ambassador in Paris, he repeated the approval of the coup d'etat which he had already given verbally to the French Ambassador in London. This despatch was submitted neither to the Queen nor to the Prime Minister. Lord John's patience, as he himself said, "was drained to the last drop." He dismissed Lord Palmerston. Victoria was in ecstasies; and Albert knew that the triumph was his even more than Lord John's. It was his wish that Lord Granville, a young man whom he believed to be pliant to his influence, should be Palmerston's successor; and Lord Granville was appointed. Henceforward, it seemed that the Prince would have his way in foreign affairs. After years of struggle and mortification, success greeted him on every hand. In his family, he was an adored master; in the country, the Great Exhibition had brought him respect and glory; and now in the secret seats of power he had gained a new supremacy. He had wrestled with the terrible Lord Palmerston, the embodiment of all that was most hostile to him in the spirit of England, and his redoubtable opponent had been overthrown. Was England herself at his feet? It might be so; and yet... it is said that the sons of England have a certain tiresome quality: they never know when they are beaten. It was odd, but Palmerston was positively still jaunty. Was it possible? Could he believe, in his blind arrogance, that even his ignominious dismissal from office was something that could be brushed aside? III The Prince's triumph was short-lived. A few weeks later, owing to Palmerston's influence, the Government was defeated in the House, and Lord John resigned. Then, after a short interval, a coalition between the Whigs and the followers of Peel came into power, under the premiership of Lord Aberdeen. Once more, Palmerston was in the Cabinet. It was true that he did not return to the Foreign Office; that was something to the good; in the Home Department it might be hoped that his activities would be less dangerous and disagreeable. But the Foreign Secretary was no longer the complacent Granville; and in Lord Clarendon the Prince knew that he had a Minister to deal with, who, discreet and courteous as he was, had a mind of his own. These changes, however, were merely the preliminaries of a far more serious development. Events, on every side, were moving towards a catastrophe. Suddenly the nation found itself under the awful shadow of imminent war. For several months, amid the shifting mysteries of diplomacy and the perplexed agitations of politics, the issue grew more doubtful and more dark, while the national temper was strained to the breaking-point. At the very crisis of the long and ominous negotiations, it was announced that Lord Palmerston had resigned. Then the pent-up fury of the people burst forth. They had felt that in the terrible complexity of events they were being guided by weak and embarrassed counsels; but they had been reassured by the knowledge that at the centre of power there was one man with strength, with courage, with determination, in whom they could put their trust. They now learnt that that man was no longer among their leaders. Why? In their rage, anxiety, and nervous exhaustion, they looked round desperately for some hidden and horrible explanation of what had occurred. They suspected plots, they smelt treachery in the air. It was easy to guess the object upon which their frenzy would vent itself. Was there not a foreigner in the highest of high places, a foreigner whose hostility to their own adored champion was unrelenting and unconcealed? The moment that Palmerston's resignation was known, there was a universal outcry and an extraordinary tempest of anger and hatred burst, with unparalleled violence, upon the head of the Prince. It was everywhere asserted and believed that the Queen's husband was a traitor to the country, that he was a tool of the Russian Court, that in obedience to Russian influences he had forced Palmerston out of the Government, and that he was directing the foreign policy of England in the interests of England's enemies. For many weeks these accusations filled the whole of the press; repeated at public meetings, elaborated in private talk, they flew over the country, growing every moment more extreme and more improbable. While respectable newspapers thundered out their grave invectives, halfpenny broadsides, hawked through the streets of London, re-echoed in doggerel vulgarity the same sentiments and the same suspicions(*). At last the wildest rumours began to spread. (*)"The Turkish war both far and near Has played the very deuce then, And little Al, the royal pal, They say has turned a Russian; Old Aberdeen, as may be seen, Looks woeful pale and yellow, And Old John Bull had his belly full Of dirty Russian tallow." Chorus: "We'll send him home and make him groan, Oh, Al! you've played the deuce then; The German lad has acted sad And turned tail with the Russians." * * * * * "Last Monday night, all in a fright, Al out of bed did tumble. The German lad was raving mad, How he did groan and grumble! He cried to Vic, 'I've cut my stick: To St. Petersburg go right slap.' When Vic, 'tis said, jumped out of bed, And wopped him with her night-cap." From Lovely Albert! a broadside preserved at the British Museum. In January, 1854, it was whispered that the Prince had been seized, that he had been found guilty of high treason, that he was to be committed to the Tower. The Queen herself, some declared, had been arrested, and large crowds actually collected round the Tower to watch the incarceration of the royal miscreants.(*) (*)"You Jolly Turks, now go to work, And show the Bear your power. It is rumoured over Britain's isle That A------ is in the Tower; The postmen some suspicion had, And opened the two letters, 'Twas a pity sad the German lad Should not have known much better!" Lovely Albert! These fantastic hallucinations, the result of the fevered atmosphere of approaching war, were devoid of any basis in actual fact. Palmerston's resignation had been in all probability totally disconnected with foreign policy; it had certainly been entirely spontaneous, and had surprised the Court as much as the nation. Nor had Albert's influence been used in any way to favour the interests of Russia. As often happens in such cases, the Government had been swinging backwards and forwards between two incompatible policies--that of non-interference and that of threats supported by force--either of which, if consistently followed, might well have had a successful and peaceful issue, but which, mingled together, could only lead to war. Albert, with characteristic scrupulosity, attempted to thread his way through the complicated labyrinth of European diplomacy, and eventually was lost in the maze. But so was the whole of the Cabinet; and, when war came, his anti-Russian feelings were quite as vehement as those of the most bellicose of Englishmen. Nevertheless, though the specific charges levelled against the Prince were without foundation, there were underlying elements in the situation which explained, if they did not justify, the popular state of mind. It was true that the Queen's husband was a foreigner, who had been brought up in a foreign Court, was impregnated with foreign ideas, and was closely related to a multitude of foreign princes. Clearly this, though perhaps an unavoidable, was an undesirable, state of affairs; nor were the objections to it merely theoretical; it had in fact produced unpleasant consequences of a serious kind. The Prince's German proclivities were perpetually lamented by English Ministers; Lord Palmerston, Lord Clarendon, Lord Aberdeen, all told the same tale; and it was constantly necessary, in grave questions of national policy, to combat the prepossessions of a Court in which German views and German sentiments held a disproportionate place. As for Palmerston, his language on this topic was apt to be unbridled. At the height of his annoyance over his resignation, he roundly declared that he had been made a victim to foreign intrigue. He afterwards toned down this accusation; but the mere fact that such a suggestion from such a quarter was possible at all showed to what unfortunate consequences Albert's foreign birth and foreign upbringing might lead. But this was not all. A constitutional question of the most profound importance was raised by the position of the Prince in England. His presence gave a new prominence to an old problem--the precise definition of the functions and the powers of the Crown. Those functions and powers had become, in effect, his; and what sort of use was he making of them? His views as to the place of the Crown in the Constitution are easily ascertainable; for they were Stockmar's; and it happens that we possess a detailed account of Stockmar's opinions upon the subject in a long letter addressed by him to the Prince at the time of this very crisis, just before the outbreak of the Crimean War. Constitutional Monarchy, according to the Baron, had suffered an eclipse since the passing of the Reform Bill. It was now "constantly in danger of becoming a pure Ministerial Government." The old race of Tories, who "had a direct interest in upholding the prerogatives of the Crown," had died out; and the Whigs were "nothing but partly conscious, partly unconscious Republicans, who stand in the same relation to the Throne as the wolf does to the lamb." There was a rule that it was unconstitutional to introduce "the name and person of the irresponsible Sovereign" into parliamentary debates on constitutional matters; this was "a constitutional fiction, which, although undoubtedly of old standing, was fraught with danger"; and the Baron warned the Prince that "if the English Crown permit a Whig Ministry to follow this rule in practice, without exception, you must not wonder if in a little time you find the majority of the people impressed with the belief that the King, in the view of the law, is nothing but a mandarin figure, which has to nod its head in assent, or shake it in denial, as his Minister pleases." To prevent this from happening, it was of extreme importance, said the Baron, "that no opportunity should be let slip of vindicating the legitimate position of the Crown." "And this is not hard to do," he added, "and can never embarrass a Minister where such straightforward loyal personages as the Queen and the Prince are concerned." In his opinion, the very lowest claim of the Royal Prerogative should include "a right on the part of the King to be the permanent President of his Ministerial Council." The Sovereign ought to be "in the position of a permanent Premier, who takes rank above the temporary head of the Cabinet, and in matters of discipline exercises supreme authority." The Sovereign "may even take a part in the initiation and the maturing of the Government measures; for it would be unreasonable to expect that a king, himself as able, as accomplished, and as patriotic as the best of his Ministers, should be prevented from making use of these qualities at the deliberations of his Council." "The judicious exercise of this right," concluded the Baron, "which certainly requires a master mind, would not only be the best guarantee for Constitutional Monarchy, but would raise it to a height of power, stability, and symmetry, which has never been attained." Now it may be that this reading of the Constitution is a possible one, though indeed it is hard to see how it can be made compatible with the fundamental doctrine of ministerial responsibility. William III presided over his Council, and he was a constitutional monarch; and it seems that Stockmar had in his mind a conception of the Crown which would have given it a place in the Constitution analogous to that which it filled at the time of William III. But it is clear that such a theory, which would invest the Crown with more power than it possessed even under George III, runs counter to the whole development of English public life since the Revolution; and the fact that it was held by Stockmar, and instilled by him into Albert, was of very serious importance. For there was good reason to believe not only that these doctrines were held by Albert in theory, but that he was making a deliberate and sustained attempt to give them practical validity. The history of the struggle between the Crown and Palmerston provided startling evidence that this was the case. That struggle reached its culmination when, in Stockmar's memorandum of 1850, the Queen asserted her "constitutional right" to dismiss the Foreign Secretary if he altered a despatch which had received her sanction. The memorandum was, in fact, a plain declaration that the Crown intended to act independently of the Prime Minister. Lord John Russell, anxious at all costs to strengthen himself against Palmerston, accepted the memorandum, and thereby implicitly allowed the claim of the Crown. More than that; after the dismissal of Palmerston, among the grounds on which Lord John justified that dismissal in the House of Commons he gave a prominent place to the memorandum of 1850. It became apparent that the displeasure of the Sovereign might be a reason for the removal of a powerful and popular Minister. It seemed indeed as if, under the guidance of Stockmar and Albert, the "Constitutional Monarchy" might in very truth be rising "to a height of power, stability, and symmetry, which had never been attained." But this new development in the position of the Crown, grave as it was in itself, was rendered peculiarly disquieting by the unusual circumstances which surrounded it. For the functions of the Crown were now, in effect, being exercised by a person unknown to the Constitution, who wielded over the Sovereign an undefined and unbounded influence. The fact that this person was the Sovereign's husband, while it explained his influence and even made it inevitable, by no means diminished its strange and momentous import. An ambiguous, prepotent figure had come to disturb the ancient, subtle, and jealously guarded balance of the English Constitution. Such had been the unexpected outcome of the tentative and fainthearted opening of Albert's political life. He himself made no attempt to minimise either the multiplicity or the significance of the functions he performed. He considered that it was his duty, he told the Duke of Wellington in 1850, to "sink his OWN INDIVIDUAL existence in that of his wife--assume no separate responsibility before the public, but make his position entirely a part of hers--fill up every gap which, as a woman, she would naturally leave in the exercise of her regal functions--continually and anxiously watch every part of the public business, in order to be able to advise and assist her at any moment in any of the multifarious and difficult questions or duties brought before her, sometimes international, sometimes political, or social, or personal. As the natural head of her family, superintendent of her household, manager of her private affairs, sole CONFIDENTIAL adviser in politics, and only assistant in her communications with the officers of the Government, he is, besides, the husband of the Queen, the tutor of the royal children, the private secretary of the Sovereign, and her permanent minister." Stockmar's pupil had assuredly gone far and learnt well. Stockmar's pupil!--precisely; the public, painfully aware of Albert's predominance, had grown, too, uneasily conscious that Victoria's master had a master of his own. Deep in the darkness the Baron loomed. Another foreigner! Decidedly, there were elements in the situation which went far to justify the popular alarm. A foreign Baron controlled a foreign Prince, and the foreign Prince controlled the Crown of England. And the Crown itself was creeping forward ominously; and when, from under its shadow, the Baron and the Prince had frowned, a great Minister, beloved of the people, had fallen. Where was all this to end? Within a few weeks Palmerston withdrew his resignation, and the public frenzy subsided as quickly as it had arisen. When Parliament met, the leaders of both the parties in both the Houses made speeches in favour of the Prince, asserting his unimpeachable loyalty to the country and vindicating his right to advise the Sovereign in all matters of State. Victoria was delighted. "The position of my beloved lord and master," she told the Baron, "has been defined for once amid all and his merits have been acknowledged on all sides most duly. There was an immense concourse of people assembled when we went to the House of Lords, and the people were very friendly." Immediately afterwards, the country finally plunged into the Crimean War. In the struggle that followed, Albert's patriotism was put beyond a doubt, and the animosities of the past were forgotten. But the war had another consequence, less gratifying to the royal couple: it crowned the ambition of Lord Palmerston. In 1855, the man who five years before had been pronounced by Lord John Russell to be "too old to do much in the future," became Prime Minister of England, and, with one short interval, remained in that position for ten years. CHAPTER VI. LAST YEARS OF PRINCE CONSORT I The weak-willed youth who took no interest in polities and never read a newspaper had grown into a man of unbending determination whose tireless energies were incessantly concentrated upon the laborious business of government and the highest questions of State. He was busy now from morning till night. In the winter, before the dawn, he was to be seen, seated at his writing-table, working by the light of the green reading--lamp which he had brought over with him from Germany, and the construction of which he had much improved by an ingenious device. Victoria was early too, but she was not so early as Albert; and when, in the chill darkness, she took her seat at her own writing-table, placed side by side with his, she invariably found upon it a neat pile of papers arranged for her inspection and her signature. The day, thus begun, continued in unremitting industry. At breakfast, the newspapers--the once hated newspapers--made their appearance, and the Prince, absorbed in their perusal, would answer no questions, or, if an article struck him, would read it aloud. After, that there were ministers and secretaries to interview; there was a vast correspondence to be carried on; there were numerous memoranda to be made. Victoria, treasuring every word, preserving every letter, was all breathless attention and eager obedience. Sometimes Albert would actually ask her advice. He consulted her about his English: "Lese recht aufmerksam, und sage wenn irgend ein Fehler ist,"(*) he would say; or, as he handed her a draft for her signature, he would observe, "Ich hab' Dir hier ein Draft gemacht, lese es mal! Ich dachte es ware recht so."(**) Thus the diligent, scrupulous, absorbing hours passed by. Fewer and fewer grew the moments of recreation and of exercise. The demands of society were narrowed down to the smallest limits, and even then but grudgingly attended to. It was no longer a mere pleasure, it was a positive necessity, to go to bed as early as possible in order to be up and at work on the morrow betimes. (*) "Read this carefully, and tell me if there are any mistakes in it." (**) "Here is a draft I have made for you. Read it. I should think this would do." The important and exacting business of government, which became at last the dominating preoccupation in Albert's mind, still left unimpaired his old tastes and interests; he remained devoted to art, to science, to philosophy, and a multitude of subsidiary activities showed how his energies increased as the demands upon them grew. For whenever duty called, the Prince was all alertness. With indefatigable perseverance he opened museums, laid the foundation stones of hospitals, made speeches to the Royal Agricultural Society, and attended meetings of the British Association. The National Gallery particularly interested him: he drew up careful regulations for the arrangement of the pictures according to schools; and he attempted--though in vain--to have the whole collection transported to South Kensington. Feodora, now the Princess Hohenlohe, after a visit to England, expressed in a letter to Victoria her admiration of Albert both as a private and a public character. Nor did she rely only on her own opinion. "I must just copy out," she said, "what Mr. Klumpp wrote to me some little time ago, and which is quite true--'Prince Albert is one of the few Royal personages who can sacrifice to any principle (as soon as it has become evident to them to be good and noble) all those notions (or sentiments) to which others, owing to their narrow-mindedness, or to the prejudices of their rank, are so thoroughly inclined strongly to cling.' There is something so truly religious in this," the Princess added, "as well as humane and just, most soothing to my feelings which are so often hurt and disturbed by what I hear and see." Victoria, from the depth of her heart, subscribed to all the eulogies of Feodora and Mr. Klumpp. She only found that they were insufficient. As she watched her beloved Albert, after toiling with state documents and public functions, devoting every spare moment of his time to domestic duties, to artistic appreciation, and to intellectual improvements; as she listened to him cracking his jokes at the luncheon table, or playing Mendelssohn on the organ, or pointing out the merits of Sir Edwin Landseer's pictures; as she followed him round while he gave instructions about the breeding of cattle, or decided that the Gainsboroughs must be hung higher up so that the Winterhalters might be properly seen--she felt perfectly certain that no other wife had ever had such a husband. His mind was apparently capable of everything, and she was hardly surprised to learn that he had made an important discovery for the conversion of sewage into agricultural manure. Filtration from below upwards, he explained, through some appropriate medium, which retained the solids and set free the fluid sewage for irrigation, was the principle of the scheme. "All previous plans," he said, "would have cost millions; mine costs next to nothing." Unfortunately, owing to a slight miscalculation, the invention proved to be impracticable; but Albert's intelligence was unrebuffed, and he passed on, to plunge with all his accustomed ardour into a prolonged study of the rudiments of lithography. But naturally it was upon his children that his private interests and those of Victoria were concentrated most vigorously. The royal nurseries showed no sign of emptying. The birth of the Prince Arthur in 1850 was followed, three years later, by that of the Prince Leopold; and in 1857 the Princess Beatrice was born. A family of nine must be, in any circumstances, a grave responsibility; and the Prince realised to the full how much the high destinies of his offspring intensified the need of parental care. It was inevitable that he should believe profoundly in the importance of education; he himself had been the product of education; Stockmar had made him what he was; it was for him, in his turn, to be a Stockmar--to be even more than a Stockmar--to the young creatures he had brought into the world. Victoria would assist him; a Stockmar, no doubt, she could hardly be; but she could be perpetually vigilant, she could mingle strictness with her affection, and she could always set a good example. These considerations, of course, applied pre-eminently to the education of the Prince of Wales. How tremendous was the significance of every particle of influence which went to the making of the future King of England! Albert set to work with a will. But, watching with Victoria the minutest details of the physical, intellectual, and moral training of his children, he soon perceived, to his distress, that there was something unsatisfactory in the development of his eldest son. The Princess Royal was an extremely intelligent child; but Bertie, though he was good-humoured and gentle, seemed to display a deep-seated repugnance to every form of mental exertion. This was most regrettable, but the remedy was obvious: the parental efforts must be redoubled; instruction must be multiplied; not for a single instant must the educational pressure be allowed to relax. Accordingly, more tutors were selected, the curriculum was revised, the time-table of studies was rearranged, elaborate memoranda dealing with every possible contingency were drawn up. It was above all essential that there should be no slackness: "Work," said the Prince, "must be work." And work indeed it was. The boy grew up amid a ceaseless round of paradigms, syntactical exercises, dates, genealogical tables, and lists of capes. Constant notes flew backwards and forwards between the Prince, the Queen, and the tutors, with inquiries, with reports of progress, with detailed recommendations; and these notes were all carefully preserved for future reference. It was, besides, vital that the heir to the throne should be protected from the slightest possibility of contamination from the outside world. The Prince of Wales was not as other boys; he might, occasionally, be allowed to invite some sons of the nobility, boys of good character, to play with him in the garden of Buckingham Palace; but his father presided, with alarming precision, over their sports. In short, every possible precaution was taken, every conceivable effort was made. Yet, strange to say, the object of all this vigilance and solicitude continued to be unsatisfactory--appeared, in fact, to be positively growing worse. It was certainly very odd: the more lessons that Bertie had to do, the less he did them; and the more carefully he was guarded against excitements and frivolities, the more desirous of mere amusement he seemed to become. Albert was deeply grieved and Victoria was sometimes very angry; but grief and anger produced no more effect than supervision and time-tables. The Prince of Wales, in spite of everything, grew up into manhood without the faintest sign of "adherence to and perseverance in the plan both of studies and life--" as one of the Royal memoranda put it--which had been laid down with such extraordinary forethought by his father. II Against the insidious worries of politics, the boredom of society functions, and the pompous publicity of state ceremonies, Osborne had afforded a welcome refuge; but it soon appeared that even Osborne was too little removed from the world. After all, the Solent was a feeble barrier. Oh, for some distant, some almost inaccessible sanctuary, where, in true domestic privacy, one could make happy holiday, just as if--or at least very, very, nearly--one were anybody else! Victoria, ever since, together with Albert, she had visited Scotland in the early years of her marriage, had felt that her heart was in the Highlands. She had returned to them a few years later, and her passion had grown. How romantic they were! And how Albert enjoyed them too! His spirits rose quite wonderfully as soon as he found himself among the hills and the conifers. "It is a happiness to see him," she wrote. "Oh! What can equal the beauties of nature!" she exclaimed in her journal, during one of these visits. "What enjoyment there is in them! Albert enjoys it so much; he is in ecstasies here." "Albert said," she noted next day, "that the chief beauty of mountain scenery consists in its frequent changes. We came home at six o'clock." Then she went on a longer expedition--up to the very top of a high hill. "It was quite romantic. Here we were with only this Highlander behind us holding the ponies (for we got off twice and walked about). . . . We came home at half-past eleven,--the most delightful, most romantic ride and walk I ever had. I had never been up such a mountain, and then the day was so fine." The Highlanders, too, were such astonishing people. They "never make difficulties," she noted, "but are cheerful, and happy, and merry, and ready to walk, and run, and do anything." As for Albert he "highly appreciated the good-breeding, simplicity, and intelligence, which make it so pleasant and even instructive to talk to them." "We were always in the habit," wrote Her Majesty, "of conversing with the Highlanders--with whom one comes so much in contact in the Highlands." She loved everything about them--their customs, their dress, their dances, even their musical instruments. "There were nine pipers at the castle," she wrote after staying with Lord Breadalbane; "sometimes one and sometimes three played. They always played about breakfast-time, again during the morning, at luncheon, and also whenever we went in and out; again before dinner, and during most of dinner-time. We both have become quite fond of the bag-pipes." It was quite impossible not to wish to return to such pleasures again and again; and in 1848 the Queen took a lease of Balmoral House, a small residence near Braemar in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. Four years later she bought the place outright. Now she could be really happy every summer; now she could be simple and at her ease; now she could be romantic every evening, and dote upon Albert, without a single distraction, all day long. The diminutive scale of the house was in itself a charm. Nothing was more amusing than to find oneself living in two or three little sitting--rooms, with the children crammed away upstairs, and the minister in attendance with only a tiny bedroom to do all his work in. And then to be able to run in and out of doors as one liked, and to sketch, and to walk, and to watch the red deer coming so surprisingly close, and to pay visits to the cottagers! And occasionally one could be more adventurous still--one could go and stay for a night or two at the Bothie at Alt-na-giuthasach--a mere couple of huts with "a wooden addition"--and only eleven people in the whole party! And there were mountains to be climbed and cairns to be built in solemn pomp. "At last, when the cairn, which is, I think, seven or eight feet high, was nearly completed, Albert climbed up to the top of it, and placed the last stone; after which three cheers were given. It was a gay, pretty, and touching sight; and I felt almost inclined to cry. The view was so beautiful over the dear hills; the day so fine; the whole so gemuthlich." And in the evening there were sword-dances and reels. But Albert had determined to pull down the little old house, and to build in its place a castle of his own designing. With great ceremony, in accordance with a memorandum drawn up by the Prince for the occasion, the foundation-stone of the new edifice was laid, and by 1855 it was habitable. Spacious, built of granite in the Scotch baronial style, with a tower 100 feet high, and minor turrets and castellated gables, the castle was skilfully arranged to command the finest views of the surrounding mountains and of the neighbouring river Dee. Upon the interior decorations Albert and Victoria lavished all their care. The wall and the floors were of pitch-pine, and covered with specially manufactured tartars. The Balmoral tartan, in red and grey, designed by the Prince, and the Victoria tartan, with a white stripe, designed by the Queen, were to be seen in every room: there were tartan curtains, and tartan chair-covers, and even tartan linoleums. Occasionally the Royal Stuart tartan appeared, for Her Majesty always maintained that she was an ardent Jacobite. Water-colour sketches by Victoria hung upon the walls, together with innumerable stags' antlers, and the head of a boar, which had been shot by Albert in Germany. In an alcove in the hall, stood a life-sized statue of Albert in Highland dress. Victoria declared that it was perfection. "Every year," she wrote, "my heart becomes more fixed in this dear paradise, and so much more so now, that ALL has become my dear Albert's own creation, own work, own building, own lay-out... and his great taste, and the impress of his dear hand, have been stamped everywhere." And here, in very truth, her happiest days were passed. In after years, when she looked back upon them, a kind of glory, a radiance as of an unearthly holiness, seemed to glow about these golden hours. Each hallowed moment stood out clear, beautiful, eternally significant. For, at the time, every experience there, sentimental, or grave, or trivial, had come upon her with a peculiar vividness, like a flashing of marvellous lights. Albert's stalkings--an evening walk when she lost her way--Vicky sitting down on a wasps' nest--a torchlight dance--with what intensity such things, and ten thousand like them, impressed themselves upon her eager consciousness! And how she flew to her journal to note them down! The news of the Duke's death! What a moment--when, as she sat sketching after a picnic by a loch in the lonely hills, Lord Derby's letter had been brought to her, and she had learnt that "ENGLAND'S, or rather BRITAIN'S pride, her glory, her hero, the greatest man she had ever produced, was no morel." For such were here reflections upon the "old rebel" of former days. But that past had been utterly obliterated--no faintest memory of it remained. For years she had looked up to the Duke as a figure almost superhuman. Had he not been a supporter of good Sir Robert? Had he not asked Albert to succeed him as commander-in-chief? And what a proud moment it had been when he stood as sponsor to her son Arthur, who was born on his eighty-first birthday! So now she filled a whole page of her diary with panegyrical regrets. "His position was the highest a subject ever had--above party--looked up to by all--revered by the whole nation--the friend of the Sovereign... The Crown never possessed--and I fear never WILL--so DEVOTED, loyal, and faithful a subject, so staunch a supporter! To US his loss is IRREPARABLE... To Albert he showed the greatest kindness and the utmost confidence... Not an eye will be dry in the whole country." These were serious thoughts; but they were soon succeeded by others hardly less moving--by events as impossible to forget--by Mr. MacLeod's sermon on Nicodemus--by the gift of a red flannel petticoat to Mrs. P. Farquharson, and another to old Kitty Kear. But, without doubt, most memorable, most delightful of all were the expeditions--the rare, exciting expeditions up distant mountains, across broad rivers, through strange country, and lasting several days. With only two gillies--Grant and Brown--for servants, and with assumed names. It was more like something in a story than real life. "We had decided to call ourselves LORD AND LADY CHURCHILL AND AND PARTY--Lady Churchill passing as MISS SPENCER and General Grey as DR. GREY! Brown once forgot this and called me 'Your Majesty' as I was getting into the carriage, and Grant on the box once called Albert 'Your Royal Highness,' which set us off laughing, but no one observed it." Strong, vigorous, enthusiastic, bringing, so it seemed, good fortune with her--the Highlanders declared she had "a lucky foot"--she relished everything--the scrambles and the views and the contretemps and the rough inns with their coarse fare and Brown and Grant waiting at table. She could have gone on for ever and ever, absolutely happy with Albert beside her and Brown at her pony's head. But the time came for turning homewards, alas! the time came for going back to England. She could hardly bear it; she sat disconsolate in her room and watched the snow falling. The last day! Oh! If only she could be snowed up! III The Crimean War brought new experiences, and most of them were pleasant ones. It was pleasant to be patriotic and pugnacious, to look out appropriate prayers to be read in the churches, to have news of glorious victories, and to know oneself, more proudly than ever, the representative of England. With that spontaneity of feeling which was so peculiarly her own, Victoria poured out her emotion, her admiration, her pity, her love, upon her "dear soldiers." When she gave them their medals her exultation knew no bounds. "Noble fellows!" she wrote to the King of the Belgians, "I own I feel as if these were MY OWN CHILDREN; my heart beats for THEM as for my NEAREST and DEAREST. They were so touched, so pleased; many, I hear, cried--and they won't hear of giving up their medals to have their names engraved upon them for fear they should not receive the IDENTICAL ONE put into THEIR HANDS BY ME, which is quite touching. Several came by in a sadly mutilated state." She and they were at one. They felt that she had done them a splendid honour, and she, with perfect genuineness, shared their feeling. Albert's attitude towards such things was different; there was an austerity in him which quite prohibited the expansions of emotion. When General Williams returned from the heroic defence of Kars and was presented at Court, the quick, stiff, distant bow with which the Prince received him struck like ice upon the beholders. He was a stranger still. But he had other things to occupy him, more important, surely, than the personal impressions of military officers and people who went to Court. He was at work--ceaselessly at work--on the tremendous task of carrying through the war to a successful conclusion. State papers, despatches, memoranda, poured from him in an overwhelming stream. Between 1853 and 1857 fifty folio volumes were filled with the comments of his pen upon the Eastern question. Nothing would induce him to stop. Weary ministers staggered under the load of his advice; but his advice continued, piling itself up over their writing-tables, and flowing out upon them from red box after red box. Nor was it advice to be ignored. The talent for administration which had reorganised the royal palaces and planned the Great Exhibition asserted itself no less in the confused complexities of war. Again and again the Prince's suggestions, rejected or unheeded at first, were adopted under the stress of circumstances and found to be full of value. The enrolment of a foreign legion, the establishment of a depot for troops at Malta, the institution of periodical reports and tabulated returns as to the condition of the army at Sebastopol--such were the contrivances and the achievements of his indefatigable brain. He went further: in a lengthy minute he laid down the lines for a radical reform in the entire administration of the army. This was premature, but his proposal that "a camp of evolution" should be created, in which troops should be concentrated and drilled, proved to be the germ of Aldershot. Meanwhile Victoria had made a new friend: she had suddenly been captivated by Napoleon III. Her dislike of him had been strong at first. She considered that he was a disreputable adventurer who had usurped the throne of poor old Louis Philippe; and besides he was hand-in-glove with Lord Palmerston. For a long time, although he was her ally, she was unwilling to meet him; but at last a visit of the Emperor and Empress to England was arranged. Directly he appeared at Windsor her heart began to soften. She found that she was charmed by his quiet manners, his low, soft voice, and by the soothing simplicity of his conversation. The good-will of England was essential to the Emperor's position in Europe, and he had determined to fascinate the Queen. He succeeded. There was something deep within her which responded immediately and vehemently to natures that offered a romantic contrast with her own. Her adoration of Lord Melbourne was intimately interwoven with her half-unconscious appreciation of the exciting unlikeness between herself and that sophisticated, subtle, aristocratical old man. Very different was the quality of her unlikeness to Napoleon; but its quantity was at least as great. From behind the vast solidity of her respectability, her conventionality, her established happiness, she peered out with a strange delicious pleasure at that unfamiliar, darkly-glittering foreign object, moving so meteorically before her, an ambiguous creature of wilfulness and Destiny. And, to her surprise, where she had dreaded antagonisms, she discovered only sympathies. He was, she said, "so quiet, so simple, naif even, so pleased to be informed about things he does not know, so gentle, so full of tact, dignity, and modesty, so full of kind attention towards us, never saying a word, or doing a thing, which could put me out... There is something fascinating, melancholy, and engaging which draws you to him, in spite of any prevention you may have against him, and certainly without the assistance of any outward appearance, though I like his face." She observed that he rode "extremely well, and looks well on horseback, as he sits high." And he danced "with great dignity and spirit." Above all, he listened to Albert; listened with the most respectful attention; showed, in fact, how pleased he was "to be informed about things he did not know;" and afterwards was heard to declare that he had never met the Prince's equal. On one occasion, indeed--but only on one--he had seemed to grow slightly restive. In a diplomatic conversation, "I expatiated a little on the Holstein question," wrote the Prince in a memorandum, "which appeared to bore the Emperor as 'tres compliquee.'" Victoria, too, became much attached to the Empress, whose looks and graces she admired without a touch of jealousy. Eugenie, indeed, in the plenitude of her beauty, exquisitely dressed in wonderful Parisian crinolines which set off to perfection her tall and willowy figure, might well have caused some heart-burning in the breast of her hostess, who, very short, rather stout, quite plain, in garish middle-class garments, could hardly be expected to feel at her best in such company. But Victoria had no misgivings. To her it mattered nothing that her face turned red in the heat and that her purple pork-pie hat was of last year's fashion, while Eugenie, cool and modish, floated in an infinitude of flounces by her side. She was Queen of England, and was not that enough? It certainly seemed to be; true majesty was hers, and she knew it. More than once, when the two were together in public, it was the woman to whom, as it seemed, nature and art had given so little, who, by the sheer force of an inherent grandeur, completely threw her adorned and beautiful companion into the shade. There were tears when the moment came for parting, and Victoria felt "quite wehmuthig," as her guests went away from Windsor. But before long she and Albert paid a return visit to France, where everything was very delightful, and she drove incognito through the streets of Paris in a "common bonnet," and saw a play in the theatre at St. Cloud, and, one evening, at a great party given by the Emperor in her honour at the Chateau of Versailles, talked a little to a distinguished-looking Prussian gentleman, whose name was Bismarck. Her rooms were furnished so much to her taste that she declared they gave her quite a home feeling--that, if her little dog were there, she should really imagine herself at home. Nothing was said, but three days later her little dog barked a welcome to her as she entered the apartments. The Emperor himself, sparing neither trouble nor expense, had personally arranged the charming surprise. Such were his attentions. She returned to England more enchanted than ever. "Strange indeed," she exclaimed, "are the dispensations and ways of Providence!" The alliance prospered, and the war drew towards a conclusion. Both the Queen and the Prince, it is true, were most anxious that there should not be a premature peace. When Lord Aberdeen wished to open negotiations Albert attacked him in a "geharnischten" letter, while Victoria rode about on horseback reviewing the troops. At last, however, Sebastopol was captured. The news reached Balmoral late at night, and in a few minutes Albert and all the gentlemen in every species of attire sallied forth, followed by all the servants, and gradually by all the population of the village-keepers, gillies, workmen--"up to the top of the cairn." A bonfire was lighted, the pipes were played, and guns were shot off. "About three-quarters of an hour after Albert came down and said the scene had been wild and exciting beyond everything. The people had been drinking healths in whisky and were in great ecstasy." The "great ecstasy," perhaps, would be replaced by other feelings next morning; but at any rate the war was over--though, to be sure, its end seemed as difficult to account for as its beginning. The dispensations and ways of Providence continued to be strange. IV An unexpected consequence of the war was a complete change in the relations between the royal pair and Palmerston. The Prince and the Minister drew together over their hostility to Russia, and thus it came about that when Victoria found it necessary to summon her old enemy to form an administration she did so without reluctance. The premiership, too, had a sobering effect upon Palmerston; he grew less impatient and dictatorial; considered with attention the suggestions of the Crown, and was, besides, genuinely impressed by the Prince's ability and knowledge. Friction, no doubt, there still occasionally was, for, while the Queen and the Prince devoted themselves to foreign politics as much as ever, their views, when the war was over, became once more antagonistic to those of the Prime Minister. This was especially the case with regard to Italy. Albert, theoretically the friend of constitutional government, distrusted Cavour, was horrified by Garibaldi, and dreaded the danger of England being drawn into war with Austria. Palmerston, on the other hand, was eager for Italian independence; but he was no longer at the Foreign Office, and the brunt of the royal displeasure had now to be borne by Lord John Russell. In a few years the situation had curiously altered. It was Lord John who now filled the subordinate and the ungrateful role; but the Foreign Secretary, in his struggle with the Crown, was supported, instead of opposed, by the Prime Minister. Nevertheless the struggle was fierce, and the policy, by which the vigorous sympathy of England became one of the decisive factors in the final achievement of Italian unity, was only carried through in face of the violent opposition of the Court. Towards the other European storm-centre, also, the Prince's attitude continued to be very different to that of Palmerston. Albert's great wish was for a united Germany under the leadership of a constitutional and virtuous Prussia; Palmerston did not think that there was much to be said for the scheme, but he took no particular interest in German politics, and was ready enough to agree to a proposal which was warmly supported by both the Prince and the Queen--that the royal Houses of England and Prussia should be united by the marriage of the Princess Royal with the Prussian Crown Prince. Accordingly, when the Princess was not yet fifteen, the Prince, a young man of twenty-four, came over on a visit to Balmoral, and the betrothal took place. Two years later, in 1857, the marriage was celebrated. At the last moment, however, it seemed that there might be a hitch. It was pointed out in Prussia that it was customary for Princes of the blood royal to be married in Berlin, and it was suggested that there was no reason why the present case should be treated as an exception. When this reached the ears of Victoria, she was speechless with indignation. In a note, emphatic even for Her Majesty, she instructed the Foreign Secretary to tell the Prussian Ambassador "not to ENTERTAIN the POSSIBILITY of such a question... The Queen NEVER could consent to it, both for public and for private reasons, and the assumption of its being TOO MUCH for a Prince Royal of Prussia to come over to marry the Princess Royal of Great Britain in England is too ABSURD to say the least. . . Whatever may be the usual practice of Prussian princes, it is not EVERY day that one marries the eldest daughter of the Queen of England. The question must therefore be considered as settled and closed." It was, and the wedding took place in St. James's Chapel. There were great festivities--illuminations, state concerts, immense crowds, and general rejoicings. At Windsor a magnificent banquet was given to the bride and bridegroom in the Waterloo room, at which, Victoria noted in her diary, "everybody was most friendly and kind about Vicky and full of the universal enthusiasm, of which the Duke of Buccleuch gave us most pleasing instances, he having been in the very thick of the crowd and among the lowest of the low." Her feelings during several days had been growing more and more emotional, and when the time came for the young couple to depart she very nearly broke down--but not quite. "Poor dear child!" she wrote afterwards. "I clasped her in my arms and blessed her, and knew not what to say. I kissed good Fritz and pressed his hand again and again. He was unable to speak and the tears were in his eyes. I embraced them both again at the carriage door, and Albert got into the carriage, an open one, with them and Bertie... The band struck up. I wished good-bye to the good Perponchers. General Schreckenstein was much affected. I pressed his hand, and the good Dean's, and then went quickly upstairs." Albert, as well as General Schreckenstein, was much affected. He was losing his favourite child, whose opening intelligence had already begun to display a marked resemblance to his own--an adoring pupil, who, in a few years, might have become an almost adequate companion. An ironic fate had determined that the daughter who was taken from him should be sympathetic, clever, interested in the arts and sciences, and endowed with a strong taste for memoranda, while not a single one of these qualities could be discovered in the son who remained. For certainly the Prince of Wales did not take after his father. Victoria's prayer had been unanswered, and with each succeeding year it became more obvious that Bertie was a true scion of the House of Brunswick. But these evidences of innate characteristics only served to redouble the efforts of his parents; it still might not be too late to incline the young branch, by ceaseless pressure and careful fastenings, to grow in the proper direction. Everything was tried. The boy was sent on a continental tour with a picked body of tutors, but the results were unsatisfactory. At his father's request he kept a diary which, on his return, was inspected by the Prince. It was found to be distressingly meagre: what a multitude of highly interesting reflections might have been arranged under the heading: "The First Prince of Wales visiting the Pope!" But there was not a single one. "Le jeune prince plaisit a tout le monde," old Metternich reported to Guizot, "mais avait l'air embarrasse et tres triste." On his seventeenth birthday a memorandum was drawn up over the names of the Queen and the Prince informing their eldest son that he was now entering upon the period of manhood, and directing him henceforward to perform the duties of a Christian gentleman. "Life is composed of duties," said the memorandum, "and in the due, punctual and cheerful performance of them the true Christian, true soldier, and true gentleman is recognised... A new sphere of life will open for you in which you will have to be taught what to do and what not to do, a subject requiring study more important than any in which you have hitherto been engaged." On receipt of the memorandum Bertie burst into tears. At the same time another memorandum was drawn up, headed "confidential: for the guidance of the gentlemen appointed to attend on the Prince of Wales." This long and elaborate document laid down "certain principles" by which the "conduct and demeanour" of the gentlemen were to be regulated "and which it is thought may conduce to the benefit of the Prince of Wales." "The qualities which distinguish a gentleman in society," continued this remarkable paper, "are:-- (1) His appearance, his deportment and dress. (2) The character of his relations with, and treatment of, others. (3) His desire and power to acquit himself creditably in conversation or whatever is the occupation of the society with which he mixes." A minute and detailed analysis of these subheadings followed, filling several pages, and the memorandum ended with a final exhortation to the gentlemen: "If they will duly appreciate the responsibility of their position, and taking the points above laid down as the outline, will exercise their own good sense in acting UPON ALL OCCASIONS all upon these principles, thinking no point of detail too minute to be important, but maintaining one steady consistent line of conduct they may render essential service to the young Prince and justify the flattering selection made by the royal parents." A year later the young Prince was sent to Oxford, where the greatest care was taken that he should not mix with the undergraduates. Yes, everything had been tried--everything... with one single exception. The experiment had never been made of letting Bertie enjoy himself. But why should it have been? "Life is composed of duties." What possible place could there be for enjoyment in the existence of a Prince of Wales? The same year which deprived Albert of the Princess Royal brought him another and a still more serious loss. The Baron had paid his last visit to England. For twenty years, as he himself said in a letter to the King of the Belgians, he had performed "the laborious and exhausting office of a paternal friend and trusted adviser" to the Prince and the Queen. He was seventy; he was tired, physically and mentally; it was time to go. He returned to his home in Coburg, exchanging, once for all, the momentous secrecies of European statecraft for the little-tattle of a provincial capital and the gossip of family life. In his stiff chair by the fire he nodded now over old stories--not of emperors and generals--but of neighbours and relatives and the domestic adventures of long ago--the burning of his father's library--and the goat that ran upstairs to his sister's room and ran twice round the table and then ran down again. Dyspepsia and depression still attacked him; but, looking back over his life, he was not dissatisfied. His conscience was clear. "I have worked as long as I had strength to work," he said, "and for a purpose no one can impugn. The consciousness of this is my reward--the only one which I desired to earn." Apparently, indeed, his "purpose" had been accomplished. By his wisdom, his patience, and his example he had brought about, in the fullness of time, the miraculous metamorphosis of which he had dreamed. The Prince was his creation. An indefatigable toiler, presiding, for the highest ends, over a great nation--that was his achievement; and he looked upon his work and it was good. But had the Baron no misgivings? Did he never wonder whether, perhaps, he might have accomplished not too little but too much? How subtle and how dangerous are the snares which fate lays for the wariest of men! Albert, certainly, seemed to be everything that Stockmar could have wished--virtuous, industrious, persevering, intelligent. And yet--why was it--all was not well with him? He was sick at heart. For in spite of everything he had never reached to happiness. His work, for which at last he came to crave with an almost morbid appetite, was a solace and not a cure; the dragon of his dissatisfaction devoured with dark relish that ever-growing tribute of laborious days and nights; but it was hungry still. The causes of his melancholy were hidden, mysterious, unanalysable perhaps--too deeply rooted in the innermost recesses of his temperament for the eye of reason to apprehend. There were contradictions in his nature, which, to some of those who knew him best, made him seem an inexplicable enigma: he was severe and gentle; he was modest and scornful; he longed for affection and he was cold. He was lonely, not merely with the loneliness of exile but with the loneliness of conscious and unrecognised superiority. He had the pride, at once resigned and overweening, of a doctrinaire. And yet to say that he was simply a doctrinaire would be a false description; for the pure doctrinaire rejoices always in an internal contentment, and Albert was very far from doing that. There was something that he wanted and that he could never get. What was it? Some absolute, some ineffable sympathy? Some extraordinary, some sublime success? Possibly, it was a mixture of both. To dominate and to be understood! To conquer, by the same triumphant influence, the submission and the appreciation of men--that would be worth while indeed! But, to such imaginations, he saw too clearly how faint were the responses of his actual environment. Who was there who appreciated him, really and truly? Who COULD appreciate him in England? And, if the gentle virtue of an inward excellence availed so little, could he expect more from the hard ways of skill and force? The terrible land of his exile loomed before him a frigid, an impregnable mass. Doubtless he had made some slight impression: it was true that he had gained the respect of his fellow workers, that his probity, his industry, his exactitude, had been recognised, that he was a highly influential, an extremely important man. But how far, how very far, was all this from the goal of his ambitions! How feeble and futile his efforts seemed against the enormous coagulation of dullness, of folly, of slackness, of ignorance, of confusion that confronted him! He might have the strength or the ingenuity to make some small change for the better here or there--to rearrange some detail, to abolish some anomaly, to insist upon some obvious reform; but the heart of the appalling organism remained untouched. England lumbered on, impervious and self-satisfied, in her old intolerable course. He threw himself across the path of the monster with rigid purpose and set teeth, but he was brushed aside. Yes! even Palmerston was still unconquered--was still there to afflict him with his jauntiness, his muddle-headedness, his utter lack of principle. It was too much. Neither nature nor the Baron had given him a sanguine spirit; the seeds of pessimism, once lodged within him, flourished in a propitious soil. He "questioned things, and did not find One that would answer to his mind; And all the world appeared unkind." He believed that he was a failure and he began to despair. Yet Stockmar had told him that he must "never relax," and he never would. He would go on, working to the utmost and striving for the highest, to the bitter end. His industry grew almost maniacal. Earlier and earlier was the green lamp lighted; more vast grew the correspondence; more searching the examination of the newspapers; the interminable memoranda more punctilious, analytical, and precise. His very recreations became duties. He enjoyed himself by time-table, went deer-stalking with meticulous gusto, and made puns at lunch--it was the right thing to do. The mechanism worked with astonishing efficiency, but it never rested and it was never oiled. In dry exactitude the innumerable cog-wheels perpetually revolved. No, whatever happened, the Prince would not relax; he had absorbed the doctrines of Stockmar too thoroughly. He knew what was right, and, at all costs, he would pursue it. That was certain. But alas! in this our life what are the certainties? "In nothing be over-zealous!" says an old Greek. "The due measure in all the works of man is best. For often one who zealously pushes towards some excellence, though he be pursuing a gain, is really being led utterly astray by the will of some Power, which makes those things that are evil seem to him good, and those things seem to him evil that are for his advantage." Surely, both the Prince and the Baron might have learnt something from the frigid wisdom of Theognis. Victoria noticed that her husband sometimes seemed to be depressed and overworked. She tried to cheer him up. Realising uneasily that he was still regarded as a foreigner, she hoped that by conferring upon him the title of Prince Consort (1857) she would improve his position in the country. "The Queen has a right to claim that her husband should be an Englishman," she wrote. But unfortunately, in spite of the Royal Letters Patent, Albert remained as foreign as before; and as the years passed his dejection deepened. She worked with him, she watched over him, she walked with him through the woods at Osborne, while he whistled to the nightingales, as he had whistled once at Rosenau so long ago. When his birthday came round, she took the greatest pains to choose him presents that he would really like. In 1858, when he was thirty-nine, she gave him "a picture of Beatrice, life-size, in oil, by Horsley, a complete collection of photographic views of Gotha and the country round, which I had taken by Bedford, and a paper-weight of Balmoral granite and deers' teeth, designed by Vicky." Albert was of course delighted, and his merriment at the family gathering was more pronounced than ever: and yet... what was there that was wrong? No doubt it was his health. He was wearing himself out in the service of the country; and certainly his constitution, as Stockmar had perceived from the first, was ill-adapted to meet a serious strain. He was easily upset; he constantly suffered from minor ailments. His appearance in itself was enough to indicate the infirmity of his physical powers. The handsome youth of twenty years since with the flashing eyes and the soft complexion had grown into a sallow, tired-looking man, whose body, in its stoop and its loose fleshiness, betrayed the sedentary labourer, and whose head was quite bald on the top. Unkind critics, who had once compared Albert to an operatic tenor, might have remarked that there was something of the butler about him now. Beside Victoria, he presented a painful contrast. She, too, was stout, but it was with the plumpness of a vigorous matron; and an eager vitality was everywhere visible--in her energetic bearing, her protruding, enquiring glances, her small, fat, capable, and commanding hands. If only, by some sympathetic magic, she could have conveyed into that portly, flabby figure, that desiccated and discouraged brain, a measure of the stamina and the self-assurance which were so pre-eminently hers! But suddenly she was reminded that there were other perils besides those of ill-health. During a visit to Coburg in 1860, the Prince was very nearly killed in a carriage accident. He escaped with a few cuts and bruises; but Victoria's alarm was extreme, though she concealed it. "It is when the Queen feels most deeply," she wrote afterwards, "that she always appears calmest, and she could not and dared not allow herself to speak of what might have been, or even to admit to herself (and she cannot and dare not now) the entire danger, for her head would turn!" Her agitation, in fact, was only surpassed by her thankfulness to God. She felt, she said, that she could not rest "without doing something to mark permanently her feelings," and she decided that she would endow a charity in Coburg. "L1,000, or even L2,000, given either at once, or in instalments yearly, would not, in the Queen's opinion, be too much." Eventually, the smaller sum having been fixed upon, it was invested in a trust, called the "Victoria-Stift," in the name of the Burgomaster and chief clergyman of Coburg, who were directed to distribute the interest yearly among a certain number of young men and women of exemplary character belonging to the humbler ranks of life. Shortly afterwards the Queen underwent, for the first time in her life, the actual experience of close personal loss. Early in 1861 the Duchess of Kent was taken seriously ill, and in March she died. The event overwhelmed Victoria. With a morbid intensity, she filled her diary for pages with minute descriptions of her mother's last hours, her dissolution, and her corpse, interspersed with vehement apostrophes, and the agitated outpourings of emotional reflection. In the grief of the present the disagreements of the past were totally forgotten. It was the horror and the mystery of Death--Death, present and actual--that seized upon the imagination of the Queen. Her whole being, so instinct with vitality, recoiled in agony from the grim spectacle of the triumph of that awful power. Her own mother, with whom she had lived so closely and so long that she had become a part almost of her existence, had fallen into nothingness before her very eyes! She tried to forget, but she could not. Her lamentations continued with a strange abundance, a strange persistency. It was almost as if, by some mysterious and unconscious precognition, she realised that for her, in an especial manner, that grisly Majesty had a dreadful dart in store. For indeed, before the year was out, a far more terrible blow was to fall upon her. Albert, who had for long been suffering from sleeplessness, went, on a cold and drenching day towards the end of November, to inspect the buildings for the new Military Academy at Sandhurst. On his return, it was clear that the fatigue and exposure to which he had been subjected had seriously affected his health. He was attacked by rheumatism, his sleeplessness continued, and he complained that he felt thoroughly unwell. Three days later a painful duty obliged him to visit Cambridge. The Prince of Wales, who had been placed at that University in the previous year, was behaving in such a manner that a parental visit and a parental admonition had become necessary. The disappointed father, suffering in mind and body, carried through his task; but, on his return journey to Windsor, he caught a fatal chill. During the next week he gradually grew weaker and more miserable. Yet, depressed and enfeebled as he was, he continued to work. It so happened that at that very moment a grave diplomatic crisis had arisen. Civil war had broken out in America, and it seemed as if England, owing to a violent quarrel with the Northern States, was upon the point of being drawn into the conflict. A severe despatch by Lord John Russell was submitted to the Queen; and the Prince perceived that, if it was sent off unaltered, war would be the almost inevitable consequence. At seven o'clock on the morning of December 1, he rose from his bed, and with a quavering hand wrote a series of suggestions for the alteration of the draft, by which its language might be softened, and a way left open for a peaceful solution of the question. These changes were accepted by the Government, and war was averted. It was the Prince's last memorandum. He had always declared that he viewed the prospect of death with equanimity. "I do not cling to life," he had once said to Victoria. "You do; but I set no store by it." And then he had added: "I am sure, if I had a severe illness, I should give up at once, I should not struggle for life. I have no tenacity of life." He had judged correctly. Before he had been ill many days, he told a friend that he was convinced he would not recover. He sank and sank. Nevertheless, if his case had been properly understood and skilfully treated from the first, he might conceivably have been saved; but the doctors failed to diagnose his symptoms; and it is noteworthy that his principal physician was Sir James Clark. When it was suggested that other advice should be taken, Sir James pooh-poohed the idea: "there was no cause for alarm," he said. But the strange illness grew worse. At last, after a letter of fierce remonstrance from Palmerston, Dr. Watson was sent for; and Dr. Watson saw at once that he had come too late The Prince was in the grip of typhoid fever. "I think that everything so far is satisfactory," said Sir James Clark.(*) (*) Clarendon, II, 253-4: "One cannot speak with certainty; but it is horrible to think that such a life MAY have been sacrificed to Sir J. Clark's selfish jealousy of every member of his profession." The Earl of Clarendon to the Duchess of Manchester, December 17, 1861. The restlessness and the acute suffering of the earlier days gave place to a settled torpor and an ever--deepening gloom. Once the failing patient asked for music--"a fine chorale at a distance;" and a piano having been placed in the adjoining room, Princess Alice played on it some of Luther's hymns, after which the Prince repeated "The Rock of Ages." Sometimes his mind wandered; sometimes the distant past came rushing upon him; he heard the birds in the early morning, and was at Rosenau again, a boy. Or Victoria would come and read to him "Peveril of the Peak," and he showed that he could follow the story, and then she would bend over him, and he would murmur "liebes Frauchen" and "gutes Weibchen," stroking her cheek. Her distress and her agitation were great, but she was not seriously frightened. Buoyed up by her own abundant energies, she would not believe that Albert's might prove unequal to the strain. She refused to face such a hideous possibility. She declined to see Dr. Watson. Why should she? Had not Sir James Clark assured her that all would be well? Only two days before the end, which was seen now to be almost inevitable by everyone about her, she wrote, full of apparent confidence, to the King of the Belgians: "I do not sit up with him at night," she said, "as I could be of no use; and there is nothing to cause alarm." The Princess Alice tried to tell her the truth, but her hopefulness would not be daunted. On the morning of December 14, Albert, just as she had expected, seemed to be better; perhaps the crisis was over. But in the course of the day there was a serious relapse. Then at last she allowed herself to see that she was standing on the edge of an appalling gulf. The whole family was summoned, and, one after another, the children took a silent farewell of their father. "It was a terrible moment," Victoria wrote in her diary, "but, thank God! I was able to command myself, and to be perfectly calm, and remained sitting by his side." He murmured something, but she could not hear what it was; she thought he was speaking in French. Then all at once he began to arrange his hair, "just as he used to do when well and he was dressing." "Es kleines Frauchen," she whispered to him; and he seemed to understand. For a moment, towards the evening, she went into another room, but was immediately called back; she saw at a glance that a ghastly change had taken place. As she knelt by the bed, he breathed deeply, breathed gently, breathed at last no more. His features became perfectly rigid; she shrieked one long wild shriek that rang through the terror-stricken castle and understood that she had lost him for ever. CHAPTER VII. WIDOWHOOD I The death of the Prince Consort was the central turning-point in the history of Queen Victoria. She herself felt that her true life had ceased with her husband's, and that the remainder of her days upon earth was of a twilight nature--an epilogue to a drama that was done. Nor is it possible that her biographer should escape a similar impression. For him, too, there is a darkness over the latter half of that long career. The first forty--two years of the Queen's life are illuminated by a great and varied quantity of authentic information. With Albert's death a veil descends. Only occasionally, at fitful and disconnected intervals, does it lift for a moment or two; a few main outlines, a few remarkable details may be discerned; the rest is all conjecture and ambiguity. Thus, though the Queen survived her great bereavement for almost as many years as she had lived before it, the chronicle of those years can bear no proportion to the tale of her earlier life. We must be content in our ignorance with a brief and summary relation. The sudden removal of the Prince was not merely a matter of overwhelming personal concern to Victoria; it was an event of national, of European importance. He was only forty-two, and in the ordinary course of nature he might have been expected to live at least thirty years longer. Had he done so it can hardly be doubted that the whole development of the English polity would have been changed. Already at the time of his death he filled a unique place in English public life; already among the inner circle of politicians he was accepted as a necessary and useful part of the mechanism of the State. Lord Clarendon, for instance, spoke of his death as "a national calamity of far greater importance than the public dream of," and lamented the loss of his "sagacity and foresight," which, he declared, would have been "more than ever valuable" in the event of an American war. And, as time went on, the Prince's influence must have enormously increased. For, in addition to his intellectual and moral qualities, he enjoyed, by virtue of his position, one supreme advantage which every other holder of high office in the country was without: he was permanent. Politicians came and went, but the Prince was perpetually installed at the centre of affairs. Who can doubt that, towards the end of the century, such a man, grown grey in the service of the nation, virtuous, intelligent, and with the unexampled experience of a whole life-time of government, would have acquired an extraordinary prestige? If, in his youth, he had been able to pit the Crown against the mighty Palmerston and to come off with equal honours from the contest, of what might he not have been capable in his old age? What Minister, however able, however popular, could have withstood the wisdom, the irreproachability, the vast prescriptive authority, of the venerable Prince? It is easy to imagine how, under such a ruler, an attempt might have been made to convert England into a State as exactly organised, as elaborately trained, as efficiently equipped, and as autocratically controlled, as Prussia herself. Then perhaps, eventually, under some powerful leader--a Gladstone or a Bright--the democratic forces in the country might have rallied together, and a struggle might have followed in which the Monarchy would have been shaken to its foundations. Or, on the other hand, Disraeli's hypothetical prophecy might have come true. "With Prince Albert," he said, "we have buried our... sovereign. This German Prince has governed England for twenty-one years with a wisdom and energy such as none of our kings have ever shown. If he had outlived some of our 'old stagers' he would have given us the blessings of absolute government." The English Constitution--that indescribable entity--is a living thing, growing with the growth of men, and assuming ever-varying forms in accordance with the subtle and complex laws of human character. It is the child of wisdom and chance. The wise men of 1688 moulded it into the shape we know, but the chance that George I could not speak English gave it one of its essential peculiarities--the system of a Cabinet independent of the Crown and subordinate to the Prime Minister. The wisdom of Lord Grey saved it from petrifaction and destruction, and set it upon the path of Democracy. Then chance intervened once more; a female sovereign happened to marry an able and pertinacious man; and it seemed likely that an element which had been quiescent within it for years--the element of irresponsible administrative power--was about to become its predominant characteristic and to change completely the direction of its growth. But what chance gave chance took away. The Consort perished in his prime; and the English Constitution, dropping the dead limb with hardly a tremor, continued its mysterious life as if he had never been. One human being, and one alone, felt the full force of what had happened. The Baron, by his fireside at Coburg, suddenly saw the tremendous fabric of his creation crash down into sheer and irremediable ruin. Albert was gone, and he had lived in vain. Even his blackest hypochondria had never envisioned quite so miserable a catastrophe. Victoria wrote to him, visited him, tried to console him by declaring with passionate conviction that she would carry on her husband's work. He smiled a sad smile and looked into the fire. Then he murmured that he was going where Albert was--that he would not be long. He shrank into himself. His children clustered round him and did their best to comfort him, but it was useless: the Baron's heart was broken. He lingered for eighteen months, and then, with his pupil, explored the shadow and the dust. II With appalling suddenness Victoria had exchanged the serene radiance of happiness for the utter darkness of woe. In the first dreadful moments those about her had feared that she might lose her reason, but the iron strain within her held firm, and in the intervals between the intense paroxysms of grief it was observed that the Queen was calm. She remembered, too, that Albert had always disapproved of exaggerated manifestations of feeling, and her one remaining desire was to do nothing but what he would have wished. Yet there were moments when her royal anguish would brook no restraints. One day she sent for the Duchess of Sutherland, and, leading her to the Prince's room, fell prostrate before his clothes in a flood of weeping, while she adjured the Duchess to tell her whether the beauty of Albert's character had ever been surpassed. At other times a feeling akin to indignation swept over her. "The poor fatherless baby of eight months," she wrote to the King of the Belgians, "is now the utterly heartbroken and crushed widow of forty-two! My LIFE as a HAPPY one is ENDED! The world is gone for ME!... Oh! to be cut off in the prime of life--to see our pure, happy, quiet, domestic life, which ALONE enabled me to bear my MUCH disliked position, CUT OFF at forty-two--when I HAD hoped with such instinctive certainty that God never WOULD part us, and would let us grow old together (though HE always talked of the shortness of life)--is TOO AWFUL, too cruel!" The tone of outraged Majesty seems to be discernible. Did she wonder in her heart of hearts how the Deity could have dared? But all other emotions gave way before her overmastering determination to continue, absolutely unchanged, and for the rest of her life on earth, her reverence, her obedience, her idolatry. "I am anxious to repeat ONE thing," she told her uncle, "and THAT ONE is my firm resolve, my IRREVOCABLE DECISION, viz., that HIS wishes--HIS plans--about everything, HIS views about EVERY thing are to be MY LAW! And NO HUMAN POWER will make me swerve from WHAT HE decided and wished." She grew fierce, she grew furious, at the thought of any possible intrusion between her and her desire. Her uncle was coming to visit her, and it flashed upon her that HE might try to interfere with her and seek to "rule the roost" as of old. She would give him a hint. "I am ALSO DETERMINED," she wrote, "that NO ONE person--may HE be ever so good, ever so devoted among my servants--is to lead or guide or dictate TO ME. I know HOW he would disapprove it... Though miserably weak and utterly shattered, my spirit rises when I think ANY wish or plan of his is to be touched or changed, or I am to be MADE TO DO anything." She ended her letter in grief and affection. She was, she said, his "ever wretched but devoted child, Victoria R." And then she looked at the date: it was the 24th of December. An agonising pang assailed her, and she dashed down a postcript--"What a Xmas! I won't think of it." At first, in the tumult of her distresses, she declared that she could not see her Ministers, and the Princess Alice, assisted by Sir Charles Phipps, the keeper of the Privy Purse, performed, to the best of her ability, the functions of an intermediary. After a few weeks, however, the Cabinet, through Lord John Russell, ventured to warn the Queen that this could not continue. She realised that they were right: Albert would have agreed with them; and so she sent for the Prime Minister. But when Lord Palmerston arrived at Osborne, in the pink of health, brisk, with his whiskers freshly dyed, and dressed in a brown overcoat, light grey trousers, green gloves, and blue studs, he did not create a very good impression. Nevertheless, she had grown attached to her old enemy, and the thought of a political change filled her with agitated apprehensions. The Government, she knew, might fall at any moment; she felt she could not face such an eventuality; and therefore, six months after the death of the Prince, she took the unprecedented step of sending a private message to Lord Derby, the leader of the Opposition, to tell him that she was not in a fit state of mind or body to undergo the anxiety of a change of Government, and that if he turned the present Ministers out of office it would be at the risk of sacrificing her life--or her reason. When this message reached Lord Derby he was considerably surprised. "Dear me!" was his cynical comment. "I didn't think she was so fond of them as THAT." Though the violence of her perturbations gradually subsided, her cheerfulness did not return. For months, for years, she continued in settled gloom. Her life became one of almost complete seclusion. Arrayed in thickest crepe, she passed dolefully from Windsor to Osborne, from Osborne to Balmoral. Rarely visiting the capital, refusing to take any part in the ceremonies of state, shutting herself off from the slightest intercourse with society, she became almost as unknown to her subjects as some potentate of the East. They might murmur, but they did not understand. What had she to do with empty shows and vain enjoyments? No! She was absorbed by very different preoccupations. She was the devoted guardian of a sacred trust. Her place was in the inmost shrine of the house of mourning--where she alone had the right to enter, where she could feel the effluence of a mysterious presence, and interpret, however faintly and feebly, the promptings of a still living soul. That, and that only was her glorious, her terrible duty. For terrible indeed it was. As the years passed her depression seemed to deepen and her loneliness to grow more intense. "I am on a dreary sad pinnacle of solitary grandeur," she said. Again and again she felt that she could bear her situation no longer--that she would sink under the strain. And then, instantly, that Voice spoke: and she braced herself once more to perform, with minute conscientiousness, her grim and holy task. Above all else, what she had to do was to make her own the master-impulse of Albert's life--she must work, as he had worked, in the service of the country. That vast burden of toil which he had taken upon his shoulders it was now for her to bear. She assumed the gigantic load; and naturally she staggered under it. While he had lived, she had worked, indeed, with regularity and conscientiousness; but it was work made easy, made delicious, by his care, his forethought, his advice, and his infallibility. The mere sound of his voice, asking her to sign a paper, had thrilled her; in such a presence she could have laboured gladly for ever. But now there was a hideous change. Now there were no neat piles and docketings under the green lamp; now there were no simple explanations of difficult matters; now there was nobody to tell her what was right and what was wrong. She had her secretaries, no doubt: there were Sir Charles Phipps, and General Grey, and Sir Thomas Biddulph; and they did their best. But they were mere subordinates: the whole weight of initiative and responsibility rested upon her alone. For so it had to be. "I am DETERMINED"--had she not declared it?--"that NO ONE person is to lead or guide or dictate to ME;" anything else would be a betrayal of her trust. She would follow the Prince in all things. He had refused to delegate authority; he had examined into every detail with his own eyes; he had made it a rule never to sign a paper without having first, not merely read it, but made notes on it too. She would do the same. She sat from morning till night surrounded by huge heaps of despatch--boxes, reading and writing at her desk--at her desk, alas! which stood alone now in the room. Within two years of Albert's death a violent disturbance in foreign politics put Victoria's faithfulness to a crucial test. The fearful Schleswig-Holstein dispute, which had been smouldering for more than a decade, showed signs of bursting out into conflagration. The complexity of the questions at issue was indescribable. "Only three people," said Palmerston, "have ever really understood the Schleswig-Holstein business--the Prince Consort, who is dead--a German professor, who has gone mad--and I, who have forgotten all about it." But, though the Prince might be dead, had he not left a vicegerent behind him? Victoria threw herself into the seething embroilment with the vigour of inspiration. She devoted hours daily to the study of the affair in all its windings; but she had a clue through the labyrinth: whenever the question had been discussed, Albert, she recollected it perfectly, had always taken the side of Prussia. Her course was clear. She became an ardent champion of the Prussian point of view. It was a legacy from the Prince, she said. She did not realise that the Prussia of the Prince's day was dead, and that a new Prussia, the Prussia of Bismarck, was born. Perhaps Palmerston, with his queer prescience, instinctively apprehended the new danger; at any rate, he and Lord John were agreed upon the necessity of supporting Denmark against Prussia's claims. But opinion was sharply divided, not only in the country but in the Cabinet. For eighteen months the controversy raged; while the Queen, with persistent vehemence, opposed the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary. When at last the final crisis arose--when it seemed possible that England would join forces with Denmark in a war against Prussia--Victoria's agitation grew febrile in its intensity. Towards her German relatives she preserved a discreet appearance of impartiality; but she poured out upon her Ministers a flood of appeals, protests, and expostulations. She invoked the sacred cause of Peace. "The only chance of preserving peace for Europe," she wrote, "is by not assisting Denmark, who has brought this entirely upon herself. The Queen suffers much, and her nerves are more and more totally shattered... But though all this anxiety is wearing her out, it will not shake her firm purpose of resisting any attempt to involve this country in a mad and useless combat." She was, she declared, "prepared to make a stand," even if the resignation of the Foreign Secretary should follow. "The Queen," she told Lord Granville, "is completely exhausted by the anxiety and suspense, and misses her beloved husband's help, advice, support, and love in an overwhelming manner." She was so worn out by her efforts for peace that she could "hardly hold up her head or hold her pen." England did not go to war, and Denmark was left to her fate; but how far the attitude of the Queen contributed to this result it is impossible, with our present knowledge, to say. On the whole, however, it seems probable that the determining factor in the situation was the powerful peace party in the Cabinet rather than the imperious and pathetic pressure of Victoria. It is, at any rate, certain that the Queen's enthusiasm for the sacred cause of peace was short-lived. Within a few months her mind had completely altered. Her eyes were opened to the true nature of Prussia, whose designs upon Austria were about to culminate in the Seven Weeks' War. Veering precipitately from one extreme to the other, she now urged her Ministers to interfere by force of arms in support of Austria. But she urged in vain. Her political activity, no more than her social seclusion, was approved by the public. As the years passed, and the royal mourning remained as unrelieved as ever, the animadversions grew more general and more severe. It was observed that the Queen's protracted privacy not only cast a gloom over high society, not only deprived the populace of its pageantry, but also exercised a highly deleterious effect upon the dressmaking, millinery, and hosiery trades. This latter consideration carried great weight. At last, early in 1864, the rumour spread that Her Majesty was about to go out of mourning, and there was much rejoicing in the newspapers; but unfortunately it turned out that the rumour was quite without foundation. Victoria, with her own hand, wrote a letter to The Times to say so. "This idea," she declared, "cannot be too explicitly contradicted. The Queen," the letter continued, "heartily appreciates the desire of her subjects to see her, and whatever she CAN do to gratify them in this loyal and affectionate wish, she WILL do... But there are other and higher duties than those of mere representation which are now thrown upon the Queen, alone and unassisted--duties which she cannot neglect without injury to the public service, which weigh unceasingly upon her, overwhelming her with work and anxiety." The justification might have been considered more cogent had it not been known that those "other and higher duties" emphasised by the Queen consisted for the most part of an attempt to counteract the foreign policy of Lord Palmerston and Lord John Russell. A large section--perhaps a majority--of the nation were violent partisans of Denmark in the Schleswig-Holstein quarrel; and Victoria's support of Prussia was widely denounced. A wave of unpopularity, which reminded old observers of the period preceding the Queen's marriage more than twenty-five years before, was beginning to rise. The press was rude; Lord Ellenborough attacked the Queen in the House of Lords; there were curious whispers in high quarters that she had had thoughts of abdicating--whispers followed by regrets that she had not done so. Victoria, outraged and injured, felt that she was misunderstood. She was profoundly unhappy. After Lord Ellenborough's speech, General Grey declared that he "had never seen the Queen so completely upset." "Oh, how fearful it is," she herself wrote to Lord Granville, "to be suspected--uncheered--unguided and unadvised--and how alone the poor Queen feels!" Nevertheless, suffer as she might, she was as resolute as ever; she would not move by a hair's breadth from the course that a supreme obligation marked out for her; she would be faithful to the end. And so, when Schleswig-Holstein was forgotten, and even the image of the Prince had begun to grow dim in the fickle memories of men, the solitary watcher remained immutably concentrated at her peculiar task. The world's hostility, steadily increasing, was confronted and outfaced by the impenetrable weeds of Victoria. Would the world never understand? It was not mere sorrow that kept her so strangely sequestered; it was devotion, it was self-immolation; it was the laborious legacy of love. Unceasingly the pen moved over the black-edged paper. The flesh might be weak, but that vast burden must be borne. And fortunately, if the world would not understand, there were faithful friends who did. There was Lord Granville, and there was kind Mr. Theodore Martin. Perhaps Mr. Martin, who was so clever, would find means to make people realise the facts. She would send him a letter, pointing out her arduous labours and the difficulties under which she struggled, and then he might write an article for one of the magazines. "It is not," she told him in 1863, "the Queen's SORROW that keeps her secluded. It is her OVERWHELMING WORK and her health, which is greatly shaken by her sorrow, and the totally overwhelming amount of work and responsibility--work which she feels really wears her out. Alice Helps was wonderfully struck at the Queen's room; and if Mrs. Martin will look at it, she can tell Mr. Martin what surrounds her. From the hour she gets out of bed till she gets into it again there is work, work, work,--letter-boxes, questions, etc., which are dreadfully exhausting--and if she had not comparative rest and quiet in the evening she would most likely not be ALIVE. Her brain is constantly overtaxed." It was too true. III To carry on Albert's work--that was her first duty; but there was another, second only to that, and yet nearer, if possible, to her heart--to impress the true nature of his genius and character upon the minds of her subjects. She realised that during his life he had not been properly appreciated; the full extent of his powers, the supreme quality of his goodness, had been necessarily concealed; but death had removed the need of barriers, and now her husband, in his magnificent entirety, should stand revealed to all. She set to work methodically. She directed Sir Arthur Helps to bring out a collection of the Prince's speeches and addresses, and the weighty tome appeared in 1862. Then she commanded General Grey to write an account of the Prince's early years--from his birth to his marriage; she herself laid down the design of the book, contributed a number of confidential documents, and added numerous notes; General Grey obeyed, and the work was completed in 1866. But the principal part of the story was still untold, and Mr. Martin was forthwith instructed to write a complete biography of the Prince Consort. Mr. Martin laboured for fourteen years. The mass of material with which he had to deal was almost incredible, but he was extremely industrious, and he enjoyed throughout the gracious assistance of Her Majesty. The first bulky volume was published in 1874; four others slowly followed; so that it was not until 1880 that the monumental work was finished. Mr. Martin was rewarded by a knighthood; and yet it was sadly evident that neither Sir Theodore nor his predecessors had achieved the purpose which the Queen had in view. Perhaps she was unfortunate in her coadjutors, but, in reality, the responsibility for the failure must lie with Victoria herself. Sir Theodore and the others faithfully carried out the task which she had set them--faithfully put before the public the very image of Albert that filled her own mind. The fatal drawback was that the public did not find that image attractive. Victoria's emotional nature, far more remarkable for vigour than for subtlety, rejecting utterly the qualifications which perspicuity, or humour, might suggest, could be satisfied with nothing but the absolute and the categorical. When she disliked she did so with an unequivocal emphasis which swept the object of her repugnance at once and finally outside the pale of consideration; and her feelings of affection were equally unmitigated. In the case of Albert her passion for superlatives reached its height. To have conceived of him as anything short of perfect--perfect in virtue, in wisdom, in beauty, in all the glories and graces of man--would have been an unthinkable blasphemy: perfect he was, and perfect he must be shown to have been. And so, Sir Arthur, Sir Theodore, and the General painted him. In the circumstances, and under such supervision, to have done anything else would have required talents considerably more distinguished than any that those gentlemen possessed. But that was not all. By a curious mischance Victoria was also able to press into her service another writer, the distinction of whose talents was this time beyond a doubt. The Poet Laureate, adopting, either from complaisance or conviction, the tone of his sovereign, joined in the chorus, and endowed the royal formula with the magical resonance of verse. This settled the matter. Henceforward it was impossible to forget that Albert had worn the white flower of a blameless life. The result was doubly unfortunate. Victoria, disappointed and chagrined, bore a grudge against her people for their refusal, in spite of all her efforts, to rate her husband at his true worth. She did not understand that the picture of an embodied perfection is distasteful to the majority of mankind. The cause of this is not so much an envy of the perfect being as a suspicion that he must be inhuman; and thus it happened that the public, when it saw displayed for its admiration a figure resembling the sugary hero of a moral story-book rather than a fellow man of flesh and blood, turned away with a shrug, a smile, and a flippant ejaculation. But in this the public was the loser as well as Victoria. For in truth Albert was a far more interesting personage than the public dreamed. By a curious irony an impeccable waxwork had been fixed by the Queen's love in the popular imagination, while the creature whom it represented--the real creature, so full of energy and stress and torment, so mysterious and so unhappy, and so fallible and so very human--had altogether disappeared. IV Words and books may be ambiguous memorials; but who can misinterpret the visible solidity of bronze and stone? At Frogmore, near Windsor, where her mother was buried, Victoria constructed, at the cost of L200,000, a vast and elaborate mausoleum for herself and her husband. But that was a private and domestic monument, and the Queen desired that wherever her subjects might be gathered together they should be reminded of the Prince. Her desire was gratified; all over the country--at Aberdeen, at Perth, and at Wolverhampton--statues of the Prince were erected; and the Queen, making an exception to her rule of retirement, unveiled them herself. Nor did the capital lag behind. A month after the Prince's death a meeting was called together at the Mansion House to discuss schemes for honouring his memory. Opinions, however, were divided upon the subject. Was a statue or an institution to be preferred? Meanwhile a subscription was opened; an influential committee was appointed, and the Queen was consulted as to her wishes in the matter. Her Majesty replied that she would prefer a granite obelisk, with sculptures at the base, to an institution. But the committee hesitated: an obelisk, to be worthy of the name, must clearly be a monolith; and where was the quarry in England capable of furnishing a granite block of the required size? It was true that there was granite in Russian Finland; but the committee were advised that it was not adapted to resist exposure to the open air. On the whole, therefore, they suggested that a Memorial Hall should be erected, together with a statue of the Prince. Her Majesty assented; but then another difficulty arose. It was found that not more than L60,000 had been subscribed--a sum insufficient to defray the double expense. The Hall, therefore, was abandoned; a statue alone was to be erected; and certain eminent architects were asked to prepare designs. Eventually the committee had at their disposal a total sum of L120,000, since the public subscribed another L10,000, while L50,000 was voted by Parliament. Some years later a joint stock company was formed and built, as a private speculation, the Albert Hall. The architect whose design was selected, both by the committee and by the Queen, was Mr. Gilbert Scott, whose industry, conscientiousness, and genuine piety had brought him to the head of his profession. His lifelong zeal for the Gothic style having given him a special prominence, his handiwork was strikingly visible, not only in a multitude of original buildings, but in most of the cathedrals of England. Protests, indeed, were occasionally raised against his renovations; but Mr. Scott replied with such vigour and unction in articles and pamphlets that not a Dean was unconvinced, and he was permitted to continue his labours without interruption. On one occasion, however, his devotion to Gothic had placed him in an unpleasant situation. The Government offices in Whitehall were to be rebuilt; Mr. Scott competed, and his designs were successful. Naturally, they were in the Gothic style, combining "a certain squareness and horizontality of outline" with pillar-mullions, gables, high-pitched roofs, and dormers; and the drawings, as Mr. Scott himself observed, "were, perhaps, the best ever sent in to a competition, or nearly so." After the usual difficulties and delays the work was at last to be put in hand, when there was a change of Government and Lord Palmerston became Prime Minister. Lord Palmerston at once sent for Mr. Scott. "Well, Mr. Scott," he said, in his jaunty way, "I can't have anything to do with this Gothic style. I must insist on your making a design in the Italian manner, which I am sure you can do very cleverly." Mr. Scott was appalled; the style of the Italian renaissance was not only unsightly, it was positively immoral, and he sternly refused to have anything to do with it. Thereupon Lord Palmerston assumed a fatherly tone. "Quite true; a Gothic architect can't be expected to put up a Classical building; I must find someone else." This was intolerable, and Mr. Scott, on his return home, addressed to the Prime Minister a strongly-worded letter, in which he dwelt upon his position as an architect, upon his having won two European competitions, his being an A.R.A., a gold medallist of the Institute, and a lecturer on architecture at the Royal Academy; but it was useless--Lord Palmerston did not even reply. It then occurred to Mr. Scott that, by a judicious mixture, he might, while preserving the essential character of the Gothic, produce a design which would give a superficial impression of the Classical style. He did so, but no effect was produced upon Lord Palmerston. The new design, he said, was "neither one thing nor 'tother--a regular mongrel affair--and he would have nothing to do with it either." After that Mr. Scott found it necessary to recruit for two months at Scarborough, "with a course of quinine." He recovered his tone at last, but only at the cost of his convictions. For the sake of his family he felt that it was his unfortunate duty to obey the Prime Minister; and, shuddering with horror, he constructed the Government offices in a strictly Renaissance style. Shortly afterwards Mr. Scott found some consolation in building the St. Pancras Hotel in a style of his own. And now another and yet more satisfactory task was his. "My idea in designing the Memorial," he wrote, "was to erect a kind of ciborium to protect a statue of the Prince; and its special characteristic was that the ciborium was designed in some degree on the principles of the ancient shrines. These shrines were models of imaginary buildings, such as had never in reality been erected; and my idea was to realise one of these imaginary structures with its precious materials, its inlaying, its enamels, etc. etc." His idea was particularly appropriate since it chanced that a similar conception, though in the reverse order of magnitude, had occurred to the Prince himself, who had designed and executed several silver cruet-stands upon the same model. At the Queen's request a site was chosen in Kensington Gardens as near as possible to that of the Great Exhibition; and in May, 1864, the first sod was turned. The work was long, complicated, and difficult; a great number of workmen were employed, besides several subsidiary sculptors and metal--workers under Mr. Scott's direction, while at every stage sketches and models were submitted to Her Majesty, who criticised all the details with minute care, and constantly suggested improvements. The frieze, which encircled the base of the monument, was in itself a very serious piece of work. "This," said Mr. Scott, "taken as a whole, is perhaps one of the most laborious works of sculpture ever undertaken, consisting, as it does, of a continuous range of figure-sculpture of the most elaborate description, in the highest alto-relievo of life-size, of more than 200 feet in length, containing about 170 figures, and executed in the hardest marble which could be procured." After three years of toil the memorial was still far from completion, and Mr. Scott thought it advisable to give a dinner to the workmen, "as a substantial recognition of his appreciation of their skill and energy." "Two long tables," we are told, "constructed of scaffold planks, were arranged in the workshops, and covered with newspapers, for want of table-cloths. Upwards of eighty men sat down. Beef and mutton, plum pudding and cheese were supplied in abundance, and each man who desired it had three pints of beer, gingerbeer and lemonade being provided for the teetotalers, who formed a very considerable proportion... Several toasts were given and many of the workmen spoke, almost all of them commencing by 'Thanking God that they enjoyed good health;' some alluded to the temperance that prevailed amongst them, others observed how little swearing was ever heard, whilst all said how pleased and proud they were to be engaged on so great a work." Gradually the edifice approached completion. The one hundred and seventieth life-size figure in the frieze was chiselled, the granite pillars arose, the mosaics were inserted in the allegorical pediments, the four colossal statues representing the greater Christian virtues, the four other colossal statues representing the greater moral virtues, were hoisted into their positions, the eight bronzes representing the greater sciences--Astronomy, Chemistry, Geology, Geometry, Rhetoric, Medicine, Philosophy, and Physiology--were fixed on their glittering pinnacles, high in air. The statue of Physiology was particularly admired. "On her left arm," the official description informs us, "she bears a new-born infant, as a representation of the development of the highest and most perfect of physiological forms; her hand points towards a microscope, the instrument which lends its assistance for the investigation of the minuter forms of animal and vegetable organisms." At last the gilded cross crowned the dwindling galaxies of superimposed angels, the four continents in white marble stood at the four corners of the base, and, seven years after its inception, in July, 1872, the monument was thrown open to the public. But four more years were to elapse before the central figure was ready to be placed under its starry canopy. It was designed by Mr. Foley, though in one particular the sculptor's freedom was restricted by Mr. Scott. "I have chosen the sitting posture," Mr. Scott said, "as best conveying the idea of dignity befitting a royal personage." Mr. Foley ably carried out the conception of his principal. "In the attitude and expression," he said, "the aim has been, with the individuality of portraiture, to embody rank, character, and enlightenment, and to convey a sense of that responsive intelligence indicating an active, rather than a passive, interest in those pursuits of civilisation illustrated in the surrounding figures, groups, and relievos... To identify the figure with one of the most memorable undertakings of the public life of the Prince--the International Exhibition of 1851--a catalogue of the works collected in that first gathering of the industry of all nations, is placed in the right hand." The statue was of bronze gilt and weighed nearly ten tons. It was rightly supposed that the simple word "Albert," cast on the base, would be a sufficient means of identification. CHAPTER VIII. GLADSTONE AND LORD BEACONSFIELD I Lord Palmerston's laugh--a queer metallic "Ha! ha! ha!" with reverberations in it from the days of Pitt and the Congress of Vienna--was heard no more in Piccadilly; Lord John Russell dwindled into senility; Lord Derby tottered from the stage. A new scene opened; and new protagonists--Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli--struggled together in the limelight. Victoria, from her post of vantage, watched these developments with that passionate and personal interest which she invariably imported into politics. Her prepossessions were of an unexpected kind. Mr. Gladstone had been the disciple of her revered Peel, and had won the approval of Albert; Mr. Disraeli had hounded Sir Robert to his fall with hideous virulence, and the Prince had pronounced that he "had not one single element of a gentleman in his composition." Yet she regarded Mr. Gladstone with a distrust and dislike which steadily deepened, while upon his rival she lavished an abundance of confidence, esteem, and affection such as Lord Melbourne himself had hardly known. Her attitude towards the Tory Minister had suddenly changed when she found that he alone among public men had divined her feelings at Albert's death. Of the others she might have said "they pity me and not my grief;" but Mr. Disraeli had understood; and all his condolences had taken the form of reverential eulogies of the departed. The Queen declared that he was "the only person who appreciated the Prince." She began to show him special favour; gave him and his wife two of the coveted seats in St. George's Chapel at the Prince of Wales's wedding, and invited him to stay a night at Windsor. When the grant for the Albert Memorial came before the House of Commons, Disraeli, as leader of the Opposition, eloquently supported the project. He was rewarded by a copy of the Prince's speeches, bound in white morocco, with an inscription in the royal hand. In his letter of thanks he "ventured to touch upon a sacred theme," and, in a strain which re-echoed with masterly fidelity the sentiments of his correspondent, dwelt at length upon the absolute perfection of Albert. "The Prince," he said, "is the only person whom Mr. Disraeli has ever known who realised the Ideal. None with whom he is acquainted have ever approached it. There was in him a union of the manly grace and sublime simplicity, of chivalry with the intellectual splendour of the Attic Academe. The only character in English history that would, in some respects, draw near to him is Sir Philip Sidney: the same high tone, the same universal accomplishments, the same blended tenderness and vigour, the same rare combination of romantic energy and classic repose." As for his own acquaintance with the Prince, it had been, he said, "one of the most satisfactory incidents of his life: full of refined and beautiful memories, and exercising, as he hopes, over his remaining existence, a soothing and exalting influence." Victoria was much affected by "the depth and delicacy of these touches," and henceforward Disraeli's place in her affections was assured. When, in 1866, the Conservatives came into office, Disraeli's position as Chancellor of the Exchequer and leader of the House necessarily brought him into a closer relation with the Sovereign. Two years later Lord Derby resigned, and Victoria, with intense delight and peculiar graciousness, welcomed Disraeli as her First Minister. But only for nine agitated months did he remain in power. The Ministry, in a minority in the Commons, was swept out of existence by a general election. Yet by the end of that short period the ties which bound together the Queen and her Premier had grown far stronger than ever before; the relationship between them was now no longer merely that between a grateful mistress and a devoted servant: they were friends. His official letters, in which the personal element had always been perceptible, developed into racy records of political news and social gossip, written, as Lord Clarendon said, "in his best novel style." Victoria was delighted; she had never, she declared, had such letters in her life, and had never before known EVERYTHING. In return, she sent him, when the spring came, several bunches of flowers, picked by her own hands. He despatched to her a set of his novels, for which, she said, she was "most grateful, and which she values much." She herself had lately published her "Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands," and it was observed that the Prime Minister, in conversing with Her Majesty at this period, constantly used the words "we authors, ma'am." Upon political questions, she was his staunch supporter. "Really there never was such conduct as that of the Opposition," she wrote. And when the Government was defeated in the House she was "really shocked at the way in which the House of Commons go on; they really bring discredit on Constitutional Government." She dreaded the prospect of a change; she feared that if the Liberals insisted upon disestablishing the Irish Church, her Coronation Oath might stand in the way. But a change there had to be, and Victoria vainly tried to console herself for the loss of her favourite Minister by bestowing a peerage upon Mrs. Disraeli. Mr. Gladstone was in his shirt-sleeves at Hawarden, cutting down a tree, when the royal message was brought to him. "Very significant," he remarked, when he had read the letter, and went on cutting down his tree. His secret thoughts on the occasion were more explicit, and were committed to his diary. "The Almighty," he wrote, "seems to sustain and spare me for some purpose of His own, deeply unworthy as I know myself to be. Glory be to His name." The Queen, however, did not share her new Minister's view of the Almighty's intentions. She could not believe that there was any divine purpose to be detected in the programme of sweeping changes which Mr. Gladstone was determined to carry out. But what could she do? Mr. Gladstone, with his daemonic energy and his powerful majority in the House of Commons, was irresistible; and for five years (1869-74) Victoria found herself condemned to live in an agitating atmosphere of interminable reform--reform in the Irish Church and the Irish land system, reform in education, reform in parliamentary elections, reform in the organisation of the Army and the Navy, reform in the administration of justice. She disapproved, she struggled, she grew very angry; she felt that if Albert had been living things would never have happened so; but her protests and her complaints were alike unavailing. The mere effort of grappling with the mass of documents which poured in upon her in an ever-growing flood was terribly exhausting. When the draft of the lengthy and intricate Irish Church Bill came before her, accompanied by an explanatory letter from Mr. Gladstone covering a dozen closely-written quarto pages, she almost despaired. She turned from the Bill to the explanation, and from the explanation back again to the Bill, and she could not decide which was the most confusing. But she had to do her duty: she had not only to read, but to make notes. At last she handed the whole heap of papers to Mr. Martin, who happened to be staying at Osborne, and requested him to make a precis of them. When he had done so, her disapproval of the measure became more marked than ever; but, such was the strength of the Government, she actually found herself obliged to urge moderation upon the Opposition, lest worse should ensue. In the midst of this crisis, when the future of the Irish Church was hanging in the balance, Victoria's attention was drawn to another proposed reform. It was suggested that the sailors in the Navy should henceforward be allowed to wear beards. "Has Mr. Childers ascertained anything on the subject of the beards?" the Queen wrote anxiously to the First Lord of the Admiralty. On the whole, Her Majesty was in favour of the change. "Her own personal feeling," she wrote, "would be for the beards without the moustaches, as the latter have rather a soldierlike appearance; but then the object in view would not be obtained, viz. to prevent the necessity of shaving. Therefore it had better be as proposed, the entire beard, only it should be kept short and very clean." After thinking over the question for another week, the Queen wrote a final letter. She wished, she said, "to make one additional observation respecting the beards, viz. that on no account should moustaches be allowed without beards. That must be clearly understood." Changes in the Navy might be tolerated; to lay hands upon the Army was a more serious matter. From time immemorial there had been a particularly close connection between the Army and the Crown; and Albert had devoted even more time and attention to the details of military business than to the processes of fresco-painting or the planning of sanitary cottages for the deserving poor. But now there was to be a great alteration: Mr. Gladstone's fiat had gone forth, and the Commander-in-Chief was to be removed from his direct dependence upon the Sovereign, and made subordinate to Parliament and the Secretary of State for War. Of all the liberal reforms this was the one which aroused the bitterest resentment in Victoria. She considered that the change was an attack upon her personal position--almost an attack upon the personal position of Albert. But she was helpless, and the Prime Minister had his way. When she heard that the dreadful man had yet another reform in contemplation--that he was about to abolish the purchase of military commissions--she could only feel that it was just what might have been expected. For a moment she hoped that the House of Lords would come to the rescue; the Peers opposed the change with unexpected vigour; but Mr. Gladstone, more conscious than ever of the support of the Almighty, was ready with an ingenious device. The purchase of commissions had been originally allowed by Royal Warrant; it should now be disallowed by the same agency. Victoria was faced by a curious dilemma: she abominated the abolition of purchase; but she was asked to abolish it by an exercise of sovereign power which was very much to her taste. She did not hesitate for long; and when the Cabinet, in a formal minute, advised her to sign the Warrant, she did so with a good grace. Unacceptable as Mr. Gladstone's policy was, there was something else about him which was even more displeasing to Victoria. She disliked his personal demeanour towards herself. It was not that Mr. Gladstone, in his intercourse with her, was in any degree lacking in courtesy or respect. On the contrary, an extraordinary reverence impregnated his manner, both in his conversation and his correspondence with the Sovereign. Indeed, with that deep and passionate conservatism which, to the very end of his incredible career, gave such an unexpected colouring to his inexplicable character, Mr. Gladstone viewed Victoria through a haze of awe which was almost religious--as a sacrosanct embodiment of venerable traditions--a vital element in the British Constitution--a Queen by Act of Parliament. But unfortunately the lady did not appreciate the compliment. The well-known complaint--"He speaks to me as if I were a public meeting-" whether authentic or no--and the turn of the sentence is surely a little too epigrammatic to be genuinely Victorian--undoubtedly expresses the essential element of her antipathy. She had no objection to being considered as an institution; she was one, and she knew it. But she was a woman too, and to be considered ONLY as an institution--that was unbearable. And thus all Mr. Gladstone's zeal and devotion, his ceremonious phrases, his low bows, his punctilious correctitudes, were utterly wasted; and when, in the excess of his loyalty, he went further, and imputed to the object of his veneration, with obsequious blindness, the subtlety of intellect, the wide reading, the grave enthusiasm, which he himself possessed, the misunderstanding became complete. The discordance between the actual Victoria and this strange Divinity made in Mr. Gladstone's image produced disastrous results. Her discomfort and dislike turned at last into positive animosity, and, though her manners continued to be perfect, she never for a moment unbent; while he on his side was overcome with disappointment, perplexity, and mortification. Yet his fidelity remained unshaken. When the Cabinet met, the Prime Minister, filled with his beatific vision, would open the proceedings by reading aloud the letters which he had received from the Queen upon the questions of the hour. The assembly sat in absolute silence while, one after another, the royal missives, with their emphases, their ejaculations, and their grammatical peculiarities, boomed forth in all the deep solemnity of Mr. Gladstone's utterance. Not a single comment, of any kind, was ever hazarded; and, after a fitting pause, the Cabinet proceeded with the business of the day. II Little as Victoria appreciated her Prime Minister's attitude towards her, she found that it had its uses. The popular discontent at her uninterrupted seclusion had been gathering force for many years, and now burst out in a new and alarming shape. Republicanism was in the air. Radical opinion in England, stimulated by the fall of Napoleon III and the establishment of a republican government in France, suddenly grew more extreme than it ever had been since 1848. It also became for the first time almost respectable. Chartism had been entirely an affair of the lower classes; but now Members of Parliament, learned professors, and ladies of title openly avowed the most subversive views. The monarchy was attacked both in theory and in practice. And it was attacked at a vital point: it was declared to be too expensive. What benefits, it was asked, did the nation reap to counterbalance the enormous sums which were expended upon the Sovereign? Victoria's retirement gave an unpleasant handle to the argument. It was pointed out that the ceremonial functions of the Crown had virtually lapsed; and the awkward question remained whether any of the other functions which it did continue to perform were really worth L385,000 per annum. The royal balance-sheet was curiously examined. An anonymous pamphlet entitled "What does she do with it?" appeared, setting forth the financial position with malicious clarity. The Queen, it stated, was granted by the Civil List L60,000 a year for her private use; but the rest of her vast annuity was given, as the Act declared, to enable her "to defray the expenses of her royal household and to support the honour and dignity of the Crown." Now it was obvious that, since the death of the Prince, the expenditure for both these purposes must have been very considerably diminished, and it was difficult to resist the conclusion that a large sum of money was diverted annually from the uses for which it had been designed by Parliament, to swell the private fortune of Victoria. The precise amount of that private fortune it was impossible to discover; but there was reason to suppose that it was gigantic; perhaps it reached a total of five million pounds. The pamphlet protested against such a state of affairs, and its protests were repeated vigorously in newspapers and at public meetings. Though it is certain that the estimate of Victoria's riches was much exaggerated, it is equally certain that she was an exceedingly wealthy woman. She probably saved L20,000 a year from the Civil List, the revenues of the Duchy of Lancaster were steadily increasing, she had inherited a considerable property from the Prince Consort, and she had been left, in 1852, an estate of half a million by Mr. John Neild, an eccentric miser. In these circumstances it was not surprising that when, in 1871, Parliament was asked to vote a dowry of L30,000 to the Princess Louise on her marriage with the eldest son of the Duke of Argyle, together with an annuity of L6,000, there should have been a serious outcry(*). (*) In 1889 it was officially stated that the Queen's total savings from the Civil List amounted to L824,025, but that out of this sum much had been spent on special entertainments to foreign visitors. Taking into consideration the proceeds from the Duchy of Lancaster, which were more than L60,000 a year, the savings of the Prince Consort, and Mr. Neild's legacy, it seems probable that, at the time of her death, Victoria's private fortune approached two million pounds. In order to conciliate public opinion, the Queen opened Parliament in person, and the vote was passed almost unanimously. But a few months later another demand was made: the Prince Arthur had come of age, and the nation was asked to grant him an annuity of L15,000. The outcry was redoubled. The newspapers were filled with angry articles; Bradlaugh thundered against "princely paupers" to one of the largest crowds that had ever been seen in Trafalgar Square; and Sir Charles Dilke expounded the case for a republic in a speech to his constituents at Newcastle. The Prince's annuity was ultimately sanctioned in the House of Commons by a large majority; but a minority of fifty members voted in favour of reducing the sum to L10,000. Towards every aspect of this distasteful question, Mr. Gladstone presented an iron front. He absolutely discountenanced the extreme section of his followers. He declared that the whole of the Queen's income was justly at her personal disposal, argued that to complain of royal savings was merely to encourage royal extravagance, and successfully convoyed through Parliament the unpopular annuities, which, he pointed out, were strictly in accordance with precedent. When, in 1872, Sir Charles Dilke once more returned to the charge in the House of Commons, introducing a motion for a full enquiry into the Queen's expenditure with a view to a root and branch reform of the Civil List, the Prime Minister brought all the resources of his powerful and ingenious eloquence to the support of the Crown. He was completely successful; and amid a scene of great disorder the motion was ignominiously dismissed. Victoria was relieved; but she grew no fonder of Mr. Gladstone. It was perhaps the most miserable moment of her life. The Ministers, the press, the public, all conspired to vex her, to blame her, to misinterpret her actions, to be unsympathetic and disrespectful in every way. She was "a cruelly misunderstood woman," she told Mr. Martin, complaining to him bitterly of the unjust attacks which were made upon her, and declaring that "the great worry and anxiety and hard work for ten years, alone, unaided, with increasing age and never very strong health" were breaking her down, and "almost drove her to despair." The situation was indeed deplorable. It seemed as if her whole existence had gone awry; as if an irremediable antagonism had grown up between the Queen and the nation. If Victoria had died in the early seventies, there can be little doubt that the voice of the world would have pronounced her a failure. III But she was reserved for a very different fate. The outburst of republicanism had been in fact the last flicker of an expiring cause. The liberal tide, which had been flowing steadily ever since the Reform Bill, reached its height with Mr. Gladstone's first administration; and towards the end of that administration the inevitable ebb began. The reaction, when it came, was sudden and complete. The General Election of 1874 changed the whole face of politics. Mr. Gladstone and the Liberals were routed; and the Tory party, for the first time for over forty years, attained an unquestioned supremacy in England. It was obvious that their surprising triumph was pre-eminently due to the skill and vigour of Disraeli. He returned to office, no longer the dubious commander of an insufficient host, but with drums beating and flags flying, a conquering hero. And as a conquering hero Victoria welcomed her new Prime Minister. Then there followed six years of excitement, of enchantment, of felicity, of glory, of romance. The amazing being, who now at last, at the age of seventy, after a lifetime of extraordinary struggles, had turned into reality the absurdest of his boyhood's dreams, knew well enough how to make his own, with absolute completeness, the heart of the Sovereign Lady whose servant, and whose master, he had so miraculously become. In women's hearts he had always read as in an open book. His whole career had turned upon those curious entities; and the more curious they were, the more intimately at home with them he seemed to be. But Lady Beaconsfield, with her cracked idolatry, and Mrs. Brydges-Williams, with her clogs, her corpulence, and her legacy, were gone: an even more remarkable phenomenon stood in their place. He surveyed what was before him with the eye of a past-master; and he was not for a moment at a loss. He realised everything--the interacting complexities of circumstance and character, the pride of place mingled so inextricably with personal arrogance, the superabundant emotionalism, the ingenuousness of outlook, the solid, the laborious respectability, shot through so incongruously by temperamental cravings for the coloured and the strange, the singular intellectual limitations, and the mysteriously essential female elements impregnating every particle of the whole. A smile hovered over his impassive features, and he dubbed Victoria "the Faery." The name delighted him, for, with that epigrammatic ambiguity so dear to his heart, it precisely expressed his vision of the Queen. The Spenserian allusion was very pleasant--the elegant evocations of Gloriana; but there was more in it than that: there was the suggestion of a diminutive creature, endowed with magical--and mythical--properties, and a portentousness almost ridiculously out of keeping with the rest of her make-up. The Faery, he determined, should henceforward wave her wand for him alone. Detachment is always a rare quality, and rarest of all, perhaps, among politicians; but that veteran egotist possessed it in a supreme degree. Not only did he know what he had to do, not only did he do it; he was in the audience as well as on the stage; and he took in with the rich relish of a connoisseur every feature of the entertaining situation, every phase of the delicate drama, and every detail of his own consummate performance. The smile hovered and vanished, and, bowing low with Oriental gravity and Oriental submissiveness, he set himself to his task. He had understood from the first that in dealing with the Faery the appropriate method of approach was the very antithesis of the Gladstonian; and such a method was naturally his. It was not his habit to harangue and exhort and expatiate in official conscientiousness; he liked to scatter flowers along the path of business, to compress a weighty argument into a happy phrase, to insinuate what was in his mind with an air of friendship and confidential courtesy. He was nothing if not personal; and he had perceived that personality was the key that opened the Faery's heart. Accordingly, he never for a moment allowed his intercourse with her to lose the personal tone; he invested all the transactions of State with the charms of familiar conversation; she was always the royal lady, the adored and revered mistress, he the devoted and respectful friend. When once the personal relation was firmly established, every difficulty disappeared. But to maintain that relation uninterruptedly in a smooth and even course a particular care was necessary: the bearings had to be most assiduously oiled. Nor was Disraeli in any doubt as to the nature of the lubricant. "You have heard me called a flatterer," he said to Matthew Arnold, "and it is true. Everyone likes flattery, and when you come to royalty you should lay it on with a trowel." He practiced what he preached. His adulation was incessant, and he applied it in the very thickest slabs. "There is no honor and no reward," he declared, "that with him can ever equal the possession of your Majesty's kind thoughts. All his own thoughts and feelings and duties and affections are now concentrated in your Majesty, and he desires nothing more for his remaining years than to serve your Majesty, or, if that service ceases, to live still on its memory as a period of his existence most interesting and fascinating." "In life," he told her, "one must have for one's thoughts a sacred depository, and Lord Beaconsfield ever presumes to seek that in his Sovereign Mistress." She was not only his own solitary support; she was the one prop of the State. "If your Majesty is ill," he wrote during a grave political crisis, "he is sure he will himself break down. All, really, depends upon your Majesty." "He lives only for Her," he asseverated, "and works only for Her, and without Her all is lost." When her birthday came he produced an elaborate confection of hyperbolic compliment. "To-day Lord Beaconsfield ought fitly, perhaps, to congratulate a powerful Sovereign on her imperial sway, the vastness of her Empire, and the success and strength of her fleets and armies. But he cannot, his mind is in another mood. He can only think of the strangeness of his destiny that it has come to pass that he should be the servant of one so great, and whose infinite kindness, the brightness of whose intelligence and the firmness of whose will, have enabled him to undertake labours to which he otherwise would be quite unequal, and supported him in all things by a condescending sympathy, which in the hour of difficulty alike charms and inspires. Upon the Sovereign of many lands and many hearts may an omnipotent Providence shed every blessing that the wise can desire and the virtuous deserve!" In those expert hands the trowel seemed to assume the qualities of some lofty masonic symbol--to be the ornate and glittering vehicle of verities unrealised by the profane. Such tributes were delightful, but they remained in the nebulous region of words, and Disraeli had determined to give his blandishments a more significant solidity. He deliberately encouraged those high views of her own position which had always been native to Victoria's mind and had been reinforced by the principles of Albert and the doctrines of Stockmar. He professed to a belief in a theory of the Constitution which gave the Sovereign a leading place in the councils of government; but his pronouncements upon the subject were indistinct; and when he emphatically declared that there ought to be "a real Throne," it was probably with the mental addition that that throne would be a very unreal one indeed whose occupant was unamenable to his cajoleries. But the vagueness of his language was in itself an added stimulant to Victoria. Skilfully confusing the woman and the Queen, he threw, with a grandiose gesture, the government of England at her feet, as if in doing so he were performing an act of personal homage. In his first audience after returning to power, he assured her that "whatever she wished should be done." When the intricate Public Worship Regulation Bill was being discussed by the Cabinet, he told the Faery that his "only object" was "to further your Majesty's wishes in this matter." When he brought off his great coup over the Suez Canal, he used expressions which implied that the only gainer by the transaction was Victoria. "It is just settled," he wrote in triumph; "you have it, Madam... Four millions sterling! and almost immediately. There was only one firm that could do it--Rothschilds. They behaved admirably; advanced the money at a low rate, and the entire interest of the Khedive is now yours, Madam." Nor did he limit himself to highly-spiced insinuations. Writing with all the authority of his office, he advised the Queen that she had the constitutional right to dismiss a Ministry which was supported by a large majority in the House of Commons, he even urged her to do so, if, in her opinion, "your Majesty's Government have from wilfulness, or even from weakness, deceived your Majesty." To the horror of Mr. Gladstone, he not only kept the Queen informed as to the general course of business in the Cabinet, but revealed to her the part taken in its discussions by individual members of it. Lord Derby, the son of the late Prime Minister and Disraeli's Foreign Secretary, viewed these developments with grave mistrust. "Is there not," he ventured to write to his Chief, "just a risk of encouraging her in too large ideas of her personal power, and too great indifference to what the public expects? I only ask; it is for you to judge." As for Victoria, she accepted everything--compliments, flatteries, Elizabethan prerogatives--without a single qualm. After the long gloom of her bereavement, after the chill of the Gladstonian discipline, she expanded to the rays of Disraeli's devotion like a flower in the sun. The change in her situation was indeed miraculous. No longer was she obliged to puzzle for hours over the complicated details of business, for now she had only to ask Mr. Disraeli for an explanation, and he would give it her in the most concise, in the most amusing, way. No longer was she worried by alarming novelties; no longer was she put out at finding herself treated, by a reverential gentleman in high collars, as if she were some embodied precedent, with a recondite knowledge of Greek. And her deliverer was surely the most fascinating of men. The strain of charlatanism, which had unconsciously captivated her in Napoleon III, exercised the same enchanting effect in the case of Disraeli. Like a dram-drinker, whose ordinary life is passed in dull sobriety, her unsophisticated intelligence gulped down his rococo allurements with peculiar zest. She became intoxicated, entranced. Believing all that he told her of herself, she completely regained the self-confidence which had been slipping away from her throughout the dark period that followed Albert's death. She swelled with a new elation, while he, conjuring up before her wonderful Oriental visions, dazzled her eyes with an imperial grandeur of which she had only dimly dreamed. Under the compelling influence, her very demeanour altered. Her short, stout figure, with its folds of black velvet, its muslin streamers, its heavy pearls at the heavy neck, assumed an almost menacing air. In her countenance, from which the charm of youth had long since vanished, and which had not yet been softened by age, the traces of grief, of disappointment, and of displeasure were still visible, but they were overlaid by looks of arrogance and sharp lines of peremptory hauteur. Only, when Mr. Disraeli appeared, the expression changed in an instant, and the forbidding visage became charged with smiles. For him she would do anything. Yielding to his encouragements, she began to emerge from her seclusion; she appeared in London in semi-state, at hospitals and concerts; she opened Parliament; she reviewed troops and distributed medals at Aldershot. But such public signs of favour were trivial in comparison with her private attentions. During his flours of audience, she could hardly restrain her excitement and delight. "I can only describe my reception," he wrote to a friend on one occasion, "by telling you that I really thought she was going to embrace me. She was wreathed with smiles, and, as she tattled, glided about the room like a bird." In his absence, she talked of him perpetually, and there was a note of unusual vehemence in her solicitude for his health. "John Manners," Disraeli told Lady Bradford, "who has just come from Osborne, says that the Faery only talked of one subject, and that was her Primo. According to him, it was her gracious opinion that the Government should make my health a Cabinet question. Dear John seemed quite surprised at what she said; but you are used to these ebullitions." She often sent him presents; an illustrated album arrived for him regularly from Windsor on Christmas Day. But her most valued gifts were the bunches of spring flowers which, gathered by herself and her ladies in the woods at Osborne, marked in an especial manner the warmth and tenderness of her sentiments. Among these it was, he declared, the primroses that he loved the best. They were, he said, "the ambassadors of Spring, the gems and jewels of Nature." He liked them, he assured her, "so much better for their being wild; they seem an offering from the Fauns and Dryads of Osborne." "They show," he told her, "that your Majesty's sceptre has touched the enchanted Isle." He sat at dinner with heaped-up bowls of them on every side, and told his guests that "they were all sent to me this morning by the Queen from Osborne, as she knows it is my favorite flower." As time went on, and as it became clearer and clearer that the Faery's thraldom was complete, his protestations grew steadily more highly--coloured and more unabashed. At last he ventured to import into his blandishments a strain of adoration that was almost avowedly romantic. In phrases of baroque convolution, he conveyed the message of his heart. "The pressure of business," he wrote, had "so absorbed and exhausted him, that towards the hour of post he has not had clearness of mind, and vigour of pen, adequate to convey his thoughts and facts to the most loved and illustrious being, who deigns to consider them." She sent him some primroses, and he replied that he could "truly say they are 'more precious than rubies,' coming, as they do, and at such a moment, from a Sovereign whom he adores." She sent him snowdrops, and his sentiment overflowed into poetry. "Yesterday eve," he wrote, "there appeared, in Whitehall Gardens, a delicate-looking case, with a royal superscription, which, when he opened, he thought, at first, that your Majesty had graciously bestowed upon him the stars of your Majesty's principal orders." And, indeed, he was so impressed with this graceful illusion, that, having a banquet, where there were many stars and ribbons, he could not resist the temptation, by placing some snowdrops on his heart, of showing that, he, too, was decorated by a gracious Sovereign. Then, in the middle of the night, it occurred to him, that it might all be an enchantment, and that, perhaps, it was a Faery gift and came from another monarch: Queen Titania, gathering flowers, with her Court, in a soft and sea-girt isle, and sending magic blossoms, which, they say, turn the heads of those who receive them. A Faery gift! Did he smile as he wrote the words? Perhaps; and yet it would be rash to conclude that his perfervid declarations were altogether without sincerity. Actor and spectator both, the two characters were so intimately blended together in that odd composition that they formed an inseparable unity, and it was impossible to say that one of them was less genuine than the other. With one element, he could coldly appraise the Faery's intellectual capacity, note with some surprise that she could be on occasion "most interesting and amusing," and then continue his use of the trowel with an ironical solemnity; while, with the other, he could be overwhelmed by the immemorial panoply of royalty, and, thrilling with the sense of his own strange elevation, dream himself into a gorgeous phantasy of crowns and powers and chivalric love. When he told Victoria that "during a somewhat romantic and imaginative life, nothing has ever occurred to him so interesting as this confidential correspondence with one so exalted and so inspiring," was he not in earnest after all? When he wrote to a lady about the Court, "I love the Queen--perhaps the only person in this world left to me that I do love," was he not creating for himself an enchanted palace out of the Arabian Nights, full of melancholy and spangles, in which he actually believed? Victoria's state of mind was far more simple; untroubled by imaginative yearnings, she never lost herself in that nebulous region of the spirit where feeling and fancy grow confused. Her emotions, with all their intensity and all their exaggeration, retained the plain prosaic texture of everyday life. And it was fitting that her expression of them should be equally commonplace. She was, she told her Prime Minister, at the end of an official letter, "yours aff'ly V. R. and I." In such a phrase the deep reality of her feeling is instantly manifest. The Faery's feet were on the solid earth; it was the ruse cynic who was in the air. He had taught her, however, a lesson, which she had learnt with alarming rapidity. A second Gloriana, did he call her? Very well, then, she would show that she deserved the compliment. Disquieting symptoms followed fast. In May, 1874, the Tsar, whose daughter had just been married to Victoria's second son, the Duke of Edinburgh, was in London, and, by an unfortunate error, it had been arranged that his departure should not take place until two days after the date on which his royal hostess had previously decided to go to Balmoral. Her Majesty refused to modify her plans. It was pointed out to her that the Tsar would certainly be offended, that the most serious consequences might follow; Lord Derby protested; Lord Salisbury, the Secretary of State for India, was much perturbed. But the Faery was unconcerned; she had settled to go to Balmoral on the 18th, and on the 18th she would go. At last Disraeli, exercising all his influence, induced her to agree to stay in London for two days more. "My head is still on my shoulders," he told Lady Bradford. "The great lady has absolutely postponed her departure! Everybody had failed, even the Prince of Wales... and I have no doubt I am not in favour. I can't help it. Salisbury says I have saved an Afghan War, and Derby compliments me on my unrivalled triumph." But before very long, on another issue, the triumph was the Faery's. Disraeli, who had suddenly veered towards a new Imperialism, had thrown out the suggestion that the Queen of England ought to become the Empress of India. Victoria seized upon the idea with avidity, and, in season and out of season, pressed upon her Prime Minister the desirability of putting his proposal into practice. He demurred; but she was not to be baulked; and in 1876, in spite of his own unwillingness and that of his entire Cabinet, he found himself obliged to add to the troubles of a stormy session by introducing a bill for the alteration of the Royal Title. His compliance, however, finally conquered the Faery's heart. The measure was angrily attacked in both Houses, and Victoria was deeply touched by the untiring energy with which Disraeli defended it. She was, she said, much grieved by "the worry and annoyance" to which he was subjected; she feared she was the cause of it; and she would never forget what she owed to "her kind, good, and considerate friend." At the same time, her wrath fell on the Opposition. Their conduct, she declared, was "extraordinary, incomprehensible, and mistaken," and, in an emphatic sentence which seemed to contradict both itself and all her former proceedings, she protested that she "would be glad if it were more generally known that it was HER wish, as people WILL have it, that it has been FORCED UPON HER!" When the affair was successfully over, the imperial triumph was celebrated in a suitable manner. On the day of the Delhi Proclamation, the new Earl of Beaconsfield went to Windsor to dine with the new Empress of India. That night the Faery, usually so homely in her attire, appeared in a glittering panoply of enormous uncut jewels, which had been presented to her by the reigning Princes of her Raj. At the end of the meal the Prime Minister, breaking through the rules of etiquette, arose, and in a flowery oration proposed the health of the Queen-Empress. His audacity was well received, and his speech was rewarded by a smiling curtsey. These were significant episodes; but a still more serious manifestation of Victoria's temper occurred in the following year, during the crowning crisis of Beaconsfield's life. His growing imperialism, his desire to magnify the power and prestige of England, his insistence upon a "spirited foreign policy," had brought him into collision with Russia; the terrible Eastern Question loomed up; and when war broke out between Russia and Turkey, the gravity of the situation became extreme. The Prime Minister's policy was fraught with difficulty and danger. Realising perfectly the appalling implications of an Anglo-Russian war, he was yet prepared to face even that eventuality if he could obtain his ends by no other method; but he believed that Russia in reality was still less desirous of a rupture, and that, if he played his game with sufficient boldness and adroitness, she would yield, when it came to the point, all that he required without a blow. It was clear that the course he had marked out for himself was full of hazard, and demanded an extraordinary nerve; a single false step, and either himself, or England, might be plunged in disaster. But nerve he had never lacked; he began his diplomatic egg-dance with high assurance; and then he discovered that, besides the Russian Government, besides the Liberals and Mr. Gladstone, there were two additional sources of perilous embarrassment with which he would have to reckon. In the first place there was a strong party in the Cabinet, headed by Lord Derby, the Foreign Secretary, which was unwilling to take the risk of war; but his culminating anxiety was the Faery. From the first, her attitude was uncompromising. The old hatred of Russia, which had been engendered by the Crimean War, surged up again within her; she remembered Albert's prolonged animosity; she felt the prickings of her own greatness; and she flung herself into the turmoil with passionate heat. Her indignation with the Opposition--with anyone who ventured to sympathise with the Russians in their quarrel with the Turks--was unbounded. When anti-Turkish meetings were held in London, presided over by the Duke of Westminster and Lord Shaftesbury, and attended by Mr. Gladstone and other prominent Radicals, she considered that "the Attorney-General ought to be set at these men;" "it can't," she exclaimed, "be constitutional." Never in her life, not even in the crisis over the Ladies of the Bedchamber, did she show herself a more furious partisan. But her displeasure was not reserved for the Radicals; the backsliding Conservatives equally felt its force. She was even discontented with Lord Beaconsfield himself. Failing entirely to appreciate the delicate complexity of his policy, she constantly assailed him with demands for vigorous action, interpreted each finesse as a sign of weakness, and was ready at every juncture to let slip the dogs of war. As the situation developed, her anxiety grew feverish. "The Queen," she wrote, "is feeling terribly anxious lest delay should cause us to be too late and lose our prestige for ever! It worries her night and day." "The Faery," Beaconsfield told Lady Bradford, "writes every day and telegraphs every hour; this is almost literally the case." She raged loudly against the Russians. "And the language," she cried, "the insulting language--used by the Russians against us! It makes the Queen's blood boil!" "Oh," she wrote a little later, "if the Queen were a man, she would like to go and give those Russians, whose word one cannot believe, such a beating! We shall never be friends again till we have it out. This the Queen feels sure of." The unfortunate Prime Minister, urged on to violence by Victoria on one side, had to deal, on the other, with a Foreign Secretary who was fundamentally opposed to any policy of active interference at all. Between the Queen and Lord Derby he held a harassed course. He gained, indeed, some slight satisfaction in playing on the one against the other--in stimulating Lord Derby with the Queen's missives, and in appeasing the Queen by repudiating Lord Derby's opinions; on one occasion he actually went so far as to compose, at Victoria's request, a letter bitterly attacking his colleague, which Her Majesty forthwith signed, and sent, without alteration, to the Foreign Secretary. But such devices only gave a temporary relief; and it soon became evident that Victoria's martial ardour was not to be sidetracked by hostilities against Lord Derby; hostilities against Russia were what she wanted, what she would, what she must, have. For now, casting aside the last relics of moderation, she began to attack her friend with a series of extraordinary threats. Not once, not twice, but many times she held over his head the formidable menace of her imminent abdication. "If England," she wrote to Beaconsfield, "is to kiss Russia's feet, she will not be a party to the humiliation of England and would lay down her crown," and she added that the Prime Minister might, if he thought fit, repeat her words to the Cabinet. "This delay," she ejaculated, "this uncertainty by which, abroad, we are losing our prestige and our position, while Russia is advancing and will be before Constantinople in no time! Then the Government will be fearfully blamed and the Queen so humiliated that she thinks she would abdicate at once. Be bold!" "She feels," she reiterated, "she cannot, as she before said, remain the Sovereign of a country that is letting itself down to kiss the feet of the great barbarians, the retarders of all liberty and civilisation that exists." When the Russians advanced to the outskirts of Constantinople she fired off three letters in a day demanding war; and when she learnt that the Cabinet had only decided to send the Fleet to Gallipoli she declared that "her first impulse" was "to lay down the thorny crown, which she feels little satisfaction in retaining if the position of this country is to remain as it is now." It is easy to imagine the agitating effect of such a correspondence upon Beaconsfield. This was no longer the Faery; it was a genie whom he had rashly called out of her bottle, and who was now intent upon showing her supernal power. More than once, perplexed, dispirited, shattered by illness, he had thoughts of withdrawing altogether from the game. One thing alone, he told Lady Bradford, with a wry smile, prevented him. "If I could only," he wrote, "face the scene which would occur at headquarters if I resigned, I would do so at once." He held on, however, to emerge victorious at last. The Queen was pacified; Lord Derby was replaced by Lord Salisbury; and at the Congress of Berlin der alte Jude carried all before him. He returned to England in triumph, and assured the delighted Victoria that she would very soon be, if she was not already, the "Dictatress of Europe." But soon there was an unexpected reverse. At the General Election of 1880 the country, mistrustful of the forward policy of the Conservatives, and carried away by Mr. Gladstone's oratory, returned the Liberals to power. Victoria was horrified, but within a year she was to be yet more nearly hit. The grand romance had come to its conclusion. Lord Beaconsfield, worn out with age and maladies, but moving still, an assiduous mummy, from dinner-party to dinner-party, suddenly moved no longer. When she knew that the end was inevitable, she seemed, by a pathetic instinct, to divest herself of her royalty, and to shrink, with hushed gentleness, beside him, a woman and nothing more. "I send some Osborne primroses," she wrote to him with touching simplicity, "and I meant to pay you a little visit this week, but I thought it better you should be quite quiet and not speak. And I beg you will be very good and obey the doctors." She would see him, she said, "when we, come back from Osborne, which won't be long." "Everyone is so distressed at your not being well," she added; and she was, "Ever yours very aff'ly V.R.I." When the royal letter was given him, the strange old comedian, stretched on his bed of death, poised it in his hand, appeared to consider deeply, and then whispered to those about him, "This ought to be read to me by a Privy Councillor." CHAPTER IX. OLD AGE I Meanwhile in Victoria's private life many changes and developments had taken place. With the marriages of her elder children her family circle widened; grandchildren appeared; and a multitude of new domestic interests sprang up. The death of King Leopold in 1865 had removed the predominant figure of the older generation, and the functions he had performed as the centre and adviser of a large group of relatives in Germany and in England devolved upon Victoria. These functions she discharged with unremitting industry, carrying on an enormous correspondence, and following with absorbed interest every detail in the lives of the ever-ramifying cousinhood. And she tasted to the full both the joys and the pains of family affection. She took a particular delight in her grandchildren, to whom she showed an indulgence which their parents had not always enjoyed, though, even to her grandchildren, she could be, when the occasion demanded it, severe. The eldest of them, the little Prince Wilhelm of Prussia, was a remarkably headstrong child; he dared to be impertinent even to his grandmother; and once, when she told him to bow to a visitor at Osborne, he disobeyed her outright. This would not do: the order was sternly repeated, and the naughty boy, noticing that his grandmama had suddenly turned into a most terrifying lady, submitted his will to hers, and bowed very low indeed. It would have been well if all the Queen's domestic troubles could have been got over as easily. Among her more serious distresses was the conduct of the Prince of Wales. The young man was now independent and married; he had shaken the parental yoke from his shoulders; he was positively beginning to do as he liked. Victoria was much perturbed, and her worst fears seemed to be justified when in 1870 he appeared as a witness in a society divorce case. It was clear that the heir to the throne had been mixing with people of whom she did not at all approve. What was to be done? She saw that it was not only her son that was to blame--that it was the whole system of society; and so she despatched a letter to Mr. Delane, the editor of The Times, asking him if he would "frequently WRITE articles pointing out the IMMENSE danger and evil of the wretched frivolity and levity of the views and lives of the Higher Classes." And five years later Mr. Delane did write an article upon that very subject. Yet it seemed to have very little effect. Ah! if only the Higher Classes would learn to live as she lived in the domestic sobriety of her sanctuary at Balmoral! For more and more did she find solace and refreshment in her Highland domain; and twice yearly, in the spring and in the autumn, with a sigh of relief, she set her face northwards, in spite of the humble protests of Ministers, who murmured vainly in the royal ears that to transact the affairs of State over an interval of six hundred miles added considerably to the cares of government. Her ladies, too, felt occasionally a slight reluctance to set out, for, especially in the early days, the long pilgrimage was not without its drawbacks. For many years the Queen's conservatism forbade the continuation of the railway up Deeside, so that the last stages of the journey had to be accomplished in carriages. But, after all, carriages had their good points; they were easy, for instance, to get in and out of, which was an important consideration, for the royal train remained for long immune from modern conveniences, and when it drew up, on some border moorland, far from any platform, the highbred dames were obliged to descend to earth by the perilous foot-board, the only pair of folding steps being reserved for Her Majesty's saloon. In the days of crinolines such moments were sometimes awkward; and it was occasionally necessary to summon Mr. Johnstone, the short and sturdy Manager of the Caledonian Railway, who, more than once, in a high gale and drenching rain with great difficulty "pushed up"--as he himself described it--some unlucky Lady Blanche or Lady Agatha into her compartment. But Victoria cared for none of these things. She was only intent upon regaining, with the utmost swiftness, her enchanted Castle, where every spot was charged with memories, where every memory was sacred, and where life was passed in an incessant and delightful round of absolutely trivial events. And it was not only the place that she loved; she was equally attached to "the simple mountaineers," from whom, she said, "she learnt many a lesson of resignation and faith." Smith and Grant and Ross and Thompson--she was devoted to them all; but, beyond the rest, she was devoted to John Brown. The Prince's gillie had now become the Queen's personal attendant--a body servant from whom she was never parted, who accompanied her on her drives, waited on her during the day, and slept in a neighbouring chamber at night. She liked his strength, his solidity, the sense he gave her of physical security; she even liked his rugged manners and his rough unaccommodating speech. She allowed him to take liberties with her which would have been unthinkable from anybody else. To bully the Queen, to order her about, to reprimand her--who could dream of venturing upon such audacities? And yet, when she received such treatment from John Brown, she positively seemed to enjoy it. The eccentricity appeared to be extraordinary; but, after all, it is no uncommon thing for an autocratic dowager to allow some trusted indispensable servant to adopt towards her an attitude of authority which is jealously forbidden to relatives or friends: the power of a dependent still remains, by a psychological sleight-of-hand, one's own power, even when it is exercised over oneself. When Victoria meekly obeyed the abrupt commands of her henchman to get off her pony or put on her shawl, was she not displaying, and in the highest degree, the force of her volition? People might wonder; she could not help that; this was the manner in which it pleased her to act, and there was an end of it. To have submitted her judgment to a son or a Minister might have seemed wiser or more natural; but if she had done so, she instinctively felt, she would indeed have lost her independence. And yet upon somebody she longed to depend. Her days were heavy with the long process of domination. As she drove in silence over the moors she leaned back in the carriage, oppressed and weary; but what a relief--John Brown was behind on the rumble, and his strong arm would be there for her to lean upon when she got out. He had, too, in her mind, a special connection with Albert. In their expeditions the Prince had always trusted him more than anyone; the gruff, kind, hairy Scotsman was, she felt, in some mysterious way, a legacy from the dead. She came to believe at last--or so it appeared--that the spirit of Albert was nearer when Brown was near. Often, when seeking inspiration over some complicated question of political or domestic import, she would gaze with deep concentration at her late husband's bust. But it was also noticed that sometimes in such moments of doubt and hesitation Her Majesty's looks would fix themselves upon John Brown. Eventually, the "simple mountaineer" became almost a state personage. The influence which he wielded was not to be overlooked. Lord Beaconsfield was careful, from time to time, to send courteous messages to "Mr. Brown" in his letters to the Queen, and the French Government took particular pains to provide for his comfort during the visits of the English Sovereign to France. It was only natural that among the elder members of the royal family he should not have been popular, and that his failings--for failings he had, though Victoria would never notice his too acute appreciation of Scotch whisky--should have been the subject of acrimonious comment at Court. But he served his mistress faithfully, and to ignore him would be a sign of disrespect to her biographer. For the Queen, far from making a secret of her affectionate friendship, took care to publish it to the world. By her orders two gold medals were struck in his honour; on his death, in 1883, a long and eulogistic obituary notice of him appeared in the Court Circular; and a Brown memorial brooch--of gold, with the late gillie's head on one side and the royal monogram on the other--was designed by Her Majesty for presentation to her Highland servants and cottagers, to be worn by them on the anniversary of his death, with a mourning scarf and pins. In the second series of extracts from the Queen's Highland Journal, published in 1884, her "devoted personal attendant and faithful friend" appears upon almost every page, and is in effect the hero of the book. With an absence of reticence remarkable in royal persons, Victoria seemed to demand, in this private and delicate matter, the sympathy of the whole nation; and yet--such is the world--there were those who actually treated the relations between their Sovereign and her servant as a theme for ribald jests. II The busy years hastened away; the traces of Time's unimaginable touch grew manifest; and old age, approaching, laid a gentle hold upon Victoria. The grey hair whitened; the mature features mellowed; the short firm figure amplified and moved more slowly, supported by a stick. And, simultaneously, in the whole tenour of the Queen's existence an extraordinary transformation came to pass. The nation's attitude towards her, critical and even hostile as it had been for so many years, altogether changed; while there was a corresponding alteration in the temper of--Victoria's own mind. Many causes led to this result. Among them were the repeated strokes of personal misfortune which befell the Queen during a cruelly short space of years. In 1878 the Princess Alice, who had married in 1862 the Prince Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt, died in tragic circumstances. In the following year the Prince Imperial, the only son of the Empress Eugenie, to whom Victoria, since the catastrophe of 1870, had become devotedly attached, was killed in the Zulu War. Two years later, in 1881, the Queen lost Lord Beaconsfield, and, in 1883, John Brown. In 1884 the Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany, who had been an invalid from birth, died prematurely, shortly after his marriage. Victoria's cup of sorrows was indeed overflowing; and the public, as it watched the widowed mother weeping for her children and her friends, displayed a constantly increasing sympathy. An event which occurred in 1882 revealed and accentuated the feelings of the nation. As the Queen, at Windsor, was walking from the train to her carriage, a youth named Roderick Maclean fired a pistol at her from a distance of a few yards. An Eton boy struck up Maclean's arm with an umbrella before the pistol went off; no damage was done, and the culprit was at once arrested. This was the last of a series of seven attempts upon the Queen--attempts which, taking place at sporadic intervals over a period of forty years, resembled one another in a curious manner. All, with a single exception, were perpetrated by adolescents, whose motives were apparently not murderous, since, save in the case of Maclean, none of their pistols was loaded. These unhappy youths, who, after buying their cheap weapons, stuffed them with gunpowder and paper, and then went off, with the certainty of immediate detection, to click them in the face of royalty, present a strange problem to the psychologist. But, though in each case their actions and their purposes seemed to be so similar, their fates were remarkably varied. The first of them, Edward Oxford, who fired at Victoria within a few months of her marriage, was tried for high treason, declared to be insane, and sent to an asylum for life. It appears, however, that this sentence did not commend itself to Albert, for when, two years later, John Francis committed the same of fence, and was tried upon the same charge, the Prince propounced that there was no insanity in the matter. "The wretched creature," he told his father, was "not out of his mind, but a thorough scamp." "I hope," he added, "his trial will be conducted with the greatest strictness." Apparently it was; at any rate, the jury shared the view of the Prince, the plea of insanity was, set aside, and Francis was found guilty of high treason and condemned to death; but, as there was no proof of an intent to kill or even to wound, this sentence, after a lengthened deliberation between the Home Secretary and the Judges, was commuted for one of transportation for life. As the law stood, these assaults, futile as they were, could only be treated as high treason; the discrepancy between the actual deed and the tremendous penalties involved was obviously grotesque; and it was, besides, clear that a jury, knowing that a verdict of guilty implied a sentence of death, would tend to the alternative course, and find the prisoner not guilty but insane--a conclusion which, on the face of it, would have appeared to be the more reasonable. In 1842, therefore, an Act was passed making any attempt to hurt the Queen a misdemeanor, punishable by transportation for seven years, or imprisonment, with or without hard labour, for a term not exceeding three years--the misdemeanant, at the discretion of the Court, "to be publicly or privately whipped, as often, and in such manner and form, as the Court shall direct, not exceeding thrice." The four subsequent attempts were all dealt with under this new law; William Bean, in 1842, was sentenced to eighteen months' imprisonment; William Hamilton, in 1849, was transported for seven years; and, in 1850, the same sentence was passed upon Lieutenant Robert Pate, who struck the Queen on the head with his cane in Piccadilly. Pate, alone among these delinquents, was of mature years; he had held a commission in the Army, dressed himself as a dandy, and was, the Prince declared, "manifestly deranged." In 1872 Arthur O'Connor, a youth of seventeen, fired an unloaded pistol at the Queen outside Buckingham Palace; he was immediately seized by John Brown, and sentenced to one year's imprisonment and twenty strokes of the birch rod. It was for his bravery upon this occasion that Brown was presented with one of his gold medals. In all these cases the jury had refused to allow the plea of insanity; but Roderick Maclean's attempt in 1882 had a different issue. On this occasion the pistol was found to have been loaded, and the public indignation, emphasised as it was by Victoria's growing popularity, was particularly great. Either for this or for some other reason the procedure of the last forty years was abandoned, and Maclean was tried for high treason. The result was what might have been expected: the jury brought in a verdict of "not guilty, but insane"; and the prisoner was sent to an asylum during Her Majesty's pleasure. Their verdict, however, produced a remarkable consequence. Victoria, who doubtless carried in her mind some memory of Albert's disapproval of a similar verdict in the case of Oxford, was very much annoyed. What did the jury mean, she asked, by saying that Maclean was not guilty? It was perfectly clear that he was guilty--she had seen him fire off the pistol herself. It was in vain that Her Majesty's constitutional advisers reminded her of the principle of English law which lays down that no man can be found guilty of a crime unless he be proved to have had a criminal intention. Victoria was quite unconvinced. "If that is the law," she said, "the law must be altered:" and altered it was. In 1883 an Act was passed changing the form of the verdict in cases of insanity, and the confusing anomaly remains upon the Statute Book to this day. But it was not only through the feelings--commiserating or indignant--of personal sympathy that the Queen and her people were being drawn more nearly together; they were beginning, at last, to come to a close and permanent agreement upon the conduct of public affairs. Mr. Gladstone's second administration (1880-85) was a succession of failures, ending in disaster and disgrace; liberalism fell into discredit with the country, and Victoria perceived with joy that her distrust of her Ministers was shared by an ever-increasing number of her subjects. During the crisis in the Sudan, the popular temper was her own. She had been among the first to urge the necessity of an expedition to Khartoum, and, when the news came of the catastrophic death of General Gordon, her voice led the chorus of denunciation which raved against the Government. In her rage, she despatched a fulminating telegram to Mr. Gladstone, not in the usual cypher, but open; and her letter of condolence to Miss Gordon, in which she attacked her Ministers for breach of faith, was widely published. It was rumoured that she had sent for Lord Hartington, the Secretary of State for War, and vehemently upbraided him. "She rated me," he was reported to have told a friend, "as if I'd been a footman." "Why didn't she send for the butler?" asked his friend. "Oh," was the reply, "the butler generally manages to keep out of the way on such occasions." But the day came when it was impossible to keep out of the way any longer. Mr. Gladstone was defeated, and resigned. Victoria, at a final interview, received him with her usual amenity, but, besides the formalities demanded by the occasion, the only remark which she made to him of a personal nature was to the effect that she supposed Mr. Gladstone would now require some rest. He remembered with regret how, at a similar audience in 1874, she had expressed her trust in him as a supporter of the throne; but he noted the change without surprise. "Her mind and opinions," he wrote in his diary afterwards, "have since that day been seriously warped." Such was Mr. Gladstone's view,; but the majority of the nation by no means agreed with him; and, in the General Election of 1886, they showed decisively that Victoria's politics were identical with theirs by casting forth the contrivers of Home Rule--that abomination of desolation--into outer darkness, and placing Lord Salisbury in power. Victoria's satisfaction was profound. A flood of new unwonted hopefulness swept over her, stimulating her vital spirits with a surprising force. Her habit of life was suddenly altered; abandoning the long seclusion which Disraeli's persuasions had only momentarily interrupted, she threw herself vigorously into a multitude of public activities. She appeared at drawing-rooms, at concerts, at reviews; she laid foundation-stones; she went to Liverpool to open an international exhibition, driving through the streets in her open carriage in heavy rain amid vast applauding crowds. Delighted by the welcome which met her everywhere, she warmed to her work. She visited Edinburgh, where the ovation of Liverpool was repeated and surpassed. In London, she opened in high state the Colonial and Indian Exhibition at South Kensington. On this occasion the ceremonial was particularly magnificent; a blare of trumpets announced the approach of Her Majesty; the "Natiohal Anthem" followed; and the Queen, seated on a gorgeous throne of hammered gold, replied with her own lips to the address that was presented to her. Then she rose, and, advancing upon the platform with regal port, acknowledged the acclamations of the great assembly by a succession of curtseys, of elaborate and commanding grace. Next year was the fiftieth of her reign, and in June the splendid anniversary was celebrated in solemn pomp. Victoria, surrounded by the highest dignitaries of her realm, escorted by a glittering galaxy of kings and princes, drove through the crowded enthusiasm of the capital to render thanks to God in Westminster Abbey. In that triumphant hour the last remaining traces of past antipathies and past disagreements were altogether swept away. The Queen was hailed at once as the mother of her people and as the embodied symbol of their imperial greatness; and she responded to the double sentiment with all the ardour of her spirit. England and the people of England, she knew it, she felt it, were, in some wonderful and yet quite simple manner, hers. Exultation, affection, gratitude, a profound sense of obligation, an unbounded pride--such were her emotions; and, colouring and intensifying the rest, there was something else. At last, after so long, happiness--fragmentary, perhaps, and charged with gravity, but true and unmistakable none the less--had returned to her. The unaccustomed feeling filled and warmed her consciousness. When, at Buckingham Palace again, the long ceremony over, she was asked how she was, "I am very tired, but very happy," she said. III And so, after the toils and tempests of the day, a long evening followed--mild, serene, and lighted with a golden glory. For an unexampled atmosphere of success and adoration invested the last period of Victoria's life. Her triumph was the summary, the crown, of a greater triumph--the culminating prosperity of a nation. The solid splendour of the decade between Victoria's two jubilees can hardly be paralleled in the annals of England. The sage counsels of Lord Salisbury seemed to bring with them not only wealth and power, but security; and the country settled down, with calm assurance, to the enjoyment of an established grandeur. And--it was only natural--Victoria settled down too. For she was a part of the establishment--an essential part as it seemed--a fixture--a magnificent, immovable sideboard in the huge saloon of state. Without her the heaped-up banquet of 1890 would have lost its distinctive quality--the comfortable order of the substantial unambiguous dishes, with their background of weighty glamour, half out of sight. Her own existence came to harmonise more and more with what was around her. Gradually, imperceptibly, Albert receded. It was not that he was forgotten--that would have been impossible--but that the void created by his absence grew less agonising, and even, at last, less obvious. At last Victoria found it possible to regret the bad weather without immediately reflecting that her "dear Albert always said we could not alter it, but must leave it as it was;" she could even enjoy a good breakfast without considering how "dear Albert" would have liked the buttered eggs. And, as that figure slowly faded, its place was taken, inevitably, by Victoria's own. Her being, revolving for so many years round an external object, now changed its motion and found its centre in itself. It had to be so: her domestic position, the pressure of her public work, her indomitable sense of duty, made anything else impossible. Her egotism proclaimed its rights. Her age increased still further the surrounding deference; and her force of character, emerging at length in all its plenitude, imposed absolutely upon its environment by the conscious effort of an imperious will. Little by little it was noticed that the outward vestiges of Albert's posthumous domination grew less complete. At Court the stringency of mourning was relaxed. As the Queen drove through the Park in her open carriage with her Highlanders behind her, nursery-maids canvassed eagerly the growing patch of violet velvet in the bonnet with its jet appurtenances on the small bowing head. It was in her family that Victoria's ascendancy reached its highest point. All her offspring were married; the number of her descendants rapidly increased; there were many marriages in the third generation; and no fewer than thirty-seven of her great-grandchildren were living at the time of her death. A picture of the period displays the royal family collected together in one of the great rooms at Windsor--a crowded company of more than fifty persons, with the imperial matriarch in their midst. Over them all she ruled with a most potent sway. The small concerns of the youngest aroused her passionate interest; and the oldest she treated as if they were children still. The Prince of Wales, in particular, stood in tremendous awe of his mother. She had steadily refused to allow him the slightest participation in the business of government; and he had occupied himself in other ways. Nor could it be denied that he enjoyed himself--out of her sight; but, in that redoubtable presence, his abounding manhood suffered a miserable eclipse. Once, at Osborne, when, owing to no fault of his, he was too late for a dinner party, he was observed standing behind a pillar and wiping the sweat from his forehead, trying to nerve himself to go up to the Queen. When at last he did so, she gave him a stiff nod, whereupon he vanished immediately behind another pillar, and remained there until the party broke up. At the time of this incident the Prince of Wales was over fifty years of age. It was inevitable that the Queen's domestic activities should occasionally trench upon the domain of high diplomacy; and this was especially the case when the interests of her eldest daughter, the Crown Princess of Prussia, were at stake. The Crown Prince held liberal opinions; he was much influenced by his wife; and both were detested by Bismarck, who declared with scurrilous emphasis that the Englishwoman and her mother were a menace to the Prussian State. The feud was still further intensified when, on the death of the old Emperor (1888), the Crown Prince succeeded to the throne. A family entanglement brought on a violent crisis. One of the daughters of the new Empress had become betrothed to Prince Alexander of Battenberg, who had lately been ejected from the throne of Bulgaria owing to the hostility of the Tsar. Victoria, as well as the Empress, highly approved of the match. Of the two brothers of Prince Alexander, the elder had married another of her grand-daughters, and the younger was the husband of her daughter, the Princess Beatrice; she was devoted to the handsome young man; and she was delighted by the prospect of the third brother--on the whole the handsomest, she thought, of the three--also becoming a member of her family. Unfortunately, however, Bismarck was opposed to the scheme. He perceived that the marriage would endanger the friendship between Germany and Russia, which was vital to his foreign policy, and he announced that it must not take place. A fierce struggle between the Empress and the Chancellor followed. Victoria, whose hatred of her daughter's enemy was unbounded, came over to Charlottenburg to join in the fray. Bismarck, over his pipe and lager, snorted out his alarm. The Queen of England's object, he said, was clearly political--she wished to estrange Germany and Russia--and very likely she would have her way. "In family matters," he added, "she is not used to contradiction;" she would "bring the parson with her in her travelling bag and the bridegroom in her trunk, and the marriage would come off on the spot." But the man of blood and iron was not to be thwarted so easily, and he asked for a private interview with the Queen. The details of their conversation are unknown; but it is certain that in the course of it Victoria was forced to realise the meaning of resistance to that formidable personage, and that she promised to use all her influence to prevent the marriage. The engagement was broken off; and in the following year Prince Alexander of Battenberg united himself to Fraulein Loisinger, an actress at the court theatre of Darmstad. But such painful incidents were rare. Victoria was growing very old; with no Albert to guide her, with no Beaconsfield to enflame her, she was willing enough to abandon the dangerous questions of diplomacy to the wisdom of Lord Salisbury, and to concentrate her energies upon objects which touched her more nearly and over which she could exercise an undisputed control. Her home--her court--the monuments at Balmoral--the livestock at Windsor--the organisation of her engagements--the supervision of the multitudinous details of her daily routine--such matters played now an even greater part in her existence than before. Her life passed in an extraordinary exactitude. Every moment of her day was mapped out beforehand; the succession of her engagements was immutably fixed; the dates of her journeys--to Osborne, to Balmoral, to the South of France, to Windsor, to London--were hardly altered from year to year. She demanded from those who surrounded her a rigid precision in details, and she was preternaturally quick in detecting the slightest deviation from the rules which she had laid down. Such was the irresistible potency of her personality, that anything but the most implicit obedience to her wishes was felt to be impossible; but sometimes somebody was unpunctual; and unpunctuality was one of the most heinous of sins. Then her displeasure--her dreadful displeasure--became all too visible. At such moments there seemed nothing surprising in her having been the daughter of a martinet. But these storms, unnerving as they were while they lasted, were quickly over, and they grew more and more exceptional. With the return of happiness a gentle benignity flowed from the aged Queen. Her smile, once so rare a visitant to those saddened features, flitted over them with an easy alacrity; the blue eyes beamed; the whole face, starting suddenly from its pendulous expressionlessness, brightened and softened and cast over those who watched it an unforgettable charm. For in her last years there was a fascination in Victoria's amiability which had been lacking even from the vivid impulse of her youth. Over all who approached her--or very nearly all--she threw a peculiar spell. Her grandchildren adored her; her ladies waited upon her with a reverential love. The honour of serving her obliterated a thousand inconveniences--the monotony of a court existence, the fatigue of standing, the necessity for a superhuman attentiveness to the minutia: of time and space. As one did one's wonderful duty one could forget that one's legs were aching from the infinitude of the passages at Windsor, or that one's bare arms were turning blue in the Balmoral cold. What, above all, seemed to make such service delightful was the detailed interest which the Queen took in the circumstances of those around her. Her absorbing passion for the comfortable commonplaces, the small crises, the recurrent sentimentalities, of domestic life constantly demanded wider fields for its activity; the sphere of her own family, vast as it was, was not enough; she became the eager confidante of the household affairs of her ladies; her sympathies reached out to the palace domestics; even the housemaids and scullions--so it appeared--were the objects of her searching inquiries, and of her heartfelt solicitude when their lovers were ordered to a foreign station, or their aunts suffered from an attack of rheumatism which was more than usually acute. Nevertheless the due distinctions of rank were immaculately preserved. The Queen's mere presence was enough to ensure that; but, in addition, the dominion of court etiquette was paramount. For that elaborate code, which had kept Lord Melbourne stiff upon the sofa and ranged the other guests in silence about the round table according to the order of precedence, was as punctiliously enforced as ever. Every evening after dinner, the hearth-rug, sacred to royalty, loomed before the profane in inaccessible glory, or, on one or two terrific occasions, actually lured them magnetically forward to the very edge of the abyss. The Queen, at the fitting moment, moved towards her guests; one after the other they were led up to her; and, while dialogue followed dialogue in constraint and embarrassment, the rest of the assembly stood still, without a word. Only in one particular was the severity of the etiquette allowed to lapse. Throughout the greater part of the reign the rule that ministers must stand during their audiences with the Queen had been absolute. When Lord Derby, the Prime Minister, had an audience of Her Majesty after a serious illness, he mentioned it afterwards, as a proof of the royal favour, that the Queen had remarked "How sorry she was she could not ask him to be seated." Subsequently, Disraeli, after an attack of gout and in a moment of extreme expansion on the part of Victoria, had been offered a chair; but he had thought it wise humbly to decline the privilege. In her later years, however, the Queen invariably asked Mr. Gladstone and Lord Salisbury to sit down. Sometimes the solemnity of the evening was diversified by a concert, an opera, or even a play. One of the most marked indications of Victoria's enfranchisement from the thraldom of widowhood had been her resumption--after an interval of thirty years--of the custom of commanding dramatic companies from London to perform before the Court at Windsor. On such occasions her spirits rose high. She loved acting; she loved a good plot; above all, she loved a farce. Engrossed by everything that passed upon the stage she would follow, with childlike innocence, the unwinding of the story; or she would assume an air of knowing superiority and exclaim in triumph, "There! You didn't expect that, did you?" when the denouement came. Her sense of humour was of a vigorous though primitive kind. She had been one of the very few persons who had always been able to appreciate the Prince Consort's jokes; and, when those were cracked no more, she could still roar with laughter, in the privacy of her household, over some small piece of fun--some oddity of an ambassador, or some ignorant Minister's faux pas. When the jest grew subtle she was less pleased; but, if it approached the confines of the indecorous, the danger was serious. To take a liberty called down at once Her Majesty's most crushing disapprobation; and to say something improper was to take the greatest liberty of all. Then the royal lips sank down at the corners, the royal eyes stared in astonished protrusion, and in fact, the royal countenance became inauspicious in the highest degree. The transgressor shuddered into silence, while the awful "We are not amused" annihilated the dinner table. Afterwards, in her private entourage, the Queen would observe that the person in question was, she very much feared, "not discreet"; it was a verdict from which there was no appeal. In general, her aesthetic tastes had remained unchanged since the days of Mendelssohn, Landseer, and Lablache. She still delighted in the roulades of Italian opera; she still demanded a high standard in the execution of a pianoforte duet. Her views on painting were decided; Sir Edwin, she declared, was perfect; she was much impressed by Lord Leighton's manners; and she profoundly distrusted Mr. Watts. From time to time she ordered engraved portraits to be taken of members of the royal family; on these occasions she would have the first proofs submitted to her, and, having inspected them with minute particularity, she would point out their mistakes to the artists, indicating at the same time how they might be corrected. The artists invariably discovered that Her Majesty's suggestions were of the highest value. In literature her interests were more restricted. She was devoted to Lord Tennyson; and, as the Prince Consort had admired George Eliot, she perused "Middlemarch:" she was disappointed. There is reason to believe, however, that the romances of another female writer, whose popularity among the humbler classes of Her Majesty's subjects was at one time enormous, secured, no less, the approval of Her Majesty. Otherwise she did not read very much. Once, however, the Queen's attention was drawn to a publication which it was impossible for her to ignore. "The Greville Memoirs," filled with a mass of historical information of extraordinary importance, but filled also with descriptions, which were by no means flattering, of George IV, William IV, and other royal persons, was brought out by Mr. Reeve. Victoria read the book, and was appalled. It was, she declared, a "dreadful and really scandalous book," and she could not say "how HORRIFIED and INDIGNANT" she was at Greville's "indiscretion, indelicacy, ingratitude towards friends, betrayal of confidence and shameful disloyalty towards his Sovereign." She wrote to Disraeli to tell him that in her opinion it was "VERY IMPORTANT that the book should be severely censured and discredited." "The tone in which he speaks of royalty," she added, "is unlike anything one sees in history even, and is most reprehensible." Her anger was directed with almost equal vehemence against Mr. Reeve for his having published "such an abominable book," and she charged Sir Arthur Helps to convey to him her deep displeasure. Mr. Reeve, however, was impenitent. When Sir Arthur told him that, in the Queen's opinion, "the book degraded royalty," he replied: "Not at all; it elevates it by the contrast it offers between the present and the defunct state of affairs." But this adroit defence failed to make any impression upon Victoria; and Mr. Reeve, when he retired from the public service, did not receive the knighthood which custom entitled him to expect. Perhaps if the Queen had known how many caustic comments upon herself Mr. Reeve had quietly suppressed in the published Memoirs, she would have been almost grateful to him; but, in that case, what would she have said of Greville? Imagination boggles at the thought. As for more modern essays upon the same topic, Her Majesty, it is to be feared, would have characterised them as "not discreet." But as a rule the leisure hours of that active life were occupied with recreations of a less intangible quality than the study of literature or the appreciation of art. Victoria was a woman not only of vast property but of innumerable possessions. She had inherited an immense quantity of furniture, of ornaments, of china, of plate, of valuable objects of every kind; her purchases, throughout a long life, made a formidable addition to these stores; and there flowed in upon her, besides, from every quarter of the globe, a constant stream of gifts. Over this enormous mass she exercised an unceasing and minute supervision, and the arrangement and the contemplation of it, in all its details, filled her with an intimate satisfaction. The collecting instinct has its roots in the very depths of human nature; and, in the case of Victoria, it seemed to owe its force to two of her dominating impulses--the intense sense, which had always been hers, of her own personality, and the craving which, growing with the years, had become in her old age almost an obsession, for fixity, for solidity, for the setting up of palpable barriers against the outrages of change and time. When she considered the multitudinous objects which belonged to her, or, better still, when, choosing out some section of them as the fancy took her, she actually savoured the vivid richness of their individual qualities, she saw herself deliciously reflected from a million facets, felt herself magnified miraculously over a boundless area, and was well pleased. That was just as it should be; but then came the dismaying thought--everything slips away, crumbles, vanishes; Sevres dinner-services get broken; even golden basins go unaccountably astray; even one's self, with all the recollections and experiences that make up one's being, fluctuates, perishes, dissolves... But no! It could not, should not be so! There should be no changes and no losses! Nothing should ever move--neither the past nor the present--and she herself least of all! And so the tenacious woman, hoarding her valuables, decreed their immortality with all the resolution of her soul. She would not lose one memory or one pin. She gave orders that nothing should be thrown away--and nothing was. There, in drawer after drawer, in wardrobe after wardrobe, reposed the dresses of seventy years. But not only the dresses--the furs and the mantles and subsidiary frills and the muffs and the parasols and the bonnets--all were ranged in chronological order, dated and complete. A great cupboard was devoted to the dolls; in the china room at Windsor a special table held the mugs of her childhood, and her children's mugs as well. Mementoes of the past surrounded her in serried accumulations. In every room the tables were powdered thick with the photographs of relatives; their portraits, revealing them at all ages, covered the walls; their figures, in solid marble, rose up from pedestals, or gleamed from brackets in the form of gold and silver statuettes. The dead, in every shape--in miniatures, in porcelain, in enormous life-size oil-paintings--were perpetually about her. John Brown stood upon her writing-table in solid gold. Her favourite horses and dogs, endowed with a new durability, crowded round her footsteps. Sharp, in silver gilt, dominated the dinner table; Boy and Boz lay together among unfading flowers, in bronze. And it was not enough that each particle of the past should be given the stability of metal or of marble: the whole collection, in its arrangement, no less than its entity, should be immutably fixed. There might be additions, but there might never be alterations. No chintz might change, no carpet, no curtain, be replaced by another; or, if long use at last made it necessary, the stuffs and the patterns must be so identically reproduced that the keenest eye might not detect the difference. No new picture could be hung upon the walls at Windsor, for those already there had been put in their places by Albert, whose decisions were eternal. So, indeed, were Victoria's. To ensure that they should be the aid of the camera was called in. Every single article in the Queen's possession was photographed from several points of view. These photographs were submitted to Her Majesty, and when, after careful inspection, she had approved of them, they were placed in a series of albums, richly bound. Then, opposite each photograph, an entry was made, indicating the number of the article, the number of the room in which it was kept, its exact position in the room and all its principal characteristics. The fate of every object which had undergone this process was henceforth irrevocably sealed. The whole multitude, once and for all, took up its steadfast station. And Victoria, with a gigantic volume or two of the endless catalogue always beside her, to look through, to ponder upon, to expatiate over, could feel, with a double contentment, that the transitoriness of this world had been arrested by the amplitude of her might. Thus the collection, ever multiplying, ever encroaching upon new fields of consciousness, ever rooting itself more firmly in the depths of instinct, became one of the dominating influences of that strange existence. It was a collection not merely of things and of thoughts, but of states of mind and ways of living as well. The celebration of anniversaries grew to be an important branch of it--of birthdays and marriage days and death days, each of which demanded its appropriate feeling, which, in its turn, must be itself expressed in an appropriate outward form. And the form, of course--the ceremony of rejoicing or lamentation--was stereotyped with the rest: it was part of the collection. On a certain day, for instance, flowers must be strewn on John Brown's monument at Balmoral; and the date of the yearly departure for Scotland was fixed by that fact. Inevitably it was around the central circumstance of death--death, the final witness to human mutability--that these commemorative cravings clustered most thickly. Might not even death itself be humbled, if one could recall enough--if one asserted, with a sufficiently passionate and reiterated emphasis, the eternity of love? Accordingly, every bed in which Victoria slept had attached to it, at the back, on the right-hand side, above the pillow, a photograph of the head and shoulders of Albert as he lay dead, surmounted by a wreath of immortelles. At Balmoral, where memories came crowding so closely, the solid signs of memory appeared in surprising profusion. Obelisks, pyramids, tombs, statues, cairns, and seats of inscribed granite, proclaimed Victoria's dedication to the dead. There, twice a year, on the days that followed her arrival, a solemn pilgrimage of inspection and meditation was performed. There, on August 26--Albert's birthday--at the foot of the bronze statue of him in Highland dress, the Queen, her family, her Court, her servants, and her tenantry, met together and in silence drank to the memory of the dead. In England the tokens of remembrance pullulated hardly less. Not a day passed without some addition to the multifold assemblage--a gold statuette of Ross, the piper--a life-sized marble group of Victoria and Albert, in medieval costume, inscribed upon the base with the words: "Allured to brighter worlds and led the way-" a granite slab in the shrubbery at Osborne, informing the visitor of "Waldmann: the very favourite little dachshund of Queen Victoria; who brought him from Baden, April 1872; died, July 11, 1881." At Frogmore, the great mausoleum, perpetually enriched, was visited almost daily by the Queen when the Court was at Windsor. But there was another, a more secret and a hardly less holy shrine. The suite of rooms which Albert had occupied in the Castle was kept for ever shut away from the eyes of any save the most privileged. Within those precincts everything remained as it had been at the Prince's death; but the mysterious preoccupation of Victoria had commanded that her husband's clothing should be laid afresh, each evening, upon the bed, and that, each evening, the water should be set ready in the basin, as if he were still alive; and this incredible rite was performed with scrupulous regularity for nearly forty years. Such was the inner worship; and still the flesh obeyed the spirit; still the daily hours of labour proclaimed Victoria's consecration to duty and to the ideal of the dead. Yet, with the years, the sense of self-sacrifice faded; the natural energies of that ardent being discharged themselves with satisfaction into the channel of public work; the love of business which, from her girlhood, had been strong within her, reasserted itself in all its vigour, and, in her old age, to have been cut off from her papers and her boxes would have been, not a relief, but an agony to Victoria. Thus, though toiling Ministers might sigh and suffer, the whole process of government continued, till the very end, to pass before her. Nor was that all; ancient precedent had made the validity of an enormous number of official transactions dependent upon the application of the royal sign-manual; and a great proportion of the Queen's working hours was spent in this mechanical task. Nor did she show any desire to diminish it. On the contrary, she voluntarily resumed the duty of signing commissions in the army, from which she had been set free by Act of Parliament, and from which, during the years of middle life, she had abstained. In no case would she countenance the proposal that she should use a stamp. But, at last, when the increasing pressure of business made the delays of the antiquated system intolerable, she consented that, for certain classes of documents, her oral sanction should be sufficient. Each paper was read aloud to her, and she said at the end "Approved." Often, for hours at a time, she would sit, with Albert's bust in front of her, while the word "Approved" issued at intervals from her lips. The word came forth with a majestic sonority; for her voice now--how changed from the silvery treble of her girlhood--was a contralto, full and strong. IV The final years were years of apotheosis. In the dazzled imagination of her subjects Victoria soared aloft towards the regions of divinity through a nimbus of purest glory. Criticism fell dumb; deficiencies which, twenty years earlier, would have been universally admitted, were now as universally ignored. That the nation's idol was a very incomplete representative of the nation was a circumstance that was hardly noticed, and yet it was conspicuously true. For the vast changes which, out of the England of 1837, had produced the England of 1897, seemed scarcely to have touched the Queen. The immense industrial development of the period, the significance of which had been so thoroughly understood by Albert, meant little indeed to Victoria. The amazing scientific movement, which Albert had appreciated no less, left Victoria perfectly cold. Her conception of the universe, and of man's place in it, and of the stupendous problems of nature and philosophy remained, throughout her life, entirely unchanged. Her religion was the religion which she had learnt from the Baroness Lehzen and the Duchess of Kent. Here, too, it might have been supposed that Albert's views might have influenced her. For Albert, in matters of religion, was advanced. Disbelieving altogether in evil spirits, he had had his doubts about the miracle of the Gaderene Swine. Stockmar, even, had thrown out, in a remarkable memorandum on the education of the Prince of Wales, the suggestion that while the child "must unquestionably be brought up in the creed of the Church of England," it might nevertheless be in accordance with the spirit of the times to exclude from his religious training the inculcation of a belief in "the supernatural doctrines of Christianity." This, however, would have been going too far; and all the royal children were brought up in complete orthodoxy. Anything else would have grieved Victoria, though her own conceptions of the orthodox were not very precise. But her nature, in which imagination and subtlety held so small a place, made her instinctively recoil from the intricate ecstasies of High Anglicanism; and she seemed to feel most at home in the simple faith of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland. This was what might have been expected; for Lehzen was the daughter of a Lutheran pastor, and the Lutherans and the Presbyterians have much in common. For many years Dr. Norman Macleod, an innocent Scotch minister, was her principal spiritual adviser; and, when he was taken from her, she drew much comfort from quiet chats about life and death with the cottagers at Balmoral. Her piety, absolutely genuine, found what it wanted in the sober exhortations of old John Grant and the devout saws of Mrs. P. Farquharson. They possessed the qualities, which, as a child of fourteen, she had so sincerely admired in the Bishop of Chester's "Exposition of the Gospel of St. Matthew;" they were "just plain and comprehensible and full of truth and good feeling." The Queen, who gave her name to the Age of Mill and of Darwin, never got any further than that. From the social movements of her time Victoria was equally remote. Towards the smallest no less than towards the greatest changes she remained inflexible. During her youth and middle age smoking had been forbidden in polite society, and so long as she lived she would not withdraw her anathema against it. Kings might protest; bishops and ambassadors, invited to Windsor, might be reduced, in the privacy of their bedrooms, to lie full-length upon the floor and smoke up the chimney--the interdict continued! It might have been supposed that a female sovereign would have lent her countenance to one of the most vital of all the reforms to which her epoch gave birth--the emancipation of women--but, on the contrary, the mere mention of such a proposal sent the blood rushing to her head. In 1870, her eye having fallen upon the report of a meeting in favour of Women's Suffrage, she wrote to Mr. Martin in royal rage--"The Queen is most anxious to enlist everyone who can speak or write to join in checking this mad, wicked folly of 'Woman's Rights,' with all its attendant horrors, on which her poor feeble sex is bent, forgetting every sense of womanly feeling and propriety. Lady--ought to get a GOOD WHIPPING. It is a subject which makes the Queen so furious that she cannot contain herself. God created men and women different--then let them remain each in their own position. Tennyson has some beautiful lines on the difference of men and women in 'The Princess.' Woman would become the most hateful, heartless, and disgusting of human beings were she allowed to unsex herself; and where would be the protection which man was intended to give the weaker sex? The Queen is sure that Mrs. Martin agrees with her." The argument was irrefutable; Mrs. Martin agreed; and yet the canker spread. In another direction Victoria's comprehension of the spirit of her age has been constantly asserted. It was for long the custom for courtly historians and polite politicians to compliment the Queen upon the correctness of her attitude towards the Constitution. But such praises seem hardly to be justified by the facts. In her later years Victoria more than once alluded with regret to her conduct during the Bedchamber crisis, and let it be understood that she had grown wiser since. Yet in truth it is difficult to trace any fundamental change either in her theory or her practice in constitutional matters throughout her life. The same despotic and personal spirit which led her to break off the negotiations with Peel is equally visible in her animosity towards Palmerston, in her threats of abdication to Disraeli, and in her desire to prosecute the Duke of Westminster for attending a meeting upon Bulgarian atrocities. The complex and delicate principles of the Constitution cannot be said to have come within the compass of her mental faculties; and in the actual developments which it underwent during her reign she played a passive part. From 1840 to 1861 the power of the Crown steadily increased in England; from 1861 to 1901 it steadily declined. The first process was due to the influence of the Prince Consort, the second to that of a series of great Ministers. During the first Victoria was in effect a mere accessory; during the second the threads of power, which Albert had so laboriously collected, inevitably fell from her hands into the vigorous grasp of Mr. Gladstone, Lord Beaconsfield, and Lord Salisbury. Perhaps, absorbed as she was in routine, and difficult as she found it to distinguish at all clearly between the trivial and the essential, she was only dimly aware of what was happening. Yet, at the end of her reign, the Crown was weaker than at any other time in English history. Paradoxically enough, Victoria received the highest eulogiums for assenting to a political evolution, which, had she completely realised its import, would have filled her with supreme displeasure. Nevertheless it must not be supposed that she was a second George III. Her desire to impose her will, vehement as it was, and unlimited by any principle, was yet checked by a certain shrewdness. She might oppose her Ministers with extraordinary violence, she might remain utterly impervious to arguments and supplications; the pertinacity of her resolution might seem to be unconquerable; but, at the very last moment of all, her obstinacy would give way. Her innate respect and capacity for business, and perhaps, too, the memory of Albert's scrupulous avoidance of extreme courses, prevented her from ever entering an impasse. By instinct she understood when the facts were too much for her, and to them she invariably yielded. After all, what else could she do? But if, in all these ways, the Queen and her epoch were profoundly separated, the points of contact between them also were not few. Victoria understood very well the meaning and the attractions of power and property, and in such learning the English nation, too, had grown to be more and more proficient. During the last fifteen years of the reign--for the short Liberal Administration of 1892 was a mere interlude imperialism was the dominant creed of the country. It was Victoria's as well. In this direction, if in no other, she had allowed her mind to develop. Under Disraeli's tutelage the British Dominions over the seas had come to mean much more to her than ever before, and, in particular, she had grown enamoured of the East. The thought of India fascinated her; she set to, and learnt a little Hindustani; she engaged some Indian servants, who became her inseparable attendants, and one of whom, Munshi Abdul Karim, eventually almost succeeded to the position which had once been John Brown's. At the same time, the imperialist temper of the nation invested her office with a new significance exactly harmonising with her own inmost proclivities. The English polity was in the main a common-sense structure, but there was always a corner in it where common-sense could not enter--where, somehow or other, the ordinary measurements were not applicable and the ordinary rules did not apply. So our ancestors had laid it down, giving scope, in their wisdom, to that mystical element which, as it seems, can never quite be eradicated from the affairs of men. Naturally it was in the Crown that the mysticism of the English polity was concentrated--the Crown, with its venerable antiquity, its sacred associations, its imposing spectacular array. But, for nearly two centuries, common-sense had been predominant in the great building, and the little, unexplored, inexplicable corner had attracted small attention. Then, with the rise of imperialism, there was a change. For imperialism is a faith as well as a business; as it grew, the mysticism in English public life grew with it; and simultaneously a new importance began to attach to the Crown. The need for a symbol--a symbol of England's might, of England's worth, of England's extraordinary and mysterious destiny--became felt more urgently than ever before. The Crown was that symbol: and the Crown rested upon the head of Victoria. Thus it happened that while by the end of the reign the power of the sovereign had appreciably diminished, the prestige of the sovereign had enormously grown. Yet this prestige was not merely the outcome of public changes; it was an intensely personal matter, too. Victoria was the Queen of England, the Empress of India, the quintessential pivot round which the whole magnificent machine was revolving--but how much more besides! For one thing, she was of a great age--an almost indispensable qualification for popularity in England. She had given proof of one of the most admired characteristics of the race--persistent vitality. She had reigned for sixty years, and she was not out. And then, she was a character. The outlines of her nature were firmly drawn, and, even through the mists which envelop royalty, clearly visible. In the popular imagination her familiar figure filled, with satisfying ease, a distinct and memorable place. It was, besides, the kind of figure which naturally called forth the admiring sympathy of the great majority of the nation. Goodness they prized above every other human quality; and Victoria, who had said that she would be good at the age of twelve, had kept her word. Duty, conscience, morality--yes! in the light of those high beacons the Queen had always lived. She had passed her days in work and not in pleasure--in public responsibilities and family cares. The standard of solid virtue which had been set up so long ago amid the domestic happiness of Osborne had never been lowered for an instant. For more than half a century no divorced lady had approached the precincts of the Court. Victoria, indeed, in her enthusiasm for wifely fidelity, had laid down a still stricter ordinance: she frowned severely upon any widow who married again. Considering that she herself was the offspring of a widow's second marriage, this prohibition might be regarded as an eccentricity; but, no doubt, it was an eccentricity on the right side. The middle classes, firm in the triple brass of their respectability, rejoiced with a special joy over the most respectable of Queens. They almost claimed her, indeed, as one of themselves; but this would have been an exaggeration. For, though many of her characteristics were most often found among the middle classes, in other respects--in her manners, for instance--Victoria was decidedly aristocratic. And, in one important particular, she was neither aristocratic nor middle-class: her attitude toward herself was simply regal. Such qualities were obvious and important; but, in the impact of a personality, it is something deeper, something fundamental and common to all its qualities, that really tells. In Victoria, it is easy to discern the nature of this underlying element: it was a peculiar sincerity. Her truthfulness, her single-mindedness, the vividness of her emotions and her unrestrained expression of them, were the varied forms which this central characteristic assumed. It was her sincerity which gave her at once her impressiveness, her charm, and her absurdity. She moved through life with the imposing certitude of one to whom concealment was impossible--either towards her surroundings or towards herself. There she was, all of her--the Queen of England, complete and obvious; the world might take her or leave her; she had nothing more to show, or to explain, or to modify; and, with her peerless carriage, she swept along her path. And not only was concealment out of the question; reticence, reserve, even dignity itself, as it sometimes seemed, might be very well dispensed with. As Lady Lyttelton said: "There is a transparency in her truth that is very striking--not a shade of exaggeration in describing feelings or facts; like very few other people I ever knew. Many may be as true, but I think it goes often along with some reserve. She talks all out; just as it is, no more and no less." She talked all out; and she wrote all out, too. Her letters, in the surprising jet of their expression, remind one of a turned-on tap. What is within pours forth in an immediate, spontaneous rush. Her utterly unliterary style has at least the merit of being a vehicle exactly suited to her thoughts and feelings; and even the platitude of her phraseology carries with it a curiously personal flavour. Undoubtedly it was through her writings that she touched the heart of the public. Not only in her "Highland Journals" where the mild chronicle of her private proceedings was laid bare without a trace either of affectation or of embarrassment, but also in those remarkable messages to the nation which, from time to time, she published in the newspapers, her people found her very close to them indeed. They felt instinctively Victoria's irresistible sincerity, and they responded. And in truth it was an endearing trait. The personality and the position, too--the wonderful combination of them--that, perhaps, was what was finally fascinating in the case. The little old lady, with her white hair and her plain mourning clothes, in her wheeled chair or her donkey-carriage--one saw her so; and then--close behind--with their immediate suggestion of singularity, of mystery, and of power--the Indian servants. That was the familiar vision, and it was admirable; but, at chosen moments, it was right that the widow of Windsor should step forth apparent Queen. The last and the most glorious of such occasions was the Jubilee of 1897. Then, as the splendid procession passed along, escorting Victoria through the thronged re-echoing streets of London on her progress of thanksgiving to St. Paul's Cathedral, the greatness of her realm and the adoration of her subjects blazed out together. The tears welled to her eyes, and, while the multitude roared round her, "How kind they are to me! How kind they are!" she repeated over and over again. That night her message flew over the Empire: "From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless them!" The long journey was nearly done. But the traveller, who had come so far, and through such strange experiences, moved on with the old unfaltering step. The girl, the wife, the aged woman, were the same: vitality, conscientiousness, pride, and simplicity were hers to the latest hour. CHAPTER X. THE END The evening had been golden; but, after all, the day was to close in cloud and tempest. Imperial needs, imperial ambitions, involved the country in the South African War. There were checks, reverses, bloody disasters; for a moment the nation was shaken, and the public distresses were felt with intimate solicitude by the Queen. But her spirit was high, and neither her courage nor her confidence wavered for a moment. Throwing her self heart and soul into the struggle, she laboured with redoubled vigour, interested herself in every detail of the hostilities, and sought by every means in her power to render service to the national cause. In April 1900, when she was in her eighty-first year, she made the extraordinary decision to abandon her annual visit to the South of France, and to go instead to Ireland, which had provided a particularly large number of recruits to the armies in the field. She stayed for three weeks in Dublin, driving through the streets, in spite of the warnings of her advisers, without an armed escort; and the visit was a complete success. But, in the course of it, she began, for the first time, to show signs of the fatigue of age. For the long strain and the unceasing anxiety, brought by the war, made themselves felt at last. Endowed by nature with a robust constitution, Victoria, though in periods of depression she had sometimes supposed herself an invalid, had in reality throughout her life enjoyed remarkably good health. In her old age, she had suffered from a rheumatic stiffness of the joints, which had necessitated the use of a stick, and, eventually, a wheeled chair; but no other ailments attacked her, until, in 1898, her eyesight began to be affected by incipient cataract. After that, she found reading more and more difficult, though she could still sign her name, and even, with some difficulty, write letters. In the summer of 1900, however, more serious symptoms appeared. Her memory, in whose strength and precision she had so long prided herself, now sometimes deserted her; there was a tendency towards aphasia; and, while no specific disease declared itself, by the autumn there were unmistakable signs of a general physical decay. Yet, even in these last months, the strain of iron held firm. The daily work continued; nay, it actually increased; for the Queen, with an astonishing pertinacity, insisted upon communicating personally with an ever-growing multitude of men and women who had suffered through the war. By the end of the year the last remains of her ebbing strength had almost deserted her; and through the early days of the opening century it was clear that her dwindling forces were only kept together by an effort of will. On January 14, she had at Osborne an hour's interview with Lord Roberts, who had returned victorious from South Africa a few days before. She inquired with acute anxiety into all the details of the war; she appeared to sustain the exertion successfully; but, when the audience was over, there was a collapse. On the following day her medical attendants recognised that her state was hopeless; and yet, for two days more, the indomitable spirit fought on; for two days more she discharged the duties of a Queen of England. But after that there was an end of working; and then, and not till then, did the last optimism of those about her break down. The brain was failing, and life was gently slipping away. Her family gathered round her; for a little more she lingered, speechless and apparently insensible; and, on January 22, 1901, she died. When, two days previously, the news of the approaching end had been made public, astonished grief had swept over the country. It appeared as if some monstrous reversal of the course of nature was about to take place. The vast majority of her subjects had never known a time when Queen Victoria had not been reigning over them. She had become an indissoluble part of their whole scheme of things, and that they were about to lose her appeared a scarcely possible thought. She herself, as she lay blind and silent, seemed to those who watched her to be divested of all thinking--to have glided already, unawares, into oblivion. Yet, perhaps, in the secret chambers of consciousness, she had her thoughts, too. Perhaps her fading mind called up once more the shadows of the past to float before it, and retraced, for the last time, the vanished visions of that long history--passing back and back, through the cloud of years, to older and ever older memories--to the spring woods at Osborne, so full of primroses for Lord Beaconsfield--to Lord Palmerston's queer clothes and high demeanour, and Albert's face under the green lamp, and Albert's first stag at Balmoral, and Albert in his blue and silver uniform, and the Baron coming in through a doorway, and Lord M. dreaming at Windsor with the rooks cawing in the elm-trees, and the Archbishop of Canterbury on his knees in the dawn, and the old King's turkey-cock ejaculations, and Uncle Leopold's soft voice at Claremont, and Lehzen with the globes, and her mother's feathers sweeping down towards her, and a great old repeater-watch of her father's in its tortoise-shell case, and a yellow rug, and some friendly flounces of sprigged muslin, and the trees and the grass at Kensington. 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Edited by Mrs. Hugh Wyndham. 1912. Martin. The Life of His Royal Highness the Prince Consort. By Theodore Martin. 5 vols. 1875-80. Martin, Queen Victoria. Queen Victoria as I knew her. By Sir Theodore Martin. 1908. Martineau. The Autobiography of Harriet Martineau. 3 vols. 1877. Maxwell. The Hon. Sir Charles Murray, K.C.B.: a memoir. By Sir Herbert Maxwell. 1898. More Leaves. More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the Highlands, from 1862 to 1882. By Queen Victoria. 1884. Morley. The Life of William Ewart Gladstone. By John Morley. 5 vols. 1903. Murray. Recollections from 1803 to 1837. By the Hon. Amelia Murray. 1868. National Memorial. The National Memorial to H.R.H. the Prince Consort. 1873. Neele. Railway Reminiscences. By George P. Neele. 1904. Owen. The Life of Robert Owen written by himself. 1857. Owen, Journal. Owen's Rational Quarterly Review and Journal. Panam. A German Prince and his Victim. Taken from the Memoirs of Madame Pauline Panam. 1915. Private Life. The Private Life of the Queen. By One of Her Majesty's Servants. 1897. The Quarterly Review, vols. 193 and 213. Robertson. Bismarck. By C. Grant Robertson. 1918. Scott Personal and Professional Recollections. By Sir George Gilbert Scott. 1879. Smith. Life of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Compiled from all available sources. By G. Barnett Smith. 1887. Spinster Lady. The Notebooks of a Spinster Lady. 1919. Stein. Denkschriftenuber Deutsche Verfassunyen. Herausgegeben von G.H. Pertz. 6 vols. 1848. Stockmar. Denkwurdigkeiten aus den Papieren des Freiherrn Christian Friedrich v. Stockmar, zusammengestellt von Ernst Freiherr v. Stockmar. Braunschweig. 1872. Tait. The Life of Archibald Campbell Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury. 2 vols. 1891. The London Times. The Times Life. The Life of Queen Victoria, reproduced from The London Times. 1901. Torrens. Memoirs of William Lamb, second Viscount Melbourne. By W. M. Torrens. (Minerva Library Edition.) 1890. Vitzhum. St. Petersburg und London in den Jahren 1852-1864. Carl Friedrich Graf Vitzthum von Eckstadt. Stuttgart. 1886. Walpole. The Life of Lord John Russell. By Sir Spencer Walpole. 2 vols. 1889. Wilberforce, Samuel. Life of Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford. By his son, R.G. Wilberforce. 3 vols. 1881. Wilberforce, William. The Life of William Wilberforce. 5 vols. 1838. Wynn. Diaries of a Lady of Quality. By Miss Frances Williams Wynn. 1864. 37153 ---- [Frontispiece: QUEEN VICTORIA, PRINCE ALBERT AND THE ROYAL FAMILY. _From the Picture by F. Winterhalter_.] QUEEN VICTORIA BY LYTTON STRACHEY LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1921 TO VIRGINIA WOOLF CONTENTS CHAPTER TOC I. ANTECEDENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 II. CHILDHOOD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 III. LORD MELBOURNE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 IV. MARRIAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 V. LORD PALMERSTON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 VI. LAST YEARS OF THE PRINCE CONSORT . . . . . . 185 VII. WIDOWHOOD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218 VIII. MR. GLADSTONE AND LORD BEACONSFIELD . . . . . 240 IX. OLD AGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269 X. THE END . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307 ZZZ BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311 ETOC ILLUSTRATIONS QUEEN VICTORIA, PRINCE ALBERT AND THE ROYAL FAMILY. From the picture of F. Winterhalter, at Buckingham Palace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ PRINCESS VICTORIA IN 1836. From a print after the picture by F. Winterhalter LORD MELBOURNE. From the portrait by Sir Edwin Landseer, R.A., in possession of the Earl of Rosebery QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1838. From the portrait by E. Corbould PRINCE ALBERT IN 1840. From the portrait by John Partridge, at Buckingham Palace QUEEN VICTORIA AND THE PRINCE CONSORT IN 1860 QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1863 QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1876. From the portrait by Von Angeli, in possession of Coningsby Disraeli, Esq. Presented by Her Majesty to the Earl of Beaconsfield QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1897 _For facilities afforded in regard to the reproduction of certain of the above, thanks are due to Mr. John Murray_. _Authority for every important statement of fact in the following pages will be found in the footnotes. The full titles of the works to which reference is made are given in the Bibliography at the end of the volume_. _The author is indebted to the Trustees of the British Museum for their permission to make use of certain unpublished passages in the manuscript of the Greville Memoirs_. {1} QUEEN VICTORIA CHAPTER I ANTECEDENTS I On November 6, 1817, died the Princess Charlotte, only child of the Prince Regent, and heir to the crown of England. Her short life had hardly been a happy one. By nature impulsive, capricious, and vehement, she had always longed for liberty; and she had never possessed it. She had been brought up among violent family quarrels, had been early separated from her disreputable and eccentric mother, and handed over to the care of her disreputable and selfish father. When she was seventeen, he decided to marry her off to the Prince of Orange; she, at first, acquiesced; but, suddenly falling in love with Prince Augustus of Prussia, she determined to break off the engagement. This was not her first love affair, for she had previously carried on a clandestine correspondence with a Captain Hess. Prince Augustus was already married, morganatically, but she did not know it, and he did not tell her. While she was spinning out the negotiations with the Prince of Orange, the allied sovereigns--it was June, 1814--arrived in London to celebrate their victory. Among them, in the suite of the {2} Emperor of Russia, was the young and handsome Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. He made several attempts to attract the notice of the Princess, but she, with her heart elsewhere, paid very little attention. Next month the Prince Regent, discovering that his daughter was having secret meetings with Prince Augustus, suddenly appeared upon the scene and, after dismissing her household, sentenced her to a strict seclusion in Windsor Park. 'God Almighty grant me patience!' she exclaimed, falling on her knees in an agony of agitation: then she jumped up, ran down the backstairs and out into the street, hailed a passing cab, and drove to her mother's house in Bayswater. She was discovered, pursued, and at length, yielding to the persuasions of her uncles, the Dukes of York and Sussex, of Brougham, and of the Bishop of Salisbury, she returned to Carlton House at two o'clock in the morning. She was immured at Windsor, but no more was heard of the Prince of Orange. Prince Augustus, too, disappeared. The way was at last open to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.[1] This Prince was clever enough to get round the Regent, to impress the Ministers, and to make friends with another of the Princess's uncles, the Duke of Kent. Through the Duke he was able to communicate privately with the Princess, who now declared that he was necessary to her happiness. When, after Waterloo, he was in Paris, the Duke's aide-de-camp carried letters backwards and forwards across the Channel. In January 1816 he was invited to England, and in May the marriage took place.[2] {3} The character of Prince Leopold contrasted strangely with that of his wife. The younger son of a German princeling, he was at this time twenty-six years of age; he had served with distinction in the war against Napoleon; he had shown considerable diplomatic skill at the Congress of Vienna;[3] and he was now to try his hand at the task of taming a tumultuous Princess. Cold and formal in manner, collected in speech, careful in action, he soon dominated the wild, impetuous, generous creature by his side. There was much in her, he found, of which he could not approve. She quizzed, she stamped, she roared with laughter; she had very little of that self-command which is especially required of princes; her manners were abominable. Of the latter he was a good judge, having moved, as he himself explained to his niece many years later, in the best society of Europe, being in fact 'what is called in French _de la fleur des pois_.' There was continual friction, but every scene ended in the same way. Standing before him like a rebellious boy in petticoats, her body pushed forward, her hands behind her back, with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes, she would declare at last that she was ready to do whatever he wanted. 'If you wish it, I will do it,' she would say. 'I want nothing for myself,' he invariably answered; 'when I press something on you, it is from a conviction that it is for your interest and for your good.'[4] Among the members of the household at Claremont, near Esher, where the royal pair were established, was a young German physician, Christian Friedrich Stockmar. He was the son of a minor magistrate in {4} Coburg, and, after taking part as a medical officer in the war, he had settled down as a doctor in his native town. Here he had met Prince Leopold, who had been struck by his ability, and, on his marriage, brought him to England as his personal physician. A curious fate awaited this young man; many were the gifts which the future held in store for him--many and various--influence, power, mystery, unhappiness, a broken heart. At Claremont his position was a very humble one; but the Princess took a fancy to him, called him 'Stocky,' and romped with him along the corridors. Dyspeptic by constitution, melancholic by temperament, he could yet be lively on occasion, and was known as a wit in Coburg. He was virtuous, too, and observed the royal _ménage_ with approbation. 'My master,' he wrote in his diary, 'is the best of all husbands in all the five quarters of the globe; and his wife bears him an amount of love, the greatness of which can only be compared with the English national debt.' Before long he gave proof of another quality--a quality which was to colour the whole of his life--cautious sagacity. When, in the spring of 1817, it was known that the Princess was expecting a child, the post of one of her physicians-in-ordinary was offered to him, and he had the good sense to refuse it. He perceived that his colleagues would be jealous of him, that his advice would probably not be taken, but that, if anything were to go wrong, it would be certainly the foreign doctor who would be blamed. Very soon, indeed, he came to the opinion that the low diet and constant bleedings, to which the unfortunate Princess was subjected, were an error; he drew the Prince aside, and begged him to communicate this opinion to the English doctors; but it was useless. The {5} fashionable lowering treatment was continued for months. On November 5, at nine o'clock in the evening, after a labour of over fifty hours, the Princess was delivered of a dead boy. At midnight her exhausted strength gave way. Then, at last, Stockmar consented to see her; he went in, and found her obviously dying, while the doctors were plying her with wine. She seized his hand and pressed it. 'They have made me tipsy,' she said. After a little he left her, and was already in the next room when he heard her call out in her loud voice 'Stocky! Stocky!' As he ran back the death-rattle was in her throat. She tossed herself violently from side to side; then suddenly drew up her legs, and it was over. The Prince, after hours of watching, had left the room for a few moments' rest; and Stockmar had now to tell him that his wife was dead. At first he could not be made to realise what had happened. On their way to her room he sank down on a chair while Stockmar knelt beside him: it was all a dream; it was impossible. At last, by the bed, he, too, knelt down and kissed the cold hands. Then rising and exclaiming, 'Now I am quite desolate. Promise me never to leave me,' he threw himself into Stockmar's arms.[5] II The tragedy at Claremont was of a most upsetting kind. The royal kaleidoscope had suddenly shifted, and nobody could tell how the new pattern would arrange itself. The succession to the throne, which had seemed so satisfactorily settled, now became a matter of urgent doubt. {6} George III was still living, an aged lunatic, at Windsor, completely impervious to the impressions of the outer world. Of his seven sons, the youngest was of more than middle age, and none had legitimate offspring. The outlook, therefore, was ambiguous. It seemed highly improbable that the Prince Regent, who had lately been obliged to abandon his stays, and presented a preposterous figure of debauched obesity,[6] could ever again, even on the supposition that he divorced his wife and re-married, become the father of a family. Besides the Duke of Kent, who must be noticed separately, the other brothers, in order of seniority, were the Dukes of York, Clarence, Cumberland, Sussex, and Cambridge; their situations and prospects require a brief description. The Duke of York, whose escapades in times past with Mrs. Clarke and the army had brought him into trouble, now divided his life between London and a large, extravagantly ordered and extremely uncomfortable country house where he occupied himself with racing, whist, and improper stories. He was remarkable among the princes for one reason: he was the only one of them--so we are informed by a highly competent observer--who had the feelings of a gentleman. He had been long married to the Princess Royal of Prussia, a lady who rarely went to bed and was perpetually surrounded by vast numbers of dogs, parrots, and monkeys.[7] They had no children. The Duke of Clarence had lived for many years in complete obscurity with Mrs. Jordan, the actress, in Bushey Park. By her he had had a large family of sons and daughters, and had {7} appeared, in effect, to be married to her, when he suddenly separated from her and offered to marry Miss Wykeham, a crazy woman of large fortune, who, however, would have nothing to say to him. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Jordan died in distressed circumstances in Paris.[8] The Duke of Cumberland was probably the most unpopular man in England. Hideously ugly, with a distorted eye, he was bad-tempered and vindictive in private, a violent reactionary in politics, and was subsequently suspected of murdering his valet and of having carried on an amorous intrigue of an extremely scandalous kind.[9] He had lately married a German Princess, but there were as yet no children by the marriage. The Duke of Sussex had mildly literary tastes and collected books.[10] He had married Lady Augusta Murray, by whom he had two children, but the marriage, under the Royal Marriages Act, was declared void. On Lady Augusta's death, he married Lady Cecilia Buggin; she changed her name to Underwood; but this marriage also was void. Of the Duke of Cambridge, the youngest of the brothers, not very much was known. He lived in Hanover, wore a blonde wig, chattered and fidgeted a great deal, and was unmarried.[11] Besides his seven sons, George III had five surviving daughters. Of these, two--the Queen of Würtemberg and the Duchess of Gloucester--were married and childless. The three unmarried princesses--Augusta, Elizabeth, and Sophia--were all over forty. {8} III The fourth son of George III was Edward, Duke of Kent. He was now fifty years of age--a tall, stout, vigorous man, highly-coloured, with bushy eyebrows, a bald top to his head, and what hair he had carefully dyed a glossy black. His dress was extremely neat, and in his whole appearance there was a rigidity which did not belie his character. He had spent his early life in the army--at Gibraltar, in Canada, in the West Indies--and, under the influence of military training, had become at first a disciplinarian and at last a martinet. In 1802, having been sent to Gibraltar to restore order in a mutinous garrison, he was recalled for undue severity, and his active career had come to an end. Since then he had spent his life regulating his domestic arrangements with great exactitude, busying himself with the affairs of his numerous dependents, designing clocks, and struggling to restore order to his finances, for, in spite of his being, as someone said who knew him well, '_réglé comme du papier à musique_,' and in spite of an income of £24,000 a year, he was hopelessly in debt. He had quarrelled with most of his brothers, particularly with the Prince Regent, and it was only natural that he should have joined the political Opposition and become a pillar of the Whigs. What his political opinions may actually have been is open to doubt; it has often been asserted that he was a Liberal, or even a Radical; and, if we are to believe Robert Owen, he was a necessitarian Socialist. His relations with Owen--the shrewd, gullible, high-minded, wrong-headed, illustrious and preposterous father of Socialism and Co-operation--were curious {9} and characteristic. He talked of visiting the Mills at New Lanark; he did, in fact, preside at one of Owen's public meetings; he corresponded with him on confidential terms, and he even (so Owen assures us) returned, after his death, from 'the sphere of spirits' to give encouragement to the Owenites on earth. 'In an especial manner,' says Owen, 'I have to name the very anxious feelings of the spirit of his Royal Highness the late Duke of Kent (who early informed me there were no titles in the spiritual spheres into which he had entered), to benefit, not a class, a sect, a party, or any particular country, but the whole of the human race through futurity.' 'His whole spirit-proceeding with me has been most beautiful,' Owen adds, 'making his own appointments; and never in one instance has this spirit not been punctual to the minute he had named.' But Owen was of a sanguine temperament. He also numbered among his proselytes President Jefferson, Prince Metternich, and Napoleon; so that some uncertainty must still linger over the Duke of Kent's views. But there is no uncertainty about another circumstance: his Royal Highness borrowed from Robert Owen, on various occasions, various sums of money which were never repaid and amounted in all to several hundred pounds.[12] After the death of the Princess Charlotte it was clearly important, for more than one reason, that the Duke of Kent should marry. From the point of view of the nation, the lack of heirs in the reigning family seemed to make the step almost obligatory; it was also likely to be highly expedient from the point of view of the Duke. To marry as a public duty, for the {10} sake of the royal succession, would surely deserve some recognition from a grateful country. When the Duke of York had married he had received a settlement of £25,000 a year. Why should not the Duke of Kent look forward to an equal sum? But the situation was not quite simple. There was the Duke of Clarence to be considered; he was the elder brother, and, if he married, would clearly have the prior claim. On the other hand, if the Duke of Kent married, it was important to remember that he would be making a serious sacrifice: a lady was involved. The Duke, reflecting upon all these matters with careful attention, happened, about a month after his niece's death, to visit Brussels, and learnt that Mr. Creevey was staying in the town. Mr. Creevey was a close friend of the leading Whigs and an inveterate gossip; and it occurred to the Duke that there could be no better channel through which to communicate his views upon the situation to political circles at home. Apparently it did not occur to him that Mr. Creevey was malicious and might keep a diary. He therefore sent for him on some trivial pretext, and a remarkable conversation ensued. After referring to the death of the Princess, to the improbability of the Regent's seeking a divorce, to the childlessness of the Duke of York, and to the possibility of the Duke of Clarence marrying, the Duke adverted to his own position. 'Should the Duke of Clarence not marry,' he said, 'the next prince in succession is myself, and although I trust I shall be at all times ready to obey any call my country may make upon me, God only knows the sacrifice it will be to make, whenever I shall think it my duty to become a married man. It is now seven-and-twenty years that Madame St. Laurent {11} and I have lived together: we are of the same age, and have been in all climates, and in all difficulties together, and you may well imagine, Mr. Creevey, the pang it will occasion me to part with her. I put it to your own feelings--in the event of any separation between you and Mrs. Creevey.... As for Madame St. Laurent herself, I protest I don't know what is to become of her if a marriage is to be forced upon me; her feelings are already so agitated upon the subject.' The Duke went on to describe how, one morning, a day or two after the Princess Charlotte's death, a paragraph had appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_, alluding to the possibility of his marriage. He had received the newspaper at breakfast together with his letters, and 'I did as is my constant practice, I threw the newspaper across the table to Madame St. Laurent, and began to open and read my letters. I had not done so but a very short time, when my attention was called to an extraordinary noise and a strong convulsive movement in Madame St. Laurent's throat. For a short time I entertained serious apprehensions for her safety; and when, upon her recovery, I enquired into the occasion of this attack, she pointed to the article in the _Morning Chronicle_.' The Duke then returned to the subject of the Duke of Clarence. 'My brother the Duke of Clarence is the elder brother, and has certainly the right to marry if he chooses, and I would not interfere with him on any account. If he wishes to be king--to be married and have children, poor man--God help him! let him do so. For myself--I am a man of no ambition, and wish only to remain as I am.... Easter, you know, falls very early this year--the 22nd of March. If the Duke of Clarence does not take any step before that {12} time, I must find some pretext to reconcile Madame St. Laurent to my going to England for a short time. When once there, it will be easy for me to consult with my friends as to the proper steps to be taken. Should the Duke of Clarence do nothing before that time as to marrying it will become my duty, no doubt, to take some measures upon the subject myself.' Two names, the Duke said, had been mentioned in this connection--those of the Princess of Baden and the Princess of Saxe-Coburg. The latter, he thought, would perhaps be the better of the two, from the circumstance of Prince Leopold being so popular with the nation; but before any other steps were taken, he hoped and expected to see justice done to Madame St. Laurent. 'She is,' he explained, 'of very good family, and has never been an actress, and I am the first and only person who ever lived with her. Her disinterestedness, too, has been equal to her fidelity. When she first came to me it was upon £100 a year. That sum was afterwards raised to £400, and finally to £1000; but when my debts made it necessary for me to sacrifice a great part of my income, Madame St. Laurent insisted upon again returning to her income of £400 a year. If Madame St. Laurent is to return to live amongst her friends, it must be in such a state of independence as to command their respect. I shall not require very much, but a certain number of servants and a carriage are essentials.' As to his own settlement, the Duke observed that he would expect the Duke of York's marriage to be considered the precedent. 'That,' he said, 'was a marriage for the succession, and £25,000 for income was settled, in addition to all his other income, purely on that account. I shall be contented with the same arrangement, without making any demands grounded {13} on the difference of the value of money in 1792 and at present. As for the payment of my debts,' the Duke concluded, 'I don't call them great. The nation, on the contrary, is greatly my debtor.' Here a clock struck, and seemed to remind the Duke that he had an appointment; he rose, and Mr. Creevey left him. Who could keep such a communication secret? Certainly not Mr. Creevey. He hurried off to tell the Duke of Wellington, who was very much amused, and he wrote a long account of it to Lord Sefton, who received the letter 'very apropos,' while a surgeon was sounding his bladder to ascertain whether he had a stone. 'I never saw a fellow more astonished than he was,' wrote Lord Sefton in his reply, 'at seeing me laugh as soon as the operation was over. Nothing could be more first-rate than the royal Edward's ingenuousness. One does not know which to admire most--the delicacy of his attachment to Madame St. Laurent, the refinement of his sentiments towards the Duke of Clarence, or his own perfect disinterestedness in pecuniary matters.'[13] As it turned out, both the brothers decided to marry. The Duke of Kent, selecting the Princess of Saxe-Coburg in preference to the Princess of Baden, was united to her on May 29, 1818. On June 11, the Duke of Clarence followed suit with a daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen. But they were disappointed in their financial expectations; for though the Government brought forward proposals to increase their allowances, together with that of the Duke of Cumberland, the motions were defeated in the House of Commons. At this the Duke of Wellington was not surprised. 'By God!' he said, 'there is a great deal to be said about that. They are the damnedest {14} millstones about the necks of any Government that can be imagined. They have insulted--personally insulted--two-thirds of the gentlemen of England, and how can it be wondered at that they take their revenge upon them in the House of Commons? It is their only opportunity, and I think, by God! they are quite right to use it.'[14] Eventually, however, Parliament increased the Duke of Kent's annuity by £6000. The subsequent history of Madame St. Laurent has not transpired. IV The new Duchess of Kent, Victoria Mary Louisa, was a daughter of Francis, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, and a sister of Prince Leopold. The family was an ancient one, being a branch of the great House of Wettin, which since the eleventh century had ruled over the March of Meissen on the Elbe. In the fifteenth century the whole possessions of the House had been divided between the Albertine and Ernestine branches: from the former descended the electors and kings of Saxony; the latter, ruling over Thuringia, became further subdivided into five branches, of which the duchy of Saxe-Coburg was one. This principality was very small, containing about 60,000 inhabitants, but it enjoyed independent and sovereign rights. During the disturbed years which followed the French Revolution, its affairs became terribly involved. The Duke was extravagant, and kept open house for the swarms of refugees, who fled eastward over Germany as the French power advanced. Among these was the {15} prince of Leiningen, an elderly beau, whose domains on the Moselle had been seized by the French, but who was granted in compensation the territory of Amorbach in Lower Franconia. In 1803 he married the Princess Victoria, at that time seventeen years of age. Three years later Duke Francis died a ruined man. The Napoleonic harrow passed over Saxe-Coburg. The duchy was seized by the French, and the ducal family were reduced to beggary, almost to starvation. At the same time the little principality of Amorbach was devastated by the French, Russian, and Austrian armies, marching and counter-marching across it. For years there was hardly a cow in the country, nor enough grass to feed a flock of geese. Such was the desperate plight of the family which, a generation later, was to have gained a foothold in half the reigning Houses of Europe. The Napoleonic harrow had indeed done its work; the seed was planted; and the crop would have surprised Napoleon. Prince Leopold, thrown upon his own resources at fifteen, made a career for himself and married the heiress of England. The Princess of Leiningen, struggling at Amorbach with poverty, military requisitions, and a futile husband, developed an independence of character and a tenacity of purpose which were to prove useful in very different circumstances. In 1814, her husband died, leaving her with two children and the regency of the principality. After her brother's marriage with the Princess Charlotte, it was proposed that she should marry the Duke of Kent; but she declined, on the ground that the guardianship of her children and the management of her domains made other ties undesirable. The Princess Charlotte's death, however, altered the case; and when the Duke of Kent renewed his offer, she {16} accepted it. She was thirty-two years old--short, stout, with brown eyes and hair, and rosy cheeks, cheerful and voluble, and gorgeously attired in rustling silks and bright velvets.[15] She was certainly fortunate in her contented disposition; for she was fated, all through her life, to have much to put up with. Her second marriage, with its dubious prospects, seemed at first to be chiefly a source of difficulties and discomforts. The Duke, declaring that he was still too poor to live in England, moved about with uneasy precision through Belgium and Germany, attending parades and inspecting barracks in a neat military cap, while the English notabilities looked askance, and the Duke of Wellington dubbed him the Corporal. 'God damme!' he exclaimed to Mr. Creevey, 'd'ye know what his sisters call him? By God! they call him Joseph Surface!' At Valenciennes, where there was a review and a great dinner, the Duchess arrived with an old and ugly lady-in-waiting, and the Duke of Wellington found himself in a difficulty. 'Who the devil is to take out the maid of honour?' he kept asking; but at last he thought of a solution. 'Damme, Freemantle, find out the mayor and let him do it.' So the Mayor of Valenciennes was brought up for the purpose, and--so we learn from Mr. Creevey--'a capital figure he was.' A few days later, at Brussels, Mr. Creevey himself had an unfortunate experience. A military school was to be inspected--before breakfast. The company assembled; everything was highly satisfactory; but the Duke of Kent continued for so long examining every detail and asking meticulous question after meticulous question, that Mr. Creevey at last could bear it no longer, and {17} whispered to his neighbour that he was damned hungry. The Duke of Wellington heard him, and was delighted. 'I recommend you,' he said, 'whenever you start with the royal family in a morning, and particularly with _the Corporal_, always to breakfast first.' He and his staff, it turned out, had taken that precaution, and the great man amused himself, while the stream of royal inquiries poured on, by pointing at Mr. Creevey from time to time with the remark, 'Voilà le monsieur qui n'a pas déjeuné!'[16] Settled down at last at Amorbach, the time hung heavily on the Duke's hands. The establishment was small, the country was impoverished; even clock-making grew tedious at last. He brooded--for in spite of his piety the Duke was not without a vein of superstition--over the prophecy of a gipsy at Gibraltar who had told him that he was to have many losses and crosses, that he was to die in happiness, and that his only child was to be a great queen. Before long it became clear that a child was to be expected: the Duke decided that it should be born in England. Funds were lacking for the journey, but his determination was not to be set aside. Come what might, he declared, his child must be English-born. A carriage was hired, and the Duke himself mounted the box. Inside were the Duchess, her daughter Feodora, a girl of fourteen, with maids, nurses, lap-dogs, and canaries. Off they drove--through Germany, through France: bad roads, cheap inns, were nothing to the rigorous Duke and the equable, abundant Duchess. The Channel was crossed, London was reached in safety. The authorities provided a set of rooms in Kensington Palace; and there, on May 24, 1819, a female infant was born.[17] [1] Greville, II, 326-8; Stockmar, chap. i, 86; Knight, I, chaps. xv-xviii and Appendix, and II, chap. i. [2] Grey, 384, 386-8; _Letters_, II, 40, [3] Grey, 375-86. [4] _Letters_, I, 216, 222-3; II, 39-40; Stockmar, 87-90. [5] Stockmar, _Biograpische Skizze_, and cap. iii. [6] Creevey, I, 264, 272: 'Prinny has let loose his belly, which now reaches his knees; otherwise he is said to be well,' 279. [7] Greville, I, 5-7. [8] Greville, IV, 2. [9] Stockmar, 95; Creevey, I, 148; Greville, I, 228; Lieven, 183-4. [10] Crawford, 24. [11] _Ibid._, 80, 113. [12] Stockmar, 112-3; _Letters_, I, 8; Crawford, 27-30; Owen, 193-4, 197-8, 199, 229. [13] Creevey, I, 267-71. [14] Creevey, I, 276-7. [15] _Letters_, I, 1-3: Grey, 373-81, 389; Crawford, 30-4; Stockmar, 113. [16] Creevey, I, 282-4. [17] Crawford, 25, 37-8. {18} CHAPTER II CHILDHOOD I The child who, in these not very impressive circumstances, appeared in the world, received but scant attention. There was small reason to foresee her destiny. The Duchess of Clarence, two months before, had given birth to a daughter; this infant, indeed, had died almost immediately; but it seemed highly probable that the Duchess would again become a mother; and so it actually fell out. More than this, the Duchess of Kent was young, and the Duke was strong; there was every likelihood that before long a brother would follow, to snatch her faint chance of the succession from the little princess. Nevertheless, the Duke had other views: there were prophecies.... At any rate, he would christen the child Elizabeth, a name of happy augury. In this, however, he reckoned without the Regent, who, seeing a chance of annoying his brother, suddenly announced that he himself would be present at the baptism, and signified at the same time that one of the godfathers was to be the Emperor Alexander of Russia. And so when the ceremony took place, and the Archbishop of Canterbury asked by what name he was to baptise the child, the Regent replied 'Alexandrina.' At this the Duke ventured to suggest that another name might be {19} added. 'Certainly,' said the Regent; 'Georgina?' 'Or Elizabeth?' said the Duke. There was a pause, during which the Archbishop, with the baby in his lawn sleeves, looked with some uneasiness from one Prince to the other. 'Very well, then,' said the Regent at last, 'call her after her mother. But Alexandrina must come first.' Thus, to the disgust of her father, the child was christened Alexandrina Victoria.[1] [Illustration: PRINCESS VICTORIA IN 1836. _From the Portrait by F. Winterhalter._] The Duke had other subjects of disgust. The meagre grant of the Commons had by no means put an end to his financial distresses. It was to be feared that his services were not appreciated by the nation. His debts continued to grow. For many years he had lived upon £7000 a year; but now his expenses were exactly doubled; he could make no further reductions; as it was, there was not a single servant in his establishment who was idle for a moment from morning to night. He poured out his griefs in a long letter to Robert Owen, whose sympathy had the great merit of being practical. 'I now candidly state,' he wrote, 'that, after viewing the subject in every possible way, I am satisfied that, to continue to live in England, even in the quiet way in which we are going on, _without splendour, and without show, nothing short of doubling the seven thousand pounds will do_, REDUCTION BEING IMPOSSIBLE.' It was clear that he would be obliged to sell his house for £51,300: if that failed, he would go and live on the Continent. 'If my services are useful to my country, it surely becomes _those who have the power_ to support me in substantiating those just claims I have for the very extensive losses and privations I have experienced, during the very long period of my professional servitude in the Colonies; and if this is not {20} attainable, _it is a clear proof to me that they are not appreciated_; and under that impression I shall not scruple, in due time, to resume my retirement abroad, when the Duchess and myself shall have fulfilled our duties in establishing the _English_ birth of my child, and giving it maternal nutriment on the soil of Old England; and which we shall certainly repeat, if Providence destines to give us any further increase of family.'[2] In the meantime, he decided to spend the winter at Sidmouth, 'in order,' he told Owen, 'that the Duchess may have the benefit of tepid sea bathing, and our infant that of sea air, on the fine coast of Devonshire, during the months of the year that are so odious in London.'[3] In December the move was made. With the new year, the Duke remembered another prophecy. In 1820, a fortune-teller had told him, two members of the Royal Family would die. Who would they be? He speculated on the various possibilities: the King, it was plain, could not live much longer; and the Duchess of York had been attacked by a mortal disease. Probably it would be the King and the Duchess of York; or perhaps the King and the Duke of York; or the King and the Regent. He himself was one of the healthiest men in England.[4] 'My brothers,' he declared, 'are not so strong as I am; I have lived a regular life. I shall outlive them all. The crown will come to me and my children.'[5] He went out for a walk, and got his feet wet. On coming home, he neglected to change his stockings. He caught cold, inflammation of the lungs set in, and on January 22 he was a dying man. By a curious chance, young Dr. Stockmar was staying in the house at the time; two {21} years before, he had stood by the death-bed of the Princess Charlotte; and now he was watching the Duke of Kent in his agony. On Stockmar's advice, a will was hastily prepared. The Duke's earthly possessions were of a negative character; but it was important that the guardianship of the unwitting child, whose fortunes were now so strangely changing, should be assured to the Duchess. The Duke was just able to understand the document, and to append his signature. Having inquired whether his writing was perfectly clear, he became unconscious, and breathed his last on the following morning.[6] Six days later came the fulfilment of the second half of the gipsy's prophecy. The long, unhappy, and inglorious life of George the Third of England was ended. II Such was the confusion of affairs at Sidmouth, that the Duchess found herself without the means of returning to London. Prince Leopold hurried down, and himself conducted his sister and her family, by slow and bitter stages, to Kensington. The widowed lady, in her voluminous blacks, needed all her equanimity to support her. Her prospects were more dubious than ever. She had £6000 a year of her own; but her husband's debts loomed before her like a mountain. Soon she learnt that the Duchess of Clarence was once more expecting a child. What had she to look forward to in England? Why should she remain in a foreign country, among strangers, whose language she could not speak, whose customs she could not understand? Surely it would be best to {22} return to Amorbach, and there, among her own people, bring up her daughters in economical obscurity. But she was an inveterate optimist; she had spent her life in struggles, and would not be daunted now. And besides, she adored her baby. 'C'est mon bonheur, mes délices, mon existence,' she declared; the darling should be brought up as an English princess, whatever lot awaited her. Prince Leopold came forward nobly with an offer of an additional £3000 a year; and the Duchess remained at Kensington.[7] The child herself was extremely fat, and bore a remarkable resemblance to her grandfather. 'C'est l'image du feu Roi!' exclaimed the Duchess. 'C'est le Roi Georges en jupons,' echoed the surrounding ladies, as the little creature waddled with difficulty from one to the other.[8] Before long, the world began to be slightly interested in the nursery at Kensington. When, early in 1821, the Duchess of Clarence's second child, the Princess Elizabeth, died within three months of its birth, the interest increased. Great forces and fierce anatgonisms seemed to be moving, obscurely, about the royal cradle. It was a time of faction and anger, of violent repression and profound discontent. A powerful movement, which had for long been checked by adverse circumstances, was now spreading throughout the country. New passions, new desires, were abroad; or rather, old passions and old desires, reincarnated with a new potency: love of freedom, hatred of injustice, hope for the future of man. The mighty still sat proudly in their seats, dispensing their ancient tyranny; but a storm was gathering out of the darkness, and already there was {23} lightning in the sky. But the vastest forces must needs operate through frail human instruments; and it seemed for many years as if the great cause of English liberalism hung upon the life of the little girl at Kensington. She alone stood between the country and her terrible uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, the hideous embodiment of reaction. Inevitably, the Duchess of Kent threw in her lot with her husband's party; Whig leaders, Radical agitators, rallied round her; she was intimate with the bold Lord Durham, she was on friendly terms with the redoubtable O'Connell himself. She received Wilberforce--though, to be sure, she did not ask him to sit down.[9] She declared in public that she put her faith in 'the liberties of the People.'[10] It was certain that the young Princess would be brought up in the way that she should go; yet there, close behind the throne, waiting, sinister, was the Duke of Cumberland. Brougham, looking forward into the future in his scurrilous fashion, hinted at dreadful possibilities. 'I never prayed so heartily for a Prince before,' he wrote, on hearing that George IV had been attacked by illness. 'If he had gone, all the troubles of these villains [the Tory Ministers] went with him, and they had Fred. I [the Duke of York] their own man for his life.... He (Fred. I) won't live long either; that Prince of Blackguards, "Brother William," is as bad a life, so we come in the course of nature to be _assassinated_ by King Ernest I or Regent Ernest [the Duke of Cumberland].'[11] Such thoughts were not peculiar to Brougham; in the seething state of public feeling, they constantly leapt to the surface; and, even so late as the year previous to her accession, the Radical newspapers were full of {24} suggestions that the Princess Victoria was in danger from the machinations of her wicked uncle.[12] But no echo of these conflicts and forebodings reached the little Drina--for so she was called in the family circle--as she played with her dolls, or scampered down the passages, or rode on the donkey her uncle York had given her[13] along the avenues of Kensington Gardens. The fair-haired, blue-eyed child was idolised by her nurses, and her mother's ladies, and her sister Feodora; and for a few years there was a danger, in spite of her mother's strictness, of her being spoilt. From time to time, she would fly into a violent passion, stamp her little foot, and set everyone at defiance; whatever they might say, she would not learn her letters--no, she _would not_; afterwards, she was very sorry, and burst into tears; but her letters remained unlearnt. When she was five years old, however, a change came, with the appearance of Fräulein Lehzen. This lady, who was the daughter of a Hanoverian clergyman and had previously been the Princess Feodora's governess, soon succeeded in instilling a new spirit into her charge. At first, indeed, she was appalled by the little Princess's outbursts of temper; never in her life, she declared, had she seen such a passionate and naughty child. Then she observed something else; the child was extraordinarily truthful; whatever punishment might follow, she never told a lie.[14] Firm, very firm, the new governess yet had the sense to see that all the firmness in the world would be useless, unless she could win her way into little Drina's heart. She did so, and there were no more difficulties. Drina learnt her letters like an angel; and she learnt other things as well. The {25} Baroness de Späth taught her how to make little cardboard boxes and decorate them with tinsel and painted flowers;[15] her mother taught her religion. Sitting in the pew every Sunday morning, the child of six was seen listening in rapt attention to the clergyman's endless sermon, for she was to be examined upon it in the afternoon.[16] The Duchess was determined that her daughter, from the earliest possible moment, should be prepared for her high station in a way that would commend itself to the most respectable; her good, plain, thrifty German mind recoiled with horror and amazement from the shameless junketings at Carlton House; Drina should never be allowed to forget for a moment the virtues of simplicity, regularity, propriety, and devotion. The little girl, however, was really in small need of such lessons, for she was naturally simple and orderly, she was pious without difficulty, and her sense of propriety was keen. She understood very well the niceties of her own position. When, a child of six, Lady Jane Ellice was taken by her grandmother to Kensington Palace, she was put to play with the Princess Victoria, who was the same age as herself. The young visitor, ignorant of etiquette, began to make free with the toys on the floor, in a way which was a little too familiar; but 'You must not touch those,' she was quickly told, 'they are mine; and I may call you Jane, but you must not call me Victoria.'[17] The Princess's most constant playmate was Victoire, the daughter of Sir John Conroy, the Duchess's major-domo. The two girls were very fond of one another; they would walk hand in hand together in Kensington Gardens. But little Drina was perfectly aware for which of them {26} it was that they were followed, at a respectful distance, by a gigantic scarlet flunkey.[18] Warm-hearted, responsive, she loved her dear Lehzen, and she loved her dear Feodora, and her dear Victoire, and her dear Madame de Späth. And her dear Mamma ... of course, she loved her too; it was her duty; and yet--she could not tell why it was--she was always happier when she was staying with her Uncle Leopold at Claremont. There old Mrs. Louis, who, years ago, had waited on her cousin Charlotte, petted her to her heart's content; and her uncle himself was wonderfully kind to her, talking to her seriously and gently, almost as if she were a grown-up person. She and Feodora invariably wept when the too short visit was over, and they were obliged to return to the dutiful monotony and the affectionate supervision of Kensington. But sometimes when her mother had to stay at home, she was allowed to go out driving all alone with her dear Feodora and her dear Lehzen, and she could talk and look as she liked, and it was very delightful.[19] The visits to Claremont were frequent enough; but one day, on a special occasion, she paid one of a rarer and more exciting kind. When she was seven years old, she and her mother and sister were asked by the King to go down to Windsor. George IV, who had transferred his fraternal ill-temper to his sister-in-law and her family, had at last grown tired of sulking, and decided to be agreeable. The old rip, bewigged and gouty, ornate and enormous, with his jewelled mistress by his side and his flaunting court about him, received the tiny creature who was one day to hold in those same halls a very different state. 'Give me your little {27} paw,' he said; and two ages touched. Next morning, driving in his phaeton with the Duchess of Gloucester, he met the Duchess of Kent and her child in the Park. 'Pop her in,' were his orders, which, to the terror of the mother and the delight of the daughter, were immediately obeyed. Off they dashed to Virginia Water, where there was a great barge, full of lords and ladies fishing, and another barge with a band; and the King ogled Feodora, and praised her manners, and then turned to his own small niece. 'What is your favourite tune? The band shall play it.' 'God save the King, sir,' was the instant answer. The Princess's reply has been praised as an early example of a tact which was afterwards famous. But she was a very truthful child, and perhaps it was her genuine opinion.[20] III In 1827 the Duke of York, who had found some consolation for the loss of his wife in the sympathy of the Duchess of Rutland, died, leaving behind him the unfinished immensity of Stafford House and £200,000 worth of debts. Three years later George IV also disappeared, and the Duke of Clarence reigned in his stead. The new Queen, it was now clear, would in all probability never again be a mother; the Princess Victoria, therefore, was recognised by Parliament as heir-presumptive; and the Duchess of Kent, whose annuity had been doubled five years previously, was now given an additional £10,000 for the maintenance of the Princess, and was appointed regent, in case of the death of the King before the majority of her daughter. At the same time a great convulsion took {28} place in the constitution of the State. The power of the Tories, who had dominated England for more than forty years, suddenly began to crumble. In the tremendous struggle that followed, it seemed for a moment as if the tradition of generations might be snapped, as if the blind tenacity of the reactionaries and the determined fury of their enemies could have no other issue than revolution. But the forces of compromise triumphed: the Reform Bill was passed. The centre of gravity in the constitution was shifted towards the middle classes; the Whigs came into power; and the complexion of the Government assumed a Liberal tinge. One of the results of this new state of affairs was a change in the position of the Duchess of Kent and her daughter. From being the _protégées_ of an opposition clique, they became assets of the official majority of the nation. The Princess Victoria was henceforward the living symbol of the victory of the middle classes. The Duke of Cumberland, on the other hand, suffered a corresponding eclipse: his claws had been pared by the Reform Act. He grew insignificant and almost harmless, though his ugliness remained; he was the wicked uncle still--but only of a story. The Duchess's own liberalism was not very profound. She followed naturally in the footsteps of her husband, repeating with conviction the catchwords of her husband's clever friends and the generalisations of her clever brother Leopold. She herself had no pretensions to cleverness; she did not understand very much about the Poor Law and the Slave Trade and Political Economy; but she hoped that she did her duty; and she hoped--she ardently hoped--that the same might be said of Victoria. Her educational conceptions were {29} those of Dr. Arnold, whose views were just then beginning to permeate society. Dr. Arnold's object was, first and foremost, to make his pupils 'in the highest and truest sense of the words, Christian gentlemen'; intellectual refinements might follow. The Duchess felt convinced that it was her supreme duty in life to make quite sure that her daughter should grow up into a Christian queen. To this task she bent all her energies; and, as the child developed, she flattered herself that her efforts were not unsuccessful. When the Princess was eleven, she desired the Bishops of London and Lincoln to submit her daughter to an examination, and report upon the progress that had been made. 'I feel the time to be now come,' the Duchess explained, in a letter obviously drawn up by her own hand, 'that what has been done should be put to some test, that if anything has been done in error of judgment it may be corrected, and that the plan for the future should be open to consideration and revision.... I attend almost always myself every lesson, or a part; and as the lady about the Princess is a competent person, she assists Her in preparing Her lessons, for the various masters, as I resolved to act in that manner so as to be Her governess myself.... When she was at a proper age she commenced attending Divine Service regularly with me, and I have every feeling that she has religion at Her heart, that she is morally impressed with it to that degree, that she is less liable to error by its application to her feelings as a Child capable of reflection.' 'The general bent of Her character,' added the Duchess, 'is strength of intellect, capable of receiving with ease, information, and with a peculiar readiness in coming to a very just and benignant decision on any point Her opinion is asked on. Her adherence to {30} truth is of so marked a character that I feel no apprehension of that Bulwark being broken down by any circumstances.' The Bishops attended at the Palace, and the result of their examination was all that could be wished. 'In answering a great variety of questions proposed to her,' they reported, 'the Princess displayed an accurate knowledge of the most important features of Scripture History, and of the leading truths and precepts of the Christian Religion as taught by the Church of England, as well as an acquaintance with the Chronology and principal facts of English History remarkable in so young a person. To questions in Geography, the use of the Globes, Arithmetic, and Latin Grammar, the answers which the Princess returned were equally satisfactory.' They did not believe that the Duchess's plan of education was susceptible of any improvement; and the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was also consulted, came to the same gratifying conclusion.[21] One important step, however, remained to be taken. So far, as the Duchess explained to the Bishops, the Princess had been kept in ignorance of the station that she was likely to fill. 'She is aware of its duties, and that a Sovereign should live for others; so that when Her innocent mind receives the impression of Her future fate, she receives it with a mind formed to be sensible of what is to be expected from Her, and it is to be hoped, she will be too well grounded in Her principles to be dazzled with the station she is to look to.'[22] In the following year it was decided that she should be enlightened on this point. The well-known scene followed: the history lesson, the genealogical table of the Kings of England slipped beforehand by the {31} governess into the book, the Princess's surprise, her inquiries, her final realisation of the facts. When the child at last understood, she was silent for a moment, and then she spoke: 'I will be good,' she said. The words were something more than a conventional protestation, something more than the expression of a superimposed desire; they were, in their limitation and their intensity, their egotism and their humility, an instinctive summary of the dominating qualities of a life. 'I cried much on learning it,' her Majesty noted long afterwards. No doubt, while the others were present, even her dear Lehzen, the little girl kept up her self-command; and then crept away somewhere to ease her heart of an inward, unfamiliar agitation, with a handkerchief, out of her mother's sight.[23] But her mother's sight was by no means an easy thing to escape. Morning and evening, day and night, there was no relaxation of the maternal vigilance. The child grew into the girl, the girl into the young woman; but still she slept in her mother's bedroom; still she had no place allowed her where she might sit or work by herself.[24] An extraordinary watchfulness surrounded her every step: up to the day of her accession, she never went downstairs without someone beside her holding her hand.[25] Plainness and regularity ruled the household. The hours, the days, the years passed slowly and methodically by. The dolls--the innumerable dolls, each one so neatly dressed, each one with its name so punctiliously entered in the catalogue--were laid aside, and a little music and a little dancing took their place. Taglioni came, to give grace and dignity to the figure,[26] and Lablache, to train the piping treble upon his own {32} rich bass. The Dean of Chester, the official preceptor, continued his endless instruction in Scripture history, while the Duchess of Northumberland, the official governess, presided over every lesson with becoming solemnity. Without doubt, the Princess's main achievement during her schooldays was linguistic. German was naturally the first language with which she was familiar; but English and French quickly followed; and she became virtually trilingual, though her mastery of English grammar remained incomplete. At the same time, she acquired a working knowledge of Italian and some smattering of Latin. Nevertheless, she did not read very much. It was not an occupation that she cared for; partly, perhaps, because the books that were given her were all either sermons, which were very dull, or poetry, which was incomprehensible. Novels were strictly forbidden. Lord Durham persuaded her mother to get her some of Miss Martineau's tales, illustrating the truths of Political Economy, and they delighted her; but it is to be feared that it was the unaccustomed pleasure of the story that filled her mind, and that she never really mastered the theory of exchanges or the nature of rent.[27] It was her misfortune that the mental atmosphere which surrounded her during these years of adolescence was almost entirely feminine. No father, no brother, was there to break in upon the gentle monotony of the daily round with impetuosity, with rudeness, with careless laughter and wafts of freedom from the outside world. The Princess was never called by a voice that was loud and growling; never felt, as a matter of course, a hard rough cheek on her own soft one; never climbed a wall with a boy. The visits to Claremont--delicious {33} little escapes into male society--came to an end when she was eleven years old and Prince Leopold left England to be King of the Belgians. She loved him still; he was still 'il mio secondo padre--or, rather, _solo_ padre, for he is indeed like my real father, as I have none'; but his fatherliness now came to her dimly and indirectly, through the cold channel of correspondence. Henceforward female duty, female elegance, female enthusiasm, hemmed her completely in; and her spirit, amid the enclosing folds, was hardly reached by those two great influences, without which no growing life can truly prosper--humour and imagination. The Baroness Lehzen--for she had been raised to that rank in the Hanoverian nobility by George IV before he died--was the real centre of the Princess's world. When Feodora married, when uncle Leopold went to Belgium, the Baroness was left without a competitor. The Princess gave her mother her dutiful regards; but Lehzen had her heart. The voluble, shrewd daughter of the pastor in Hanover, lavishing her devotion on her royal charge, had reaped her reward in an unbounded confidence and a passionate adoration. The girl would have gone through fire for her '_precious_ Lehzen,' the 'best and truest friend,' she declared, that she had had since her birth. Her journal, begun when she was thirteen, where she registered day by day the small succession of her doings and her sentiments, bears on every page of it the traces of the Baroness and her circumambient influence. The young creature that one sees there, self-depicted in ingenuous clarity, with her sincerity, her simplicity, her quick affections and pious resolutions, might almost have been the daughter of a German pastor herself. Her enjoyments, her admirations, her _engouements_ were of the kind that {34} clothed themselves naturally in underlinings and exclamation marks. 'It was a _delightful_ ride. We cantered a good deal. SWEET LITTLE ROSY went BEAUTIFULLY!! We came home at a ¼ past 1.... At 20 minutes to 7 we went out to the Opera.... Rubini came on and sang a song out of "Anna Boulena" _quite beautifully_. We came home at ½ past 11.'[28] In her comments on her readings, the mind of the Baroness is clearly revealed. One day, by some mistake, she was allowed to take up a volume of memoirs by Fanny Kemble. 'It is certainly very pertly and oddly written. One would imagine by the style that the authoress must be very pert, and not well bred; for there are so many vulgar expressions in it. It is a great pity that a person endowed with so much talent, as Mrs. Butler really is, should turn it to so little account and publish a book which is so full of trash and nonsense which can only do her harm. I stayed up till 20 minutes past 9.' Madame de Sévigné's letters, which the Baroness read aloud, met with more approval. 'How truly elegant and natural her style is! It is so full of _naïveté_, cleverness, and grace.' But her highest admiration was reserved for the Bishop of Chester's 'Exposition of the Gospel of St. Matthew.' 'It is a very fine book indeed. Just the sort of one I like; which is just plain and comprehensible and full of truth and good feeling. It is not one of those learned books in which you have to cavil at almost every paragraph. Lehzen gave it me on the Sunday that I took the Sacrament.'[29] A few weeks previously she had been confirmed, and she described the event as follows: 'I felt that my confirmation was one of the most solemn and important events and acts in my life; and that I trusted that it might have a {35} salutary effect on my mind. I felt deeply repentant for all what I had done which was wrong and trusted in God Almighty to strengthen my heart and mind; and to forsake all that is bad and follow all that is virtuous and right. I went with the firm determination to become a true Christian, to try and comfort my dear Mamma in all her griefs, trials, and anxieties, and to become a dutiful and affectionate daughter to her. Also to be obedient to _dear_ Lehzen, who has done so much for me. I was dressed in a white lace dress, with a white crape bonnet with a wreath of white roses round it. I went in the chariot with my dear Mamma and the others followed in another carriage.'[30] One seems to hold in one's hand a small smooth crystal pebble, without a flaw and without a scintillation, and so transparent that one can see through it at a glance. Yet perhaps, after all, to the discerning eye, the purity would not be absolute. The careful searcher might detect, in the virgin soil, the first faint traces of an unexpected vein. In that conventual existence visits were exciting events; and, as the Duchess had many relatives, they were not infrequent; aunts and uncles would often appear from Germany, and cousins too. When the Princess was fourteen she was delighted by the arrival of a couple of boys from Würtemberg, the Princes Alexander and Ernst, sons of her mother's sister and the reigning duke. 'They are both _extremely tall_,' she noted; 'Alexander is _very handsome_, and Ernst has a _very kind expression_. They are both EXTREMELY _amiable_.' And their departure filled her with corresponding regrets. 'We saw them get into the barge, and watched them sailing away for some time on the beach. They were so amiable and so pleasant to have {36} in the house; they were always _satisfied, always good-humoured_; Alexander took such care of me in getting out of the boat, and rode next to me; so did Ernst.'[31] Two years later, two other cousins arrived, the Princes Ferdinand and Augustus. 'Dear Ferdinand,' the Princess wrote, 'has elicited universal admiration from all parties.... He is so very unaffected, and has such a very distinguished appearance and carriage. They are both very dear and charming young men. Augustus is very amiable too, and, when known, shows much good sense.' On another occasion, 'Dear Ferdinand came and sat near me and talked so dearly and sensibly. I do _so_ love him. Dear Augustus sat near me and talked with me, and he is also a dear good young man, and is very handsome.' She could not quite decide which was the handsomer of the two. On the whole, she concluded, 'I think Ferdinand handsomer than Augustus, his eyes are so beautiful, and he has such a lively clever expression; _both_ have such a sweet expression; Ferdinand has something _quite beautiful_ in his expression when he speaks and smiles, and he is _so_ good.' However, it was perhaps best to say that they were 'both very handsome and _very dear_.'[32] But shortly afterwards two more cousins arrived, who threw all the rest into the shade. These were the Princes Ernest and Albert, sons of her mother's eldest brother, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg. This time the Princess was more particular in her observations. 'Ernest,' she remarked, 'is as tall as Ferdinand and Augustus; he has dark hair, and fine dark eyes and eyebrows, but the nose and mouth are not good; he has a most kind, honest and intelligent expression in his countenance, and has a very good figure. Albert, who is just as tall {37} as Ernest but stouter, is extremely handsome; his hair is about the same colour as mine; his eyes are large and blue, and he has a beautiful nose and a very sweet mouth with fine teeth; but the charm of his countenance is his expression, which is most delightful; _cest à la fois_ full of goodness and sweetness, and very clever and intelligent.' 'Both my cousins,' she added, 'are so kind and good; they are much more _formés_ and men of the world than Augustus; they speak English very well, and I speak it with them. Ernest will be 18 years old on the 21st of June, and Albert 17 on the 26th of August. Dear Uncle Ernest made me the present of a most delightful _Lory_, which is so tame that it remains on your hand and you may put your finger into its beak, or do anything with it, without its ever attempting to bite. It is larger than Mamma's grey parrot.' A little later, 'I sat between my dear cousins on the sofa and we looked at drawings. They both draw very well, particularly Albert, and are both exceedingly fond of music; they play very nicely on the piano. The more I see them the more I am delighted with them, and the more I love them.... It is delightful to be with them; they are so fond of being occupied too; they are quite an example for any young person.' When, after a stay of three weeks, the time came for the young men and their father to return to Germany, the moment of parting was a melancholy one. 'It was our last HAPPY HAPPY breakfast, with this dear Uncle and those _dearest_ beloved cousins, whom I _do_ love so VERY VERY dearly; _much more dearly_ than any other cousins in the _world_. Dearly as I love Ferdinand, and also good Augustus, I love Ernest and Albert more than them, oh yes, MUCH _more_.... They have both learnt a good deal, and are very clever, naturally clever, {38} particularly Albert, who is the most reflecting of the two, and they like very much talking about serious and instructive things and yet are so _very very_ merry and gay and happy, like young people ought to be; Albert always used to have some fun and some clever witty answer at breakfast and everywhere; he used to play and fondle Dash so funnily too.... Dearest Albert was playing on the piano when I came down. At 11 dear Uncle, my _dearest beloved_ cousins, and Charles, left us, accompanied by Count Kolowrat. I embraced both my dearest cousins most warmly, as also my dear Uncle. I cried bitterly, very bitterly.'[33] The Princes shared her ecstasies and her italics between them; but it is clear enough where her secret preference lay. 'Particularly Albert'! She was just seventeen; and deep was the impression left upon that budding organism by the young man's charm and goodness and accomplishments, and his large blue eyes and beautiful nose, and his sweet mouth and fine teeth. IV King William could not away with his sister-in-law, and the Duchess fully returned his antipathy. Without considerable tact and considerable forbearance their relative positions were well calculated to cause ill-feeling; and there was very little tact in the composition of the Duchess, and no forbearance at all in that of his Majesty. A bursting, bubbling old gentleman, with quarter-deck gestures, round rolling eyes, and a head like a pineapple, his sudden elevation to the throne after fifty-six years of utter insignificance had almost sent him crazy. His natural {39} exuberance completely got the better of him; he rushed about doing preposterous things in an extraordinary manner, spreading amusement and terror in every direction, and talking all the time. His tongue was decidedly Hanoverian, with its repetitions, its catchwords--'That's quite another thing! That's quite another thing!'--its rattling indomitability, its loud indiscreetness. His speeches, made repeatedly at the most inopportune junctures, and filled pell-mell with all the fancies and furies that happened at the moment to be whisking about in his head, were the consternation of Ministers. He was one part blackguard, people said, and three parts buffoon; but those who knew him better could not help liking him--he meant well; and he was really good-humoured and kind-hearted, if you took him the right way. If you took him the wrong way, however, you must look out for squalls, as the Duchess of Kent discovered. She had no notion of how to deal with him--could not understand him in the least. Occupied with her own position, her own responsibilities, her duty, and her daughter, she had no attention to spare for the peppery susceptibilities of a foolish, disreputable old man. She was the mother of the heiress of England; and it was for him to recognise the fact--to put her at once upon a proper footing--to give her the precedence of a dowager Princess of Wales, with a large annuity from the privy purse.[34] It did not occur to her that such pretensions might be galling to a king who had no legitimate child of his own, and who yet had not altogether abandoned the hope of having one. She pressed on, with bulky vigour, along the course she had laid out. Sir John Conroy, an Irishman with no {40} judgment and a great deal of self-importance, was her intimate counsellor, and egged her on. It was advisable that Victoria should become acquainted with the various districts of England, and through several summers a succession of tours--in the West, in the Midlands, in Wales--were arranged for her. The intention of the plan was excellent, but its execution was unfortunate. The journeys, advertised in the Press, attracting enthusiastic crowds, and involving official receptions, took on the air of royal progresses. Addresses were presented by loyal citizens; the delighted Duchess, swelling in sweeping feathers and almost obliterating the diminutive Princess, read aloud, in her German accent, gracious replies prepared beforehand by Sir John, who, bustling and ridiculous, seemed to be mingling the rôles of major-domo and Prime Minister. Naturally the King fumed over his newspaper at Windsor. 'That woman is a nuisance! That woman is a nuisance!' he exclaimed. Poor Queen Adelaide, amiable though disappointed, did her best to smooth things down, changed the subject, and wrote affectionate letters to Victoria; but it was useless. News arrived that the Duchess of Kent, sailing in the Solent, had insisted that whenever her yacht appeared it should be received by royal salutes from all the men-of-war and all the forts. The King declared that these continual poppings must cease; the Premier and the First Lord of the Admiralty were consulted; and they wrote privately to the Duchess, begging her to waive her rights. But she would not hear of it; Sir John Conroy was adamant. 'As her Royal Highness's _confidential adviser_,' he said, 'I cannot recommend her to give way on this point.' Eventually the King, in a great state of excitement, issued a special Order in {41} Council, prohibiting the firing of royal salutes to any ships except those which carried the reigning sovereign or his consort on board.[35] When King William quarrelled with his Whig Ministers the situation grew still more embittered, for now the Duchess, in addition to her other shortcomings, was the political partisan of his enemies. In 1836 he made an attempt to prepare the ground for a match between the Princess Victoria and one of the sons of the Prince of Orange, and at the same time did his best to prevent the visit of the young Coburg princes to Kensington. He failed in both these objects; and the only result of his efforts was to raise the anger of the King of the Belgians, who, forgetting for a moment his royal reserve, addressed an indignant letter on the subject to his niece. 'I am really _astonished_,' he wrote, 'at the conduct of your old Uncle the King; this invitation of the Prince of Orange and his sons, this forcing him on others, is very extraordinary.... Not later than yesterday I got a half-official communication from England, insinuating that it would be _highly_ desirable that the visit of your relatives _should not take place this year_--qu'en dites-vous? The relations of the Queen and the King, therefore, to the God-knows-what degree, are to come in shoals and rule the land, when _your relations_ are to be _forbidden_ the country, and that when, as you know, the whole of your relations have ever been very dutiful and kind to the King. Really and truly I never heard or saw anything like it, and I hope it will a little _rouse your spirit_; now that slavery is even abolished in the British Colonies, I do not comprehend _why your lot alone should be to be kept a white little slavey in England_, for the pleasure of the {42} Court, who never bought you, as I am not aware of their ever having gone to any expense on that head, or the King's ever having _spent a sixpence for your existence_.... Oh, consistency and political or _other honesty_, where must one look for you!'[36] Shortly afterwards King Leopold came to England himself, and his reception was as cold at Windsor as it was warm at Kensington. 'To hear dear Uncle speak on any subject,' the Princess wrote in her diary, 'is like reading a highly instructive book; his conversation is so enlightened, so clear. He is universally admitted to be one of the first politicians now extant. He speaks so mildly, yet firmly and impartially, about politics. Uncle tells me that Belgium is quite a pattern for its organisation, its industry, and prosperity; the finances are in the greatest perfection. Uncle is so beloved and revered by his Belgian subjects, that it must be a great compensation for all his extreme trouble.'[37] But her other uncle by no means shared her sentiments. He could not, he said, put up with a water-drinker; and King Leopold would touch no wine. 'What's that you're drinking, sir?' he asked him one day at dinner. 'Water, sir.' 'God damn it, sir!' was the rejoinder. 'Why don't you drink wine? I never allow anybody to drink water at my table.'[38] It was clear that before very long there would be a great explosion; and in the hot days of August it came. The Duchess and the Princess had gone down to stay at Windsor for the King's birthday party, and the King himself, who was in London for the day to prorogue Parliament, paid a visit at Kensington Palace in their absence. There he found that the Duchess {43} had just appropriated, against his express orders, a suite of seventeen apartments for her own use. He was extremely angry, and, when he returned to Windsor, after greeting the Princess with affection, he publicly rebuked the Duchess for what she had done. But this was little to what followed. On the next day was the birthday banquet; there were a hundred guests; the Duchess of Kent sat on the King's right hand, and the Princess Victoria opposite. At the end of the dinner, in reply to the toast of the King's health, he rose, and, in a long, loud, passionate speech, poured out the vials of his wrath upon the Duchess. She had, he declared, insulted him--grossly and continually; she had kept the Princess away from him in the most improper manner; she was surrounded by evil advisers, and was incompetent to act with propriety in the high station which she filled; but he would bear it no longer; he would have her to know he was King; he was determined that his authority should be respected; henceforward the Princess should attend at every Court function with the utmost regularity; and he hoped to God that his life might be spared for six months longer, so that the calamity of a regency might be avoided, and the functions of the Crown pass directly to the heiress-presumptive instead of into the hands of the 'person now near him,' upon whose conduct and capacity no reliance whatever could be placed. The flood of vituperation rushed on for what seemed an interminable period, while the Queen blushed scarlet, the Princess burst into tears, and the hundred guests sat aghast. The Duchess said not a word until the tirade was over and the company had retired; then in a tornado of rage and mortification, she called for her carriage and announced her immediate return to {44} Kensington. It was only with the utmost difficulty that some show of a reconciliation was patched up, and the outraged lady was prevailed upon to put off her departure till the morrow.[39] Her troubles, however, were not over when she had shaken the dust of Windsor from her feet. In her own household she was pursued by bitterness and vexation of spirit. The apartments at Kensington were seething with subdued disaffection, with jealousies and animosities virulently intensified by long years of propinquity and spite. There was a deadly feud between Sir John Conroy and Baroness Lehzen. But that was not all. The Duchess had grown too fond of her major-domo. There were familiarities, and one day the Princess Victoria discovered the fact. She confided what she had seen to the Baroness, and to the Baroness's beloved ally, Madame de Späth. Unfortunately, Madame de Späth could not hold her tongue, and was actually foolish enough to reprove the Duchess; whereupon she was instantly dismissed. It was not so easy to get rid of the Baroness. That lady, prudent and reserved, maintained an irreproachable demeanour. Her position was strongly entrenched; she had managed to secure the support of the King; and Sir John found that he could do nothing against her. But henceforward the household was divided into two camps.[40] The Duchess {45} supported Sir John with all the amplitude of her authority; but the Baroness, too, had an adherent who could not be neglected. The Princess Victoria said nothing, but she had been much attached to Madame de Späth, and she adored her Lehzen. The Duchess knew only too well that in this horrid embroilment her daughter was against her. Chagrin, annoyance, moral reprobation, tossed her to and fro. She did her best to console herself with Sir John's affectionate loquacity, or with the sharp remarks of Lady Flora Hastings, one of her maids of honour, who had no love for the Baroness. The subject lent itself to satire; for the pastor's daughter, with all her airs of stiff superiority, had habits which betrayed her origin. Her passion for caraway seeds, for instance, was uncontrollable. Little bags of them came over to her from Hanover, and she sprinkled them on her bread and butter, her cabbage, and even her roast beef. Lady Flora could not resist a caustic observation; it was repeated to the Baroness, who pursed her lips in fury; and so the mischief grew.[41] V The King had prayed that he might live till his niece was of age; and a few days before her eighteenth birthday--the date of her legal majority--a sudden attack of illness very nearly carried him off. He recovered, however, and the Princess was able to go through her birthday festivities--a state ball and a drawing-room--with unperturbed enjoyment. 'Count {46} Zichy,' she noted in her diary, 'is very good-looking in uniform, but not in plain clothes. Count Waldstein looks remarkably well in his pretty Hungarian uniform.'[42] With the latter young gentleman she wished to dance, but there was an insurmountable difficulty. 'He could not dance quadrilles, and, as in my station I unfortunately cannot valse and galop, I could not dance with him.'[43] Her birthday present from the King was of a pleasing nature, but it led to a painful domestic scene. In spite of the anger of her Belgian uncle, she had remained upon good terms with her English one. He had always been very kind to her, and the fact that he had quarrelled with her mother did not appear to be a reason for disliking him. He was, she said, 'odd, very odd and singular,' but 'his intentions were often ill interpreted.'[44] He now wrote her a letter, offering her an allowance of £10,000 a year, which he proposed should be at her own disposal, and independent of her mother. Lord Conyngham, the Lord Chamberlain, was instructed to deliver the letter into the Princess's own hands. When he arrived at Kensington, he was ushered into the presence of the Duchess and the Princess, and, when he produced the letter, the Duchess put out her hand to take it. Lord Conyngham begged her Royal Highness's pardon, and repeated the King's commands. Thereupon the Duchess drew back, and the Princess took the letter. She immediately wrote to her uncle, accepting his kind proposal. The Duchess was much displeased; £4000 a year, she said, would be quite enough for Victoria; as for the remaining £6000, it would be only proper that she should have that herself.[45] {47} King William had thrown off his illness, and returned to his normal life. Once more the royal circle at Windsor--their Majesties, the elder Princesses, and some unfortunate Ambassadress or Minister's wife--might be seen ranged for hours round a mahogany table, while the Queen netted a purse, and the King slept, occasionally waking from his slumbers to observe 'Exactly so, ma'am, exactly so!'[46] But this recovery was of short duration. The old man suddenly collapsed; with no specific symptoms besides an extreme weakness, he yet showed no power of rallying; and it was clear to everyone that his death was now close at hand. All eyes, all thoughts, turned towards the Princess Victoria; but she still remained, shut away in the seclusion of Kensington, a small, unknown figure, lost in the large shadow of her mother's domination. The preceding year had in fact been an important one in her development. The soft tendrils of her mind had for the first time begun to stretch out towards unchildish things. In this King Leopold encouraged her. After his return to Brussels, he had resumed his correspondence in a more serious strain; he discussed the details of foreign politics; he laid down the duties of kingship; he pointed out the iniquitous foolishness of the newspaper press. On the latter subject, indeed, he wrote with some asperity. 'If all the editors,' he said, 'of the papers in the countries where the liberty of the press exists were to be assembled, we should have a _crew_ to which you would _not_ confide a dog that you would value, still less your honour and reputation.'[47] On the functions of a monarch, his views were unexceptionable. 'The business of the highest in a State,' he wrote, 'is {48} certainly, in my opinion, to act with great impartiality and a spirit of justice for the good of all.'[48] At the same time the Princess's tastes were opening out. Though she was still passionately devoted to riding and dancing, she now began to have a genuine love of music as well, and to drink in the roulades and arias of the Italian opera with high enthusiasm. She even enjoyed reading poetry--at any rate, the poetry of Sir Walter Scott.[49] When King Leopold learnt that King William's death was approaching, he wrote several long letters of excellent advice to his niece. 'In every letter I shall write to you,' he said, 'I mean to repeat to you, as a _fundamental rule, to be courageous, firm, and honest, as you have been till now_.' For the rest, in the crisis that was approaching, she was not to be alarmed, but to trust in her 'good natural sense and the truth' of her character; she was to do nothing in a hurry; to hurt no one's _amour-propre_, and to continue her confidence in the Whig administration.[50] Not content with letters, however, King Leopold determined that the Princess should not lack personal guidance, and sent over to her aid the trusted friend whom, twenty years before, he had taken to his heart by the death-bed at Claremont. Thus, once again, as if in accordance with some preordained destiny, the figure of Stockmar is discernible--inevitably present at a momentous hour. On June 18, the King was visibly sinking. The Archbishop of Canterbury was by his side, with all the comforts of the church. Nor did the holy words fall upon a rebellious spirit; for many years his Majesty had been a devout believer. 'When I was a young man,' he once explained at a public banquet, 'as well {49} as I can remember, I believed in nothing but pleasure and folly--nothing at all. But when I went to sea, got into a gale, and saw the wonders of the mighty deep, then I believed; and I have been a sincere Christian ever since.'[51] It was the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, and the dying man remembered it. He should be glad to live, he said, over that day; he would never see another sunset. 'I hope your Majesty may live to see many,' said Dr. Chambers. 'Oh! that's quite another thing, that's quite another thing,' was the answer.[52] One other sunset he did live to see; and he died in the early hours of the following morning. It was June 20, 1837. When all was over, the Archbishop and the Lord Chamberlain ordered a carriage, and drove post-haste from Windsor to Kensington. They arrived at the Palace at five o'clock, and it was only with considerable difficulty that they gained admittance.[53] At six the Duchess woke up her daughter, and told her that the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham were there, and wished to see her. She got out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and went, alone, into the room where the messengers were standing. Lord Conyngham fell on his knees, and officially announced the death of the King; the Archbishop added some personal details. Looking at the bending, murmuring dignitaries before her, she knew that she was Queen of England. 'Since it has pleased Providence,' she wrote that day in her journal, 'to place me in this station, I shall do my utmost to fulfil my duty towards my country; I am very young, and perhaps in many, though not in all things, inexperienced, but I am sure, that very few have more real good will and more real desire to do what is fit and {50} right than I have.'[54] But there was scant time for resolutions and reflections. At once, affairs were thick upon her. Stockmar came to breakfast, and gave some good advice. She wrote a letter to her uncle Leopold, and a hurried note to her sister Feodora. A letter came from the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, announcing his approaching arrival. He came at nine, in full court dress, and kissed her hand. She saw him alone, and repeated to him the lesson which, no doubt, the faithful Stockmar had taught her at breakfast, 'It has long been my intention to retain your Lordship and the rest of the present Ministry at the head of affairs'; whereupon Lord Melbourne again kissed her hand and shortly after left her. She then wrote a letter of condolence to Queen Adelaide. At eleven, Lord Melbourne came again; and at half past eleven she went downstairs into the red saloon to hold her first Council.[55] The great assembly of lords and notables, bishops, generals, and Ministers of State, saw the doors thrown open and a very short, very slim girl in deep plain mourning come into the room alone and move forward to her seat with extraordinary dignity and grace; they saw a countenance, not beautiful, but prepossessing--fair hair, blue prominent eyes, a small curved nose, an open mouth revealing the upper teeth, a tiny chin, a clear complexion, and, over all, the strangely mingled signs of innocence, of gravity, of youth, and of composure; they heard a high unwavering voice reading aloud with perfect clarity; and then, the ceremony over, they saw the small figure rise and, with the same consummate grace, the same amazing dignity, pass out from among them, as she had come in, alone.[56] [1] Murray, 62-3; Lee, 11-12. [2] Owen, Journal, No. 1, February, 1853, 28-9. [3] _Ibid._, 31. [4] Croker, I, 155. [5] Stockmar, 113. [6] Stockmar, 114-5. [7] _Letters_, I, 15, 257-8; Grey, App. A. [8] Granville, I, 168-9. [9] _Wilberforce, William_, V, 71-2. [10] _Letters_, I, 17. [11] Creevey, I, 297-8. [12] Jerrold, _Early Court_, 15-17. [13] _Letters_, I, 10. [14] _Ibid._, I, 14; _Girlhood_, I, 280. [15] Crawford, 6. [16] Smith, 21-2. [17] _Cornhill Magazine_, LXXV, 730. [18] Hunt, II, 257-8. [19] _Letters_, I, 10, 18. [20] _Letters_, I, 11-12; Lee, 26. [21] _Letters_, I, 14-17. [22] _Ibid._, I, 16. [23] Martin, I, 13. [24] _Letters_, I, 11. [25] _Girlhood_, I, 42. [26] Crawford, 87. [27] Martineau, II, 118-9. [28] _Girlhood_, I, 66-7. [29] _Ibid._, I, 129. [30] _Girlhood_, I, 124-5. [31] _Girlhood_, I, 78, 82. [32] _Ibid._, I, 150-3. [33] _Girlhood_, I, 157-61. [34] Greville, II, 195-6 [35] Greville, III, 321, 324. [36] _Letters_, I, 47-8. [37] _Girlhood_, I, 168. [38] Greville, III, 377. [39] Greville, III, 374-6. [40] _Ibid._, IV, 21; and August 15, 1839 (unpublished). 'The cause of the Queen's alienation from the Duchess and hatred of Conroy, the Duke [of Wellington] said, was unquestionably owing to her having witnessed some familiarities between them. What she had seen she repeated to Baroness Spaeth, and Spaeth not only did not hold her tongue, but (he thinks) remonstrated with the Duchess herself on the subject. The consequence was that they got rid of Spaeth, and they would have got rid of Lehzen, too, if they had been able, but Lehzen, who knew very well what was going on, was prudent enough not to commit herself, and she was, besides, powerfully protected by George IV and William IV, so that they did not dare to attempt to expel her.' [41] Greville, IV, 21; Crawford, 128-9. [42] _Girlhood_, I, 192-3. [43] _Ibid._, I, 191. [44] _Ibid._, I, 194. [45] Greville, III, 407-8. [46] Creevey, II, 262. [47] _Letters_, I, 53. [48] _Letters_, I, 61. [49] _Girlhood_, I, 175. [50] _Letters_, I, 70-1. [51] Torrens, 419. [52] Huish, 686. [53] Wynn, 281. [54] _Girlhood_, I, 195-6. [55] _Ibid._, I, 196-7. [56] Greville, III, 414-6. [Illustration: LORD MELBOURNE. _From the Portrait by Sir Edwin Landseer, R.A._] {51} CHAPTER III LORD MELBOURNE I The new queen was almost entirely unknown to her subjects. In her public appearances her mother had invariably dominated the scene. Her private life had been that of a novice in a convent: hardly a human being from the outside world had ever spoken to her; and no human being at all, except her mother and the Baroness Lehzen, had ever been alone with her in a room. Thus it was not only the public at large that was in ignorance of everything concerning her; the inner circles of statesmen and officials and high-born ladies were equally in the dark.[1] When she suddenly emerged from this deep obscurity, the impression that she created was immediate and profound. Her bearing at her first Council filled the whole gathering with astonishment and admiration; the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, even the savage Croker, even the cold and caustic Greville--all were completely carried away. Everything that was reported of her subsequent proceedings seemed to be of no less happy augury. Her perceptions were quick, her decisions were sensible, her language was discreet; she performed her royal duties with extraordinary facility.[2] Among the outside public there was a great wave of enthusiasm. {52} Sentiment and romance were coming into fashion; and the spectacle of the little girl-queen, innocent, modest, with fair hair and pink cheeks, driving through her capital, filled the hearts of the beholders with raptures of affectionate loyalty. What, above all, struck everybody with overwhelming force was the contrast between Queen Victoria and her uncles. The nasty old men, debauched and selfish, pig-headed and ridiculous, with their perpetual burden of debts, confusions, and disreputabilities--they had vanished like the snows of winter, and here at last, crowned and radiant, was the spring. Lord John Russell, in an elaborate oration, gave voice to the general sentiment. He hoped that Victoria might prove an Elizabeth without her tyranny, an Anne without her weakness. He asked England to pray that the illustrious Princess who had just ascended the throne with the purest intentions and the justest desires might see slavery abolished, crime diminished, and education improved. He trusted that her people would henceforward derive their strength, their conduct, and their loyalty from enlightened religious and moral principles, and that, so fortified, the reign of Victoria might prove celebrated to posterity and to all the nations of the earth.[3] Very soon, however, there were signs that the future might turn out to be not quite so simple and roseate as a delighted public dreamed. The 'illustrious Princess' might perhaps, after all, have something within her which squared ill with the easy vision of a well-conducted heroine in an edifying story-book. The purest intentions and the justest desires? No doubt; but was that all? To those who watched closely, for instance, there might be something ominous in the {53} curious contour of that little mouth. When, after her first Council, she crossed the ante-room and found her mother waiting for her, she said, 'And now, Mamma, am I really and truly Queen?' 'You see, my dear, that it is so.' 'Then, dear Mamma, I hope you will grant me the first request I make to you, as Queen. Let me be by myself for an hour.'[4] For an hour she remained in solitude. Then she reappeared, and gave a significant order: her bed was to be moved out of her mother's room. It was the doom of the Duchess of Kent. The long years of waiting were over at last; the moment of a lifetime had come; her daughter was Queen of England; and that very moment brought her own annihilation. She found herself, absolutely and irretrievably, shut off from every vestige of influence, of confidence, of power. She was surrounded, indeed, by all the outward signs of respect and consideration; but that made the inward truth of her position only the more intolerable. Through the mingled formalities of Court etiquette and filial duty, she could never penetrate to Victoria. She was unable to conceal her disappointment and her rage. 'Il n'y a plus d'avenir pour moi,' she exclaimed to Madame de Lieven; 'je ne suis plus rien.' For eighteen years, she said, this child had been the sole object of her existence, of her thoughts, her hopes, and now--no! she would not be comforted, she had lost everything, she was to the last degree unhappy.[5] Sailing, so gallantly and so pertinaciously, through the buffeting storms of life, the stately vessel, with sails still swelling and pennons flying, had put into harbour at last; to find there nothing--a land of bleak desolation. Within a month of the accession, the realities of {54} the new situation assumed a visible shape. The whole royal household moved from Kensington to Buckingham Palace, and, in the new abode, the Duchess of Kent was given a suite of apartments entirely separate from the Queen's. By Victoria herself the change was welcomed, though, at the moment of departure, she could afford to be sentimental. 'Though I rejoice to go into B.P. for many reasons,' she wrote in her diary, 'it is not without feelings of regret that I shall bid adieu _for ever_ to this my birthplace, where I have been born and bred, and to which I am really attached!' Her memory lingered for a moment over visions of the past: her sister's wedding, pleasant balls and _delicious_ concerts ... and there were other recollections. 'I have gone through painful and disagreeable scenes here, 'tis true,' she concluded, 'but still I am fond of the poor old palace.'[6] At the same time she took another decided step. She had determined that she would see no more of Sir John Conroy. She rewarded his past services with liberality: he was given a baronetcy and a pension of £3000 a year; he remained a member of the Duchess's household, but his personal intercourse with the Queen came to an abrupt conclusion.[7] II It was clear that these interior changes--whatever else they might betoken--marked the triumph of one person--the Baroness Lehzen. The pastor's daughter observed the ruin of her enemies. Discreet and victorious, she remained in possession of the field. More closely than ever did she cleave to the side of her {55} mistress, her pupil, and her friend; and in the recesses of the palace her mysterious figure was at once invisible and omnipresent. When the Queen's Ministers came in at one door, the Baroness went out by another; when they retired, she immediately returned.[8] Nobody knew--nobody ever will know--the precise extent and the precise nature of her influence. She herself declared that she never discussed public affairs with the Queen, that she was concerned with private matters only--with private letters and the details of private life.[9] Certainly her hand is everywhere discernible in Victoria's early correspondence. The Journal is written in the style of a child; the Letters are not so simple; they are the work of a child, rearranged--with the minimum of alteration, no doubt, and yet perceptibly--by a governess. And the governess was no fool: narrow, jealous, provincial, she might be; but she was an acute and vigorous woman, who had gained, by a peculiar insight, a peculiar ascendancy. That ascendancy she meant to keep. No doubt it was true that technically she took no part in public business; but the distinction between what is public and what is private is always a subtle one; and in the case of a reigning sovereign--as the next few years were to show--it is often imaginary. Considering all things--the characters of the persons, and the character of the times--it was something more than a mere matter of private interest that the bedroom of Baroness Lehzen at Buckingham Palace should have been next door to the bedroom of the Queen. But the influence wielded by the Baroness, supreme as it seemed within its own sphere, was not unlimited; {56} there were other forces at work. For one thing, the faithful Stockmar had taken up his residence in the palace. During the twenty years which had elapsed since the death of the Princess Charlotte, his experiences had been varied and remarkable. The unknown counsellor of a disappointed princeling had gradually risen to a position of European importance. His devotion to his master had been not only whole-hearted but cautious and wise. It was Stockmar's advice that had kept Prince Leopold in England during the critical years which followed his wife's death, and had thus secured to him the essential requisite of a _point d'appui_ in the country of his adoption.[10] It was Stockmar's discretion which had smoothed over the embarrassments surrounding the Prince's acceptance and rejection of the Greek crown. It was Stockmar who had induced the Prince to become the constitutional Sovereign of Belgium.[11] Above all, it was Stockmar's tact, honesty, and diplomatic skill which, through a long series of arduous and complicated negotiations, had led to the guarantee of Belgian neutrality by the Great Powers.[12] His labours had been rewarded by a German barony and by the complete confidence of King Leopold. Nor was it only in Brussels that he was treated with respect and listened to with attention. The statesmen who governed England--Lord Grey, Sir Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston, Lord Melbourne--had learnt to put a high value upon his probity and his intelligence. 'He is one of the cleverest fellows I ever saw,' said Lord Melbourne--'the most discreet man, the most well-judging, and most cool man.'[13] And Lord Palmerston cited Baron Stockmar as the only absolutely disinterested {57} man he had come across in life.[14] At last he was able to retire to Coburg, and to enjoy for a few years the society of the wife and children whom his labours in the service of his master had hitherto only allowed him to visit at long intervals for a month or two at a time. But in 1836 he had been again entrusted with an important negotiation, which he had brought to a successful conclusion in the marriage of Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg, a nephew of King Leopold's, with Queen Maria II of Portugal.[15] The House of Coburg was beginning to spread over Europe; and the establishment of the Baron at Buckingham Palace in 1837 was to be the prelude of another and a more momentous advance.[16] King Leopold and his counsellor provide in their careers an example of the curious diversity of human ambitions. The desires of man are wonderfully various; but no less various are the means by which those desires may reach satisfaction: and so the work of the world gets done. The correct mind of Leopold craved for the whole apparatus of royalty. Mere power would have held no attractions for him; he must be an actual king--the crowned head of a people. It was not enough to do; it was essential also to be recognised; anything else would not be fitting. The greatness that he dreamt of was surrounded by every appropriate circumstance. To be a Majesty, to be a cousin of Sovereigns, to marry a Bourbon for diplomatic ends, to correspond with the Queen of England, to be very stiff and very punctual, to found a dynasty, to bore ambassadresses into fits, to live, on the highest pinnacle, an exemplary life devoted to the public service--such {58} were his objects, and such, in fact, were his achievements. The 'Marquis Peu-à-peu,' as George IV called him,[17] had what he wanted. But this would never have been the case if it had not happened that the ambition of Stockmar took a form exactly complementary to his own. The sovereignty that the Baron sought for was by no means obvious. The satisfaction of his essential being lay in obscurity, in invisibility--in passing, unobserved, through a hidden entrance, into the very central chamber of power, and in sitting there, quietly, pulling the subtle strings that set the wheels of the whole world in motion. A very few people, in very high places, and exceptionally well-informed, knew that Baron Stockmar was a most important person: that was enough. The fortunes of the master and the servant, intimately interacting, rose together. The Baron's secret skill had given Leopold his unexceptionable kingdom; and Leopold, in his turn, as time went on, was able to furnish the Baron with more and more keys to more and more back doors. Stockmar took up his abode in the Palace partly as the emissary of King Leopold, but more particularly as the friend and adviser of a queen who was almost a child, and who, no doubt, would be much in need of advice and friendship. For it would be a mistake to suppose that either of these two men was actuated by a vulgar selfishness. The King, indeed, was very well aware on which side his bread was buttered; during an adventurous and chequered life he had acquired a shrewd knowledge of the world's workings; and he was ready enough to use that knowledge to strengthen his position and to spread his influence. But then, the firmer his position and the wider his influence, the {59} better for Europe; of that he was quite certain. And besides, he was a constitutional monarch; and it would be highly indecorous in a constitutional monarch to have any aims that were low or personal. As for Stockmar, the disinterestedness which Palmerston had noted was undoubtedly a basic element in his character. The ordinary schemer is always an optimist; and Stockmar, racked by dyspepsia and haunted by gloomy forebodings, was a constitutionally melancholy man. A schemer, no doubt, he was; but he schemed distrustfully, splenetically, to do good. To do good! What nobler end could a man scheme for? Yet it is perilous to scheme at all. With Lehzen to supervise every detail of her conduct, with Stockmar in the next room, so full of wisdom and experience of affairs, with her Uncle Leopold's letters, too, pouring out so constantly their stream of encouragements, general reflections, and highly valuable tips, Victoria, even had she been without other guidance, would have stood in no lack of private counsellors. But other guidance she had; for all these influences paled before a new star, of the first magnitude, which, rising suddenly upon her horizon, immediately dominated her life. III William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, was fifty-eight years of age, and had been for the last three years Prime Minister of England. In every outward respect he was one of the most fortunate of mankind. He had been born into the midst of riches, brilliance, and power. His mother, fascinating and intelligent, had been a great Whig hostess, and he had been bred up as a {60} member of that radiant society which, during the last quarter of the eighteenth century, concentrated within itself the ultimate perfections of a hundred years of triumphant aristocracy. Nature had given him beauty and brains; the unexpected death of an elder brother brought him wealth, a peerage, and the possibility of high advancement. Within that charmed circle, whatever one's personal disabilities, it was difficult to fail; and to him, with all his advantages, success was well-nigh unavoidable. With little effort, he attained political eminence. On the triumph of the Whigs he became one of the leading members of the Government; and when Lord Grey retired from the premiership he quietly stepped into the vacant place. Nor was it only in the visible signs of fortune that Fate had been kind to him. Bound to succeed, and to succeed easily, he was gifted with so fine a nature that his success became him. His mind, at once supple and copious, his temperament, at once calm and sensitive, enabled him not merely to work but to live with perfect facility and with the grace of strength. In society he was a notable talker, a captivating companion, a charming man. If one looked deeper, one saw at once that he was not ordinary, that the piquancies of his conversation and his manner--his free-and-easy vaguenesses, his abrupt questions, his lollings and loungings, his innumerable oaths--were something more than an amusing ornament, were the outward manifestation of an individuality peculiar to the core. The precise nature of this individuality was very difficult to gauge: it was dubious, complex, perhaps self-contradictory. Certainly there was an ironical discordance between the inner history of the man and his apparent fortunes. He owed all he had to his birth, {61} and his birth was shameful; it was known well enough that his mother had passionately loved Lord Egremont, and that Lord Melbourne was not his father.[18] His marriage, which had seemed to be the crown of his youthful ardours, was a long, miserable, desperate failure: the incredible Lady Caroline, ... 'with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness to be ever taught, With too much thinking to have common thought,' was very nearly the destruction of his life. When at last he emerged from the anguish and confusion of her folly, her extravagance, her rage, her despair, and her devotion, he was left alone with endless memories of intermingled farce and tragedy, and an only son who was an imbecile. But there was something else that he owed to Lady Caroline. While she whirled with Byron in a hectic frenzy of love and fashion, he had stayed at home in an indulgence bordering on cynicism, and occupied his solitude with reading. It was thus that he had acquired those habits of study, that love of learning, and that wide and accurate knowledge of ancient and modern literature, which formed so unexpected a part of his mental equipment. His passion for reading never deserted him; even when he was Prime Minister he found time to master every new important book.[19] With an incongruousness that was characteristic, his favourite study was theology. An accomplished classical scholar, he was deeply read in the Fathers of the Church; heavy volumes of commentary and exegesis he examined with scrupulous diligence; and at any odd moment he might be found turning over {62} the pages of the Bible.[20] To the ladies whom he most liked he would lend some learned work on the Revelation, crammed with marginal notes in his own hand, or Dr. Lardner's 'Observations upon the Jewish Errors with respect to the Conversion of Mary Magdalene.' The more pious among them had high hopes that these studies would lead him into the right way; but of this there were no symptoms in his after-dinner conversation.[21] The paradox of his political career was no less curious. By temperament an aristocrat, by conviction a conservative, he came to power as the leader of the popular party, the party of change. He had profoundly disliked the Reform Bill, which he had only accepted at last as a necessary evil; and the Reform Bill lay at the root of the very existence, of the very meaning, of his government. He was far too sceptical to believe in progress of any kind. Things were best as they were--or rather, they were least bad. 'You'd better try to do no good,' was one of his dictums, 'and then you'll get into no scrapes.' Education at best was futile; education of the poor was positively dangerous. The factory children? 'Oh, if you'd only have the goodness to leave them alone!' Free Trade was a delusion; the ballot was nonsense; and there was no such thing as a democracy. Nevertheless, he was not a reactionary; he was simply an opportunist. The whole duty of government, he said, was 'to prevent crime and to preserve contracts.' All one could really hope to do was to carry on. He himself carried on in a remarkable manner--with perpetual compromises, with fluctuations and {63} contradictions, with every kind of weakness, and yet with shrewdness, with gentleness, even with conscientiousness, and a light and airy mastery of men and of events. He conducted the transactions of business with extraordinary nonchalance. Important persons, ushered up for some grave interview, found him in a towselled bed, littered with books and papers, or vaguely shaving in a dressing-room; but, when they went downstairs again, they would realise that somehow or other they had been pumped. When he had to receive a deputation, he could hardly ever do so with becoming gravity. The worthy delegates of the tallow-chandlers, or the Society for the Abolition of Capital Punishment, were distressed and mortified when, in the midst of their speeches, the Prime Minister became absorbed in blowing a feather, or suddenly cracked an unseemly joke. How could they have guessed that he had spent the night before diligently getting up the details of their case? He hated patronage and the making of appointments--a feeling rare in Ministers. 'As for the Bishops,' he burst out, 'I positively believe they die to vex me.' But when at last the appointment was made, it was made with keen discrimination. His colleagues observed another symptom--was it of his irresponsibility or his wisdom? He went to sleep in the Cabinet.[22] Probably, if he had been born a little earlier, he would have been a simpler and a happier man. As it was, he was a child of the eighteenth century whose lot was cast in a new, difficult, unsympathetic age. He was an autumn rose. With all his gracious amenity, his humour, his happy-go-lucky ways, a deep disquietude possessed him. A sentimental cynic, a sceptical believer, {64} he was restless and melancholy at heart. Above all, he could never harden himself; those sensitive petals shivered in every wind. Whatever else he might be, one thing was certain: Lord Melbourne was always human, supremely human--too human, perhaps.[23] And now, with old age upon him, his life took a sudden, new, extraordinary turn. He became, in the twinkling of an eye, the intimate adviser and the daily companion of a young girl who had stepped all at once from a nursery to a throne. His relations with women had been, like everything else about him, ambiguous. Nobody had ever been able quite to gauge the shifting, emotional complexities of his married life; Lady Caroline vanished; but his peculiar susceptibilities remained. Female society of some kind or other was necessary to him, and he did not stint himself; a great part of every day was invariably spent in it. The feminine element in him made it easy, made it natural and inevitable for him to be the friend of a great many women; but the masculine element in him was strong as well. In such circumstances it is also easy, it is even natural, perhaps it is even inevitable, to be something more than a friend. There were rumours and combustions. Lord Melbourne was twice a co-respondent in a divorce action; but on each occasion he won his suit. The lovely Lady Brandon, the unhappy and brilliant Mrs. Norton ... the law exonerated them both. Beyond that hung an impenetrable veil. But at any rate it was clear that, with such a record, the Prime Minister's position in Buckingham Palace must be a highly delicate one. However, he was used to delicacies, and he met the situation with consummate success. His behaviour was from the first moment {65} impeccable. His manner towards the young Queen mingled, with perfect facility, the watchfulness and the respect of a statesman and a courtier with the tender solicitude of a parent. He was at once reverential and affectionate, at once the servant and the guide. At the same time the habits of his life underwent a surprising change. His comfortable, unpunctual days became subject to the unaltering routine of a palace; no longer did he sprawl on sofas; not a single 'damn' escaped his lips. The man of the world who had been the friend of Byron and the Regent, the talker whose paradoxes had held Holland House enthralled, the cynic whose ribaldries had enlivened so many deep potations, the lover whose soft words had captivated such beauty and such passion and such wit, might now be seen, evening after evening, talking with infinite politeness to a schoolgirl, bolt upright, amid the silence and the rigidity of Court etiquette.[24] IV On her side, Victoria was instantaneously fascinated by Lord Melbourne. The good report of Stockmar had no doubt prepared the way; Lehzen was wisely propitiated; and the first highly favourable impression was never afterwards belied. She found him perfect; and perfect in her sight he remained. Her absolute and unconcealed adoration was very natural; what innocent young creature could have resisted, in any circumstances, the charm and the devotion of such a man? But, in her situation, there was a special influence which gave a peculiar glow to all she felt. After years of emptiness and dullness and suppression, she had come suddenly, in {66} the heyday of youth, into freedom and power. She was mistress of herself, of great domains and palaces; she was Queen of England. Responsibilities and difficulties she might have, no doubt, and in heavy measure; but one feeling dominated and absorbed all others--the feeling of joy. Everything pleased her. She was in high spirits from morning till night. Mr. Creevey, grown old now, and very near his end, catching a glimpse of her at Brighton, was much amused, in his sharp fashion, by the ingenuous gaiety of 'little Vic.'--'A more homely little being you never beheld, _when she is at her ease_, and she is evidently dying to be always more so. She laughs in real earnest, opening her mouth as wide as it can go, showing not very pretty gums.... She eats quite as heartily as she laughs, I think I may say she gobbles.... She blushes and laughs every instant in so natural a way as to disarm anybody.'[25] But it was not merely when she was laughing or gobbling that she enjoyed herself; the performance of her official duties gave her intense satisfaction. 'I really have immensely to do,' she wrote in her journal a few days after her accession; 'I receive so many communications from my Ministers, but I like it very much.'[26] And again, a week later, 'I repeat what I said before that I have so many communications from the Ministers, and from me to them, and I get so many papers to sign every day, that I have always a _very great deal_ to do. I _delight_ in this work.'[27] Through the girl's immaturity the vigorous predestined tastes of the woman were pushing themselves into existence with eager velocity, with delicious force. One detail of her happy situation deserves particular mention. Apart from the splendour of her {67} social position and the momentousness of her political one, she was a person of great wealth. As soon as Parliament met, an annuity of £385,000 was settled upon her. When the expenses of her household had been discharged, she was left with £68,000 a year of her own. She enjoyed besides the revenues of the Duchy of Lancaster, which amounted annually to over £27,000. The first use to which she put her money was characteristic: she paid off her father's debts. In money matters, no less than in other matters, she was determined to be correct. She had the instincts of a man of business; and she never could have borne to be in a position that was financially unsound.[28] With youth and happiness gilding every hour, the days passed merrily enough. And each day hinged upon Lord Melbourne. Her diary shows us, with undiminished clarity, the life of the young sovereign during the early months of her reign--a life satisfactorily regular, full of delightful business, a life of simple pleasures, mostly physical--riding, eating, dancing--a quick, easy, highly unsophisticated life, sufficient unto itself. The light of the morning is upon it; and, in the rosy radiance, the figure of 'Lord M.' emerges, glorified and supreme. If she is the heroine of the story, he is the hero; but indeed they are more than hero and heroine, for there are no other characters at all. Lehzen, the Baron, Uncle Leopold, are unsubstantial shadows--the incidental supers of the piece. Her paradise was peopled by two persons, and surely that was enough. One sees them together still, a curious couple, strangely united in those artless pages, under the magical illumination of that dawn of eighty years ago: the polished high fine gentleman with the whitening {68} hair and whiskers and the thick dark eyebrows and the mobile lips and the big expressive eyes; and beside him the tiny Queen--fair, slim, elegant, active, in her plain girl's dress and little tippet, looking up at him earnestly, adoringly, with eyes blue and projecting, and half-open mouth. So they appear upon every page of the Journal; upon every page Lord M. is present, Lord M. is speaking, Lord M. is being amusing, instructive, delightful, and affectionate at once, while Victoria drinks in the honeyed words, laughs till she shows her gums, tries hard to remember, and runs off, as soon as she is left alone, to put it all down. Their long conversations touched upon a multitude of topics. Lord M. would criticise books, throw out a remark or two on the British Constitution, make some passing reflections on human life, and tell story after story of the great people of the eighteenth century. Then there would be business--a despatch perhaps from Lord Durham in Canada, which Lord M. would read. But first he must explain a little. 'He said that I must know that Canada originally belonged to the French, and was only ceded to the English in 1760, when it was taken in an expedition under Wolfe; "a very daring enterprise," he said. Canada was then entirely French, and the British only came afterwards.... Lord M. explained this very clearly (and much better than I have done) and said a good deal more about it. He then read me Durham's despatch, which is a very long one and took him more than ½ an hour to read. Lord M. read it beautifully with that fine soft voice of his, and with so much expression, so that it is needless to say I was much interested by it.'[29] And then the talk would take a more personal turn. Lord {69} M. would describe his boyhood, and she would learn that 'he wore his hair long, as all boys then did, till he was 17; (_how_ handsome he must have looked!).'[30] Or she would find out about his queer tastes and habits--how he never carried a watch, which seemed quite extraordinary. '"I always ask the servant what o'clock it is, and then he tells me what he likes," said Lord M.'[31] Or, as the rooks wheeled about round the trees, 'in a manner which indicated rain,' he would say that he could sit looking at them for an hour, and 'was quite surprised at my disliking them.... Lord M. said, "The rooks are my delight."'[32] [Illustration: QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1838. _From the painting by E. Corbould_.] The day's routine, whether in London or at Windsor, was almost invariable. The morning was devoted to business and Lord M. In the afternoon the whole Court went out riding. The Queen, in her velvet riding-habit and a top-hat with a veil draped about the brim, headed the cavalcade; and Lord M. rode beside her. The lively troupe went fast and far, to the extreme exhilaration of Her Majesty. Back in the Palace again, there was still time for a little more fun before dinner--a game of battledore and shuttlecock perhaps, or a romp along the galleries with some children.[33] Dinner came, and the ceremonial decidedly tightened. The gentleman of highest rank sat on the right hand of the Queen; on her left--it soon became an established rule--sat Lord Melbourne. After the ladies had left the dining-room, the gentlemen were not permitted to remain behind for very long; indeed, the short time allowed them for their wine-drinking formed the subject--so it was rumoured--of one of the very few disputes between the Queen and her Prime {70} Minister[34]; but her determination carried the day, and from that moment after-dinner drunkenness began to go out of fashion. When the company was reassembled in the drawing-room the etiquette was stiff. For a few minutes the Queen spoke in turn to each one of her guests; and during these short uneasy colloquies the aridity of royalty was apt to become painfully evident. One night Mr. Greville, the Clerk of the Privy Council, was present; his turn soon came; the middle-aged, hard-faced _viveur_ was addressed by his young hostess. 'Have you been riding to-day, Mr. Greville?' asked the Queen. 'No, Madam, I have not,' replied Mr. Greville. 'It was a fine day,' continued the Queen. 'Yes, Madam, a very fine day,' said Mr. Greville. 'It was rather cold, though,' said the Queen. 'It was rather cold, Madam,' said Mr. Greville. 'Your sister, Lady Frances Egerton, rides, I think, doesn't she?' said the Queen. 'She does ride sometimes, Madam,' said Mr. Greville. There was a pause, after which Mr. Greville ventured to take the lead, though he did not venture to change the subject. 'Has your Majesty been riding to-day?' asked Mr. Greville. 'Oh yes, a very long ride,' answered the Queen with animation. 'Has your Majesty got a nice horse?' said Mr. Greville. 'Oh, a very nice horse,' said the Queen. It was over. Her Majesty gave a smile and an inclination of the head, Mr. Greville a profound bow, and the next conversation began with the next gentleman.[35] When all the guests {71} had been disposed of, the Duchess of Kent sat down to her whist, while everybody else was ranged about the round table. Lord Melbourne sat beside the Queen, and talked pertinaciously--very often _à propos_ to the contents of one of the large albums of engravings with which the round table was covered--until it was half-past eleven and time to go to bed.[36] Occasionally, there were little diversions: the evening might be spent at the opera or at the play. Next morning the royal critic was careful to note down her impressions. 'It was Shakespeare's tragedy of _Hamlet_, and we came in at the beginning of it. Mr. Charles Kean (son of old Kean) acted the part of Hamlet, and I must say beautifully. His conception of this very difficult, and I may almost say incomprehensible, character is admirable; his delivery of all the fine long speeches quite beautiful; he is excessively graceful and all his actions and attitudes are good, though not at all good-looking in face.... I came away just as _Hamlet_ was over.'[37] Later on, she went to see Macready in _King Lear_. The story was new to her; she knew nothing about it, and at first she took very little interest in what was passing on the stage; she preferred to chatter and laugh with the Lord Chamberlain. But, as the play went on, her mood changed; her attention was fixed, and then she laughed no more. Yet she was puzzled; it seemed a strange, a horrible business. What did Lord M. think? Lord M. thought it was a very fine play, but to be sure, 'a rough, coarse play, written for those times, with exaggerated characters.' 'I'm glad you've seen it,' he added.[38] But, undoubtedly, the evenings which she enjoyed most were those on {72} which there was dancing. She was always ready enough to seize any excuse--the arrival of cousins--a birthday--a gathering of young people--to give the command for that. Then, when the band played, and the figures of the dancers swayed to the music, and she felt her own figure swaying too, with youthful spirits so close on every side--then her happiness reached its height, her eyes sparkled, she must go on and on into the small hours of the morning. For a moment Lord M. himself was forgotten. V The months flew past. The summer was over: 'the pleasantest summer I EVER passed in _my life_, and I shall never forget this first summer of my reign.'[39] With surprising rapidity, another summer was upon her. The coronation came and went--a curious dream. The antique, intricate, endless ceremonial worked itself out as best it could, like some machine of gigantic complexity which was a little out of order. The small central figure went through her gyrations. She sat; she walked; she prayed; she carried about an orb that was almost too heavy to hold; the Archbishop of Canterbury came and crushed a ring upon the wrong finger, so that she was ready to cry out with the pain; old Lord Rolle tripped up in his mantle and fell down the steps as he was doing homage; she was taken into a side chapel, where the altar was covered with a tablecloth, sandwiches, and bottles of wine; she perceived Lehzen in an upper box and exchanged a smile with her as she sat, robed and crowned, on the Confessor's throne. 'I shall ever remember this day as the _proudest_ {73} of my life,' she noted. But the pride was soon merged once more in youth and simplicity. When she returned to Buckingham Palace at last she was not tired; she ran up to her private rooms, doffed her splendours, and gave her dog Dash its evening bath.[40] Life flowed on again with its accustomed smoothness--though, of course, the smoothness was occasionally disturbed. For one thing, there was the distressing behaviour of Uncle Leopold. The King of the Belgians had not been able to resist attempting to make use of his family position to further his diplomatic ends. But, indeed, why should there be any question of resisting? Was not such a course of conduct, far from being a temptation, simply _selon les régles_? What were royal marriages for, if they did not enable sovereigns, in spite of the hindrances of constitutions, to control foreign politics? For the highest purposes, of course; that was understood. The Queen of England was his niece--more than that--almost his daughter; his confidential agent was living, in a position of intimate favour, at her court. Surely, in such circumstances, it would be preposterous, it would be positively incorrect, to lose the opportunity of bending to his wishes by means of personal influence, behind the backs of the English Ministers, the foreign policy of England. He set about the task with becoming precautions. He continued in his letters his admirable advice. Within a few days of her accession, he recommended the young Queen to lay emphasis, on every possible occasion, upon her English birth; to praise the English nation; 'the Established Church I also recommend strongly; you cannot, without _pledging_ yourself to anything _particular, say too much on the subject_.' And then 'before you {74} decide on anything important I should be glad if you would consult me; this would also have the advantage of giving you time'; nothing was more injurious than to be hurried into wrong decisions unawares. His niece replied at once with all the accustomed warmth of her affection; but she wrote hurriedly--and, perhaps, a trifle vaguely too. '_Your_ advice is always of the _greatest importance_ to me,' she said.[41] Had he, possibly, gone too far? He could not be certain; perhaps Victoria _had_ been hurried. In any case, he would be careful; he would draw back--_pour mieux sauter_, he added to himself with a smile. In his next letters he made no reference to his suggestion of consultations with himself; he merely pointed out the wisdom, in general, of refusing to decide upon important questions off-hand. So far, his advice was taken; and it was noticed that the Queen, when applications were made to her, rarely gave an immediate answer. Even with Lord Melbourne, it was the same; when he asked for her opinion upon any subject, she would reply that she would think it over, and tell him her conclusions next day.[42] King Leopold's counsels continued. The Princess de Lieven, he said, was a dangerous woman; there was reason to think that she would make attempts to pry into what did not concern her; let Victoria beware. 'A rule which I cannot sufficiently recommend is _never to permit_ people to speak on subjects concerning yourself or your affairs, without you having yourself desired them to do so.' Should such a thing occur, 'change the conversation, and make the individual feel that he has made a mistake.' This piece of advice was also taken; for it fell out as the King had predicted. Madame de {75} Lieven sought an audience, and appeared to be verging towards confidential topics; whereupon the Queen, becoming slightly embarrassed, talked of nothing but commonplaces. The individual felt that she had made a mistake.[43] The King's next warning was remarkable. Letters, he pointed out, are almost invariably read in the post. This was inconvenient, no doubt; but the fact, once properly grasped, was not without its advantages. 'I will give you an example: we are still plagued by Prussia concerning those fortresses; now to tell the Prussian Government many things, which we _should not like_ to tell them officially, the Minister is going to write a despatch to our man at Berlin, sending it _by post_; the Prussians _are sure_ to read it, and to learn in this way what we wish them to hear.' Analogous circumstances might very probably occur in England. 'I tell you the _trick_,' wrote His Majesty, 'that you should be able to guard against it.' Such were the subtleties of constitutional sovereignty.[44] It seemed that the time had come for another step. The King's next letter was full of foreign politics--the situation in Spain and Portugal, the character of Louis-Philippe; and he received a favourable answer. Victoria, it is true, began by saying that she had shown the _political part_ of his letter to Lord Melbourne; but she proceeded to a discussion of foreign affairs. It appeared that she was not unwilling to exchange observations on such matters with her uncle.[45] So far, so good. But King Leopold was still cautious; though a crisis was impending in his diplomacy, he still hung back; at last, however, he could keep silence no longer. It {76} was of the utmost importance to him that, in his manoeuvrings with France and Holland, he should have, or at any rate appear to have, English support. But the English Government appeared to adopt a neutral attitude; it was too bad; not to be for him was to be against him--could they not see that? Yet, perhaps, they were only wavering, and a little pressure upon them from Victoria might still save all. He determined to put the case before her, delicately yet forcibly--just as he saw it himself. 'All I want from your kind Majesty,' he wrote, 'is, that you will _occasionally_ express to your Ministers, and particularly to good Lord Melbourne, that, as far as it is _compatible_ with the interests _of your own_ dominions, you do _not_ wish that your Government should take the lead in such measures as might in a short time bring on the _destruction_ of this country, as well as that of your uncle and his family.'[46] The result of this appeal was unexpected: there was dead silence for more than a week. When Victoria at last wrote, she was prodigal of her affection--'it would, indeed, my dearest Uncle, be _very wrong_ of you, if you thought my feelings of warm and devoted attachment to you, and of great affection for you, could be changed--_nothing_ can ever change them'--but her references to foreign politics, though they were lengthy and elaborate, were non-committal in the extreme; they were almost cast in an official and diplomatic form. Her Ministers, she said, entirely shared her views upon the subject; she understood and sympathised with the difficulties of her beloved uncle's position; and he might rest assured 'that both Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston are most anxious at all times for the prosperity and welfare of Belgium.' That was all. The King in his reply {77} declared himself delighted, and re-echoed the affectionate protestations of his niece. 'My dearest and most beloved Victoria,' he said, 'you have written me a _very dear_ and long letter, which has given me _great pleasure and satisfaction_.' He would not admit that he had had a rebuff.[47] A few months later the crisis came. King Leopold determined to make a bold push, and to carry Victoria with him, this time, by a display of royal vigour and avuncular authority. In an abrupt, an almost peremptory letter, he laid his case, once more, before his niece. 'You know from experience,' he wrote, 'that I _never ask anything of you_.... But, as I said before, if we are not careful we may see serious consequences which may affect more or less everybody, and _this_ ought to be the object of our most anxious attention. I remain, my dear Victoria, your affectionate uncle, Leopold R.'[48] The Queen immediately despatched this letter to Lord Melbourne, who replied with a carefully thought-out form of words, signifying nothing whatever, which, he suggested, she should send to her uncle. She did so, copying out the elaborate formula, with a liberal scattering of 'dear Uncles' interspersed; and she concluded her letter with a message of 'affectionate love to Aunt Louise and the children.' Then at last King Leopold was obliged to recognise the facts. His next letter contained no reference at all to politics. 'I am glad,' he wrote, 'to find that you like Brighton better than last year. I think Brighton very agreeable at this time of the year, till the east winds set in. The pavilion, besides, is comfortable; that cannot be denied. Before my marriage, it was there that I met the Regent. Charlotte afterwards came with old Queen Charlotte. {78} How distant all this already, but still how present to one's memory.' Like poor Madame de Lieven, his Majesty felt that he had made a mistake.[49] Nevertheless, he could not quite give up all hope. Another opportunity offered, and he made another effort--but there was not very much conviction in it, and it was immediately crushed. 'My dear Uncle,' the Queen wrote, 'I have to thank you for your last letter, which I received on Sunday. Though you seem not to dislike my political sparks, I think it is better not to increase them, as they might finally take fire, particularly as I see with regret that upon this one subject we cannot agree. I shall, therefore, limit myself to my expressions of very sincere wishes for the welfare and prosperity of Belgium.'[50] After that, it was clear that there was no more to be said. Henceforward there is audible in the King's letters a curiously elegiac note. 'My dearest Victoria, your _delightful_ little letter has just arrived and went like _an arrow to my heart_. Yes, my beloved Victoria! I do love you tenderly ... I love you _for yourself_, and I love in you the dear child whose welfare I tenderly watched.' He had gone through much; yet, if life had its disappointments, it had its satisfactions too. 'I have all the honours that can be given, and I am, politically speaking, very solidly established.' But there were other things besides politics; there were romantic yearnings in his heart. 'The only longing I still have is for the Orient, where I perhaps shall once end my life, rising in the west and setting in the east.' As for his devotion to his niece, that could never end. 'I never press my services on you, nor my councils, though I may say with some truth that from the extraordinary fate which the higher powers {79} had ordained for me, my experience, both political and of private life, is great. I am _always ready_ to be useful to you _when and where_ it may be, and I repeat it, _all I want in return is some little sincere affection from you_.'[51] VI The correspondence with King Leopold was significant of much that still lay partly hidden in the character of Victoria. Her attitude towards her uncle had never wavered for a moment. To all his advances she had presented an absolutely unyielding front. The foreign policy of England was not his province; it was hers and her Ministers'; his insinuations, his entreaties, his struggles--all were quite useless; and he must understand that this was so. The rigidity of her position was the more striking owing to the respectfulness and the affection with which it was accompanied. From start to finish the unmoved Queen remained the devoted niece. Leopold himself must have envied such perfect correctitude; but what may be admirable in an elderly statesman is alarming in a maiden of nineteen. And privileged observers were not without their fears. The strange mixture of ingenuous light-heartedness and fixed determination, of frankness and reticence, of childishness and pride, seemed to augur a future perplexed and full of dangers. As time passed the less pleasant qualities in this curious composition revealed themselves more often and more seriously. There were signs of an imperious, a peremptory temper, an egotism that was strong and hard. It was noticed that the palace etiquette, far from relaxing, grew ever more and more inflexible. By some, this was attributed to {80} Lehzen's influence; but, if that was so, Lehzen had a willing pupil; for the slightest infringements of the freezing rules of regularity and deference were invariably and immediately visited by the sharp and haughty glances of the Queen.[52] Yet Her Majesty's eyes, crushing as they could be, were less crushing than her mouth. The self-will depicted in those small projecting teeth and that small receding chin was of a more dismaying kind than that which a powerful jaw betokens; it was a self-will imperturbable, impenetrable, unreasoning; a self-will dangerously akin to obstinacy. And the obstinacy of monarchs is not as that of other men. Within two years of her accession, the storm-clouds which, from the first, had been dimly visible on the horizon, gathered and burst. Victoria's relations with her mother had not improved. The Duchess of Kent, still surrounded by all the galling appearances of filial consideration, remained in Buckingham Palace a discarded figure, powerless and inconsolable. Sir John Conroy, banished from the presence of the Queen, still presided over the Duchess's household, and the hostilities of Kensington continued unabated in the new surroundings. Lady Flora Hastings still cracked her malicious jokes; the animosity of the Baroness was still unappeased. One day, Lady Flora found the joke was turned against her. Early in 1839, travelling in the suite of the Duchess, she had returned from Scotland in the same carriage with Sir John. A change in her figure became the subject of an unseemly jest; tongues wagged; and the jest grew serious. It was whispered that Lady Flora was with child.[53] The state of her {81} health seemed to confirm the suspicion; she consulted Sir James Clark, the royal physician, and, after the consultation, Sir James let his tongue wag, too. On this, the scandal flared up sky-high. Everyone was talking; the Baroness was not surprised; the Duchess rallied tumultuously to the support of her lady; the Queen was informed. At last, the extraordinary expedient of a medical examination was resorted to, during which Sir James, according to Lady Flora, behaved with brutal rudeness, while a second doctor was extremely polite. Finally, both physicians signed a certificate entirely exculpating the lady. But this was by no means the end of the business. The Hastings family, socially a very powerful one, threw itself into the fray with all the fury of outraged pride and injured innocence; Lord Hastings insisted upon an audience of the Queen, wrote to the papers, and demanded the dismissal of Sir James Clark. The Queen expressed her regret to Lady Flora, but Sir James Clark was not dismissed. The tide of opinion turned violently against the Queen and her advisers; high society was disgusted by all this washing of dirty linen in Buckingham Palace; the public at large was indignant at the ill-treatment of Lady Flora. By the end of March, the popularity, so radiant and so abundant, with which the young Sovereign had begun her reign, had entirely disappeared.[54] There can be no doubt that a great lack of discretion had been shown by the Court. Ill-natured tittle-tattle, which should have been instantly nipped in the bud, had been allowed to assume disgraceful proportions; and the Throne itself had become involved in the personal {82} malignities of the palace. A particularly awkward question had been raised by the position of Sir James Clark. The Duke of Wellington, upon whom it was customary to fall back, in cases of great difficulty in high places, had been consulted upon this question, and he had given it as his opinion that, as it would be impossible to remove Sir James without a public enquiry, Sir James must certainly stay where he was.[55] Probably the Duke was right; but the fact that the peccant doctor continued in the Queen's service made the Hastings family irreconcilable and produced an unpleasant impression of unrepentant error upon the public mind. As for Victoria, she was very young and quite inexperienced; and she can hardly be blamed for having failed to control an extremely difficult situation. That was clearly Lord Melbourne's task; he was a man of the world, and, with vigilance and circumspection, he might have quietly put out the ugly flames while they were still smouldering. He did not do so; he was lazy and easy-going; the Baroness was persistent, and he let things slide. But doubtless his position was not an easy one; passions ran high in the palace; and Victoria was not only very young, she was very headstrong, too. Did he possess the magic bridle which would curb that fiery steed? He could not be certain. And then, suddenly, another violent crisis revealed more unmistakably than ever the nature of the mind with which he had to deal. VII The Queen had for long been haunted by a terror that the day might come when she would be obliged {83} to part with her Minister. Ever since the passage of the Reform Bill, the power of the Whig Government had steadily declined. The General Election of 1837 had left them with a very small majority in the House of Commons; since then, they had been in constant difficulties--abroad, at home, in Ireland; the Radical group had grown hostile; it became highly doubtful how much longer they could survive. The Queen watched the development of events in great anxiety. She was a Whig by birth, by upbringing, by every association, public and private; and, even if those ties had never existed, the mere fact that Lord M. was the head of the Whigs would have amply sufficed to determine her politics. The fall of the Whigs would mean a sad upset for Lord M. But it would have a still more terrible consequence: Lord M. would have to leave her; and the daily, the hourly, presence of Lord M. had become an integral part of her life. Six months after her accession she had noted in her diary 'I shall be very sorry to lose him _even_ for _one_ night';[56] and this feeling of personal dependence on her Minister steadily increased. In these circumstances it was natural that she should have become a Whig partisan. Of the wider significance of political questions she knew nothing; all she saw was that her friends were in office and about her, and that it would be dreadful if they ceased to be so. 'I cannot say,' she wrote when a critical division was impending, '(though I feel _confident of our success_) HOW _low_, HOW _sad_ I feel, when I think of the POSSIBILITY of this excellent and truly kind man not _remaining_ my Minister! Yet I trust fervently that _He_ who has so wonderfully protected me through such manifold difficulties will not _now_ desert me! I should {84} have liked to have expressed to Lord M. my anxiety, but the tears were nearer than words throughout the time I saw him, and I felt I should have choked, had I attempted to say anything.'[57] Lord Melbourne realised clearly enough how undesirable was such a state of mind in a constitutional sovereign who might be called upon at any moment to receive as her Ministers the leaders of the opposite party; he did what he could to cool her ardour; but in vain. With considerable lack of foresight, too, he had himself helped to bring about this unfortunate condition of affairs. From the moment of her accession, he had surrounded the Queen with ladies of his own party: the Mistress of the Robes and all the Ladies of the Bedchamber were Whigs. In the ordinary course, the Queen never saw a Tory; eventually she took pains never to see one in any circumstances. She disliked the whole tribe, and she did not conceal the fact. She particularly disliked Sir Robert Peel, who would almost certainly be the next Prime Minister. His manners were detestable, and he wanted to turn out Lord M. His supporters, without exception, were equally bad; and as for Sir James Graham, she could not bear the sight of him; he was exactly like Sir John Conroy.[58] The affair of Lady Flora intensified these party rumours still further. The Hastings were Tories, and Lord Melbourne and the Court were attacked by the Tory press in unmeasured language. The Queen's sectarian zeal proportionately increased. But the dreaded hour was now fast approaching. Early in May the Ministers were visibly tottering; on a vital point of policy they could only secure a majority of five in {85} the House of Commons; they determined to resign. When Victoria heard the news she burst into tears. Was it possible, then, that all was over? Was she indeed about to see Lord M. for the last time? Lord M. came; and it is a curious fact that, even in this crowning moment of misery and agitation, the precise girl noted, to the minute, the exact time of the arrival and the departure of her beloved Minister. The conversation was touching and prolonged; but it could only end in one way--the Queen must send for the Duke of Wellington. When, next morning, the Duke came, he advised her Majesty to send for Sir Robert Peel. She was in 'a state of dreadful grief,' but she swallowed down her tears, and braced herself, with royal resolution, for the odious, odious interview. Peel was by nature reserved, proud, and shy. His manners were not perfect, and he knew it; he was easily embarrassed, and, at such moments, he grew even more stiff and formal than before, while his feet mechanically performed upon the carpet a dancing-master's measure. Anxious as he now was to win the Queen's good graces, his very anxiety to do so made the attainment of his object the more difficult. He entirely failed to make any headway whatever with the haughty hostile girl before him. She coldly noted that he appeared to be unhappy and 'put out,' and, while he stood in painful fixity, with an occasional uneasy pointing of the toe, her heart sank within her at the sight of that manner, 'oh! how different, how dreadfully different, to the frank, open, natural, and most kind warm manner of Lord Melbourne.' Nevertheless, the audience passed without disaster. Only at one point had there been some slight hint of a disagreement. Peel had decided that a change would be necessary in {86} the composition of the royal Household: the Queen must no longer be entirely surrounded by the wives and sisters of his opponents; some, at any rate, of the Ladies of the Bedchamber should be friendly to his Government. When this matter was touched upon, the Queen had intimated that she wished her Household to remain unchanged; to which Sir Robert had replied that the question could be settled later, and shortly afterwards withdrew to arrange the details of his Cabinet. While he was present, Victoria had remained, as she herself said, 'very much collected, civil and high, and betrayed no agitation'; but as soon as she was alone she completely broke down. Then she pulled herself together to write to Lord Melbourne an account of all that had happened, and of her own wretchedness. 'She feels,' she said, 'Lord Melbourne will understand it, amongst enemies to those she most relied on and most esteemed; but what is worst of all is the being deprived of seeing Lord Melbourne as she used to do.' Lord Melbourne replied with a very wise letter. He attempted to calm the Queen and to induce her to accept the new position gracefully; and he had nothing but good words for the Tory leaders. As for the question of the Ladies of the Household, the Queen, he said, should strongly urge what she desired, as it was a matter which concerned her personally; 'but,' he added, 'if Sir Robert is unable to concede it, it will not do to refuse and to put off the negotiation upon it.' On this point there can be little doubt that Lord Melbourne was right. The question was a complicated and subtle one, and it had never arisen before; but subsequent constitutional practice has determined that a Queen Regnant must accede to the wishes of her Prime Minister as to the _personnel_ of the female part of her {87} Household. Lord Melbourne's wisdom, however, was wasted. The Queen would not be soothed, and still less would she take advice. It was outrageous of the Tories to want to deprive her of her Ladies, and that night she made up her mind that, whatever Sir Robert might say, she would refuse to consent to the removal of a single one of them. Accordingly, when, next morning, Peel appeared again, she was ready for action. He began by detailing the Cabinet appointments, and then he added 'Now, Ma'am, about the Ladies'--when the Queen sharply interrupted him. 'I cannot give up _any_ of my Ladies,' she said. 'What, Ma'am!' said Sir Robert, 'does your Majesty mean to retain them _all_?' '_All_,' said the Queen. Sir Robert's face worked strangely; he could not conceal his agitation. 'The Mistress of the Robes and the Ladies of the Bedchamber?' he brought out at last. '_All_', replied once more Her Majesty. It was in vain that Peel pleaded and argued; in vain that he spoke, growing every moment more pompous and uneasy, of the constitution, and Queens Regnant, and the public interest; in vain that he danced his pathetic minuet. She was adamant; but he, too, through all his embarrassment, showed no sign of yielding; and when at last he left her nothing had been decided--the whole formation of the Government was hanging in the wind. A frenzy of excitement now seized upon Victoria. Sir Robert, she believed in her fury, had tried to outwit her, to take her friends from her, to impose his will upon her own; but that was not all: she had suddenly perceived, while the poor man was moving so uneasily before her, the one thing that she was desperately longing for--a loophole of escape. She seized a pen and dashed off a note to Lord Melbourne. {88} 'Sir Robert has behaved very ill,' she wrote; 'he insisted on my giving up my Ladies, to which I replied that I _never_ would consent, and I never saw a man so frightened.... I was calm but very decided, and I think you would have been pleased to see my composure and great firmness; the Queen of England will not submit to such trickery. Keep yourself in readiness, for you may soon be wanted.' Hardly had she finished when the Duke of Wellington was announced. 'Well, Ma'am,' he said as he entered, 'I am very sorry to find there is a difficulty.' 'Oh!' she instantly replied, '_he_ began it, not me.' She felt that only one thing now was needed: she must be firm. And firm she was. The venerable conqueror of Napoleon was outfaced by the relentless equanimity of a girl in her teens. He could not move the Queen one inch. At last, she even ventured to rally him. 'Is Sir Robert so weak,' she asked, 'that even the Ladies must be of his opinion?' On which the Duke made a brief and humble expostulation, bowed low; and departed. Had she won? Time would show; and in the meantime she scribbled down another letter. 'Lord Melbourne must not think the Queen rash in her conduct.... The Queen felt this was an attempt to see whether she could be led and managed like a child.' The Tories were not only wicked but ridiculous. Peel, having, as she understood, expressed a wish to remove only those members of the Household who were in Parliament, now objected to her Ladies. 'I should like to know,' she exclaimed in triumphant scorn, 'if they mean to give the _Ladies_ seats in Parliament?' The end of the crisis was now fast approaching. Sir Robert returned, and told her that if she insisted upon retaining all her Ladies he could not form a {89} Government. She replied that she would send him her final decision in writing. Next morning the late Whig Cabinet met. Lord Melbourne read to them the Queen's letters, and the group of elderly politicians were overcome by an extraordinary wave of enthusiasm. They knew very well that, to say the least, it was highly doubtful whether the Queen had acted in strict accordance with the constitution; that in doing what she had done she had brushed aside Lord Melbourne's advice; that, in reality, there was no public reason whatever why they should go back upon their decision to resign. But such considerations vanished before the passionate urgency of Victoria. The intensity of her determination swept them headlong down the stream of her desire. They unanimously felt that 'it was impossible to abandon such a Queen and such a woman.' Forgetting that they were no longer her Majesty's Ministers, they took the unprecedented course of advising the Queen by letter to put an end to her negotiation with Sir Robert Peel. She did so; all was over; she had triumphed. That evening there was a ball at the Palace. Everyone was present. 'Peel and the Duke of Wellington came by looking very much put out.' She was perfectly happy; Lord M. was Prime Minister once more, and he was by her side.[59] {90} VIII Happiness had returned with Lord M., but it was happiness in the midst of agitation. The domestic imbroglio continued unabated, until at last the Duke, rejected as a Minister, was called in once again in his old capacity as moral physician to the family. Something was accomplished when, at last, he induced Sir John Conroy to resign his place about the Duchess of Kent and leave the Palace for ever; something more when he persuaded the Queen to write an affectionate letter to her mother. The way seemed open for a reconciliation, but the Duchess was stormy still. She didn't believe that Victoria had written that letter; it was not in her handwriting; and she sent for the Duke to tell him so. The Duke, assuring her that the letter was genuine, begged her to forget the past. But that was not so easy. 'What am I to do if Lord Melbourne comes up to me?' 'Do, ma'am? Why, receive him with civility.' Well, she would make an effort.... 'But what am I to do if Victoria asks me to shake hands with Lehzen?' 'Do, ma'am? Why, take her in your arms and kiss her.' 'What!' The Duchess bristled in every feather, and then she burst into a hearty laugh. 'No, ma'am, no,' said the Duke, laughing too. 'I don't mean you are to take _Lehzen_ in your arms and kiss _her_, but the Queen.'[60] The Duke might perhaps have succeeded, had not all attempts at conciliation been rendered hopeless by a tragical event. Lady Flora, it was discovered, had been suffering from a terrible internal malady, which now grew rapidly worse. There could be little doubt {91} that she was dying. The Queen's unpopularity reached an extraordinary height. More than once she was publicly insulted. 'Mrs. Melbourne,' was shouted at her when she appeared at her balcony; and, at Ascot, she was hissed by the Duchess of Montrose and Lady Sarah Ingestre as she passed. Lady Flora died. The whole scandal burst out again with redoubled vehemence; while, in the Palace, the two parties were henceforth divided by an impassable, a Stygian, gulf.[61] Nevertheless, Lord M. was back, and every trouble faded under the enchantment of his presence and his conversation. He, on his side, had gone through much; and his distresses were intensified by a consciousness of his own shortcomings. He realised clearly enough that, if he had intervened at the right moment, the Hastings scandal might have been averted; and, in the bedchamber crisis, he knew that he had allowed his judgment to be overruled and his conduct to be swayed by private feelings and the impetuosity of Victoria.[62] But he was not one to suffer too acutely from the pangs of conscience. In spite of the dullness and the formality of the Court, his relationship with the Queen had come to be the dominating interest in his life; to have been deprived of it would have been heart-rending; that dread eventuality had been--somehow--avoided; he was installed once more, in a kind of triumph; let him enjoy the fleeting hours to the full! And so, cherished by the favour of a sovereign and warmed by the adoration of a girl, the autumn rose, in those autumn months of 1839, came to a wondrous blooming. The petals expanded, beautifully, for the last time. For the last time in this unlooked-for, this {92} incongruous, this almost incredible intercourse, the old epicure tasted the exquisiteness of romance. To watch, to teach, to restrain, to encourage the royal young creature beside him--that was much; to feel with such a constant intimacy the impact of her quick affection, her radiant vitality--that was more; most of all, perhaps, was it good to linger vaguely in humorous contemplation, in idle apostrophe, to talk disconnectedly, to make a little joke about an apple or a furbelow, to dream. The springs of his sensibility, hidden deep within him, were overflowing. Often, as he bent over her hand and kissed it, he found himself in tears.[63] Upon Victoria, with all her impermeability, it was inevitable that such a companionship should have produced, eventually, an effect. She was no longer the simple schoolgirl of two years since. The change was visible even in her public demeanour. Her expression, once 'ingenuous and serene,' now appeared to a shrewd observer to be 'bold and discontented.'[64] She had learnt something of the pleasures of power and the pains of it; but that was not all. Lord Melbourne with his gentle instruction had sought to lead her into the paths of wisdom and moderation, but the whole unconscious movement of his character had swayed her in a very different direction. The hard clear pebble, subjected for so long and so constantly to that encircling and insidious fluidity, had suffered a curious corrosion; it seemed to be actually growing a little soft and a little clouded. Humanity and fallibility are infectious things; was it possible that Lehzen's prim pupil had caught them? That she was beginning to listen to siren voices? That the secret impulses of self-expression, of {93} self-indulgence even, were mastering her life? For a moment the child of a new age looked back, and wavered towards the eighteenth century. It was the most critical moment of her career. Had those influences lasted, the development of her character, the history of her life, would have been completely changed. And why should they not last? She, for one, was very anxious that they should. Let them last for ever! She was surrounded by Whigs, she was free to do whatever she wanted, she had Lord M.; she could not believe that she could ever be happier. Any change would be for the worse; and the worst change of all ... no, she would not hear of it; it would be quite intolerable, it would upset everything, if she were to marry. And yet everyone seemed to want her to--the general public, the Ministers, her Saxe-Coburg relations--it was always the same story. Of course, she knew very well that there were excellent reasons for it. For one thing, if she remained childless, and were to die, her uncle Cumberland, who was now the King of Hanover, would succeed to the Throne of England. That, no doubt, would be a most unpleasant event; and she entirely sympathised with everybody who wished to avoid it. But there was no hurry; naturally, she would marry in the end--but not just yet--not for three or four years. What was tiresome was that her uncle Leopold had apparently determined, not only that she ought to marry, but that her cousin Albert ought to be her husband. That was very like her uncle Leopold, who wanted to have a finger in every pie; and it was true that long ago, in far-off days, before her accession even, she had written to him in a way which might well have encouraged him in such a notion. She had told him then that Albert possessed {94} 'every quality that could be desired to render her perfectly happy,' and had begged her 'dearest uncle to take care of the health of one, now _so dear_ to me, and to take him under _your special_ protection,' adding, 'I hope and trust all will go on prosperously and well on this subject of so much importance to me.'[65] But that had been years ago, when she was a mere child; perhaps, indeed, to judge from the language, the letter had been dictated by Lehzen; at any rate, her feelings., and all the circumstances, had now entirely changed. Albert hardly interested her at all. In later life the Queen declared that she had never for a moment dreamt of marrying anyone but her cousin;[66] her letters and diaries tell a very different story. On August 26, 1837, she wrote in her journal: 'To-day is my _dearest_ cousin Albert's 18th birthday, and I pray Heaven to pour its choicest blessings on his beloved head!' In the subsequent years, however, the date passes unnoticed. It had been arranged that Stockmar should accompany the Prince to Italy, and the faithful Baron left her side for that purpose. He wrote to her more than once with sympathetic descriptions of his young companion; but her mind was by this time made up. She liked and admired Albert very much, but she did not want to marry him. 'At present,' she told Lord Melbourne in April 1839, '_my_ feeling is quite against ever marrying.'[67] When her cousin's Italian tour came to an end, she began to grow nervous; she knew that, according to a long-standing engagement, his next journey would be to England. He would probably arrive in the autumn, and by July her uneasiness was intense. She determined to write to her uncle, in order to make her position clear. It must be understood, she {95} said, that 'there is _no engagement_ between us.' If she should like Albert, she could 'make _no final promise this year_, for, at the _very earliest_, any such event could not take place till _two or three years hence_.' She had, she said, 'a _great_ repugnance' to change her present position; and, if she should not like him, she was '_very_ anxious that it should be understood that she would _not_ be guilty of any breach of promise, for she never gave any.'[68] To Lord Melbourne she was more explicit. She told him that she 'had no great wish to see Albert, as the whole subject was an odious one'; she hated to have to decide about it; and she repeated once again that seeing Albert would be 'a disagreeable thing.'[69] But there was no escaping the horrid business; the visit must be made, and she must see him. The summer slipped by and was over; it was the autumn already; on the evening of October 10 Albert, accompanied by his brother Ernest, arrived at Windsor. Albert arrived; and the whole structure of her existence crumbled into nothingness like a house of cards. He was beautiful--she gasped--she knew no more. Then, in a flash, a thousand mysteries were revealed to her; the past, the present, rushed upon her with a new significance; the delusions of years were abolished, and an extraordinary, an irresistible certitude leapt into being in the light of those blue eyes, the smile of that lovely mouth. The succeeding hours passed in a rapture. She was able to observe a few more details--the 'exquisite nose,' the 'delicate moustachios and slight but very slight whiskers,' the 'beautiful figure, broad in the shoulders and a fine waist.' She rode with him, danced with him, talked with him, and it was all perfection. She had no shadow of a doubt. He had {96} come on a Thursday evening, and on the following Sunday morning she told Lord Melbourne that she had 'a good deal changed her opinion as to marrying.' Next morning, she told him that she had made up her mind to marry Albert. The morning after that, she sent for her cousin. She received him alone, and 'after a few minutes I said to him that I thought he must be aware _why_ I wished them to come here--and that it would make me _too happy_ if he would consent to what I wished (to marry me).' Then 'we embraced each other, and he was _so_ kind, _so_ affectionate.' She said that she was quite unworthy of him, while he murmured that he would be very happy 'Das Leben mit dir zu zubringen.' They parted, and she felt 'the happiest of human beings,' when Lord M. came in. At first she beat about the bush, and talked of the weather, and indifferent subjects. Somehow or other she felt a little nervous with her old friend. At last, summoning up her courage, she said, 'I have got well through this with Albert.' 'Oh! you have,' said Lord M.[70] [1] Greville, III, 411. [2] _Ibid._, IV, 7, 9, 14-15. [3] Walpole, I, 284. [4] Crawford, 156-7. [5] Greville, IV, 16. [6] _Girlhood_, I, 210-1. [7] Greville, IV, 15. [8] Greville, IV, 21-2. [9] Stockmar, 322-3; Maxwell, 159-60. [10] Stockmar, 109-10. [11] _Ibid._, 165-6. [12] _Ibid._, chaps. viii, ix, x, and xi. [13] _Girlhood_, II, 303. [14] Stockmar, 324. [15] _Ibid._, chap. xv, pt. 2. [16] _Ibid._, chap. xvii. [17] Stein, VI, 932. [18] Greville, VI, 247; Torrens, 14; Hayward, I, 336. [19] Greville, VI, 248. [20] Greville, III, 331; VI, 254; Haydon, III, 12: 'March 1, 1835. Called on Lord Melbourne, and found him reading the Acts, with a quarto Greek Testament that belonged to Samuel Johnson.' [21] Greville, III, 142; Torrens, 545. [22] _Girlhood_, II, 148; Torrens, 278, 431, 517; Greville, IV, 331; VIII, 162. [23] Greville, VI, 253-4; Torrens, 354. [24] Greville, IV, 135, 154; _Girlhood_, I, 249. [25] Creevey, II, 326. [26] _Girlhood_, I, 203. [27] _Ibid._, I, 206. [28] Lee, 79-81. [29] _Girlhood_, II, 3. [30] _Girlhood_, II, 29. [31] _Ibid._, II, 100. [32] _Ibid._, II, 57, 256. [33] Lee, 71. [34] The Duke of Bedford told Greville he was 'sure there was a battle between her and Melbourne.... He is sure there was one about the men's sitting after dinner, for he heard her say to him rather angrily, "it is a horrid custom"--but when the ladies left the room (he dined there) directions were given that the men should remain _five minutes_ longer.' Greville, Feb. 26, 1840 (unpublished). [35] Greville, March 11, 1838 (unpublished). [36] Greville, IV, 152-3. [37] _Girlhood_, I, 265-6. [38] Martineau, II, 119-20; _Girlhood_, II, 121-2. [39] _Girlhood_, I, 229 [40] _Girlhood_, I, 356-64; Leslie, II, 239. [41] _Letters_, I, 79. [42] _Ibid._, I, 80; Greville, IV, 22. [43] _Letters_, I, 85-6; Greville, IV, 16. [44] _Ibid._, I, 93. [45] _Ibid._, I, 93-5. [46] _Letters_, I, 116. [47] _Letters_, I, 117-20. [48] _Ibid._, I, 134. [49] _Letters_, I, 134-6, 140. [50] _Ibid._, I, 154. [51] _Letters_, I, 185. [52] Greville, IV, 16-17; Crawford, 163-4. [53] Greville, IV, 178, and August 15, 1839 (unpublished). [54] 'Nobody cares for the Queen, her popularity has sunk to zero, and loyalty is a dead letter.' Greville, March 25, 1839; _Morning Post_, Sept. 14, 1839. [55] Greville, August 15, 1839 (unpublished). [56] _Girlhood_, I, 254. [57] _Girlhood_, I, 324. [58] Greville, August 4, 1841 (unpublished); _Girlhood_, II, 154, 162. [59] _Letters_, I, 154-72; _Girlhood_, II, 163-75; Greville, IV, 206-217, and unpublished passages; Broughton, V, 195; Clarendon, I, 165. The exclamation 'They wished to treat me like a girl, but I will show them that I am Queen of England!' often quoted as the Queen's, is apocryphal. It is merely part of Greville's summary of the two letters to Melbourne, printed in _Letters_, 162 and 163. It may be noted that the phrase 'the Queen of England will not submit to such trickery' is omitted in _Girlhood_, 169; and in general there are numerous verbal discrepancies between the versions of the journal and the letters in the two books. [60] Greville, June 7, June 10, June 15, August 15, 1839 (unpublished). [61] Greville, June 24 and July 7, 1839 (unpublished); Crawford, 222. [62] Greville, VI, 251-2. [63] Greville, VI, 251; _Girlhood_, I, 236, 238; II, 267. [64] Martineau, II, 120. [65] _Letters_, I, 49. [66] Grey, 2-19. [67] _Girlhood_, II, 153. [68] _Letters_, I, 177-8. [69] _Girlhood_, II, 215-6. [70] _Girlhood_, II, 262-9. Greville's statement (Nov. 27, 1839) that 'the Queen settled everything about her marriage herself, and without consulting Melbourne at all on the subject, not even communicating to him her intention,' has no foundation in fact. The Queen's journal proves that she consulted Melbourne at every point. [Illustration: PRINCE ALBERT IN 1840. _From the Portrait by John Partridge._] {97} CHAPTER IV MARRIAGE I It was decidedly a family match. Prince Francis Charles Augustus Albert Emmanuel of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha--for such was his full title--had been born just three months after his cousin Victoria, and the same midwife had assisted at the two births. The children's grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Coburg, had from the first looked forward to their marriage; as they grew up, the Duke, the Duchess of Kent, and King Leopold came equally to desire it. The Prince, ever since the time when, as a child of three, his nurse had told him that some day 'the little English May flower' would be his wife, had never thought of marrying anyone else. When eventually Baron Stockmar himself signified his assent, the affair seemed as good as settled.[1] The Duke had one other child--Prince Ernest, Albert's senior by one year, and heir to the principality. The Duchess was a sprightly and beautiful woman, with fair hair and blue eyes; Albert was very like her and was her declared favourite. But in his fifth year he was parted from her for ever. The ducal court was not noted for the strictness of its morals; the Duke was a man of gallantry, and it was rumoured that the Duchess followed her husband's example. There were {98} scandals: one of the Court Chamberlains, a charming and cultivated man of Jewish extraction, was talked of; at last there was a separation, followed by a divorce. The Duchess retired to Paris, and died unhappily in 1831. Her memory was always very dear to Albert.[2] He grew up a pretty, clever, and high-spirited boy. Usually well-behaved, he was, however, sometimes violent. He had a will of his own, and asserted it; his elder brother was less passionate, less purposeful, and, in their wrangles, it was Albert who came out top. The two boys, living for the most part in one or other of the Duke's country houses, among pretty hills and woods and streams, had been at a very early age--Albert was less than four--separated from their nurses and put under a tutor, in whose charge they remained until they went to the University. They were brought up in a simple and unostentatious manner, for the Duke was poor and the duchy very small and very insignificant. Before long it became evident that Albert was a model lad. Intelligent and painstaking, he had been touched by the moral earnestness of his generation; at the age of eleven he surprised his father by telling him that he hoped to make himself 'a good and useful man.' And yet he was not over-serious; though, perhaps, he had little humour, he was full of fun--of practical jokes and mimicry. He was no milksop; he rode, and shot, and fenced; above all did he delight in being out of doors, and never was he happier than in his long rambles with his brother through the wild country round his beloved Rosenau--stalking the deer, admiring the scenery, and returning laden with specimens for his natural history collection. He was, besides, passionately fond of music. In one particular it was observed {99} that he did not take after his father: owing either to his peculiar upbringing or to a more fundamental idiosyncrasy he had a marked distaste for the opposite sex. At the age of five, at a children's dance, he screamed with disgust and anger when a little girl was led up to him for a partner; and though, later on, he grew more successful in disguising such feelings, the feelings remained.[3] The brothers were very popular in Coburg, and, when the time came for them to be confirmed, the preliminary examination, which, according to ancient custom, was held in public in the 'Giants' Hall' of the Castle, was attended by an enthusiastic crowd of functionaries, clergy, delegates from the villages of the duchy, and miscellaneous onlookers. There were also present, besides the Duke and the Dowager Duchess, their Serene Highnesses the Princes Alexander and Ernest of Würtemberg, Prince Leiningen, Princess Hohenlohe-Langenburg, and Princess Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst. Dr. Jacobi, the Court chaplain, presided at an altar, simply but appropriately decorated, which had been placed at the end of the hall; and the proceedings began by the choir singing the first verse of the hymn, 'Come, Holy Ghost.' After some introductory remarks, Dr. Jacobi began the examination. 'The dignified and decorous bearing of the Princes,' we are told in a contemporary account, 'their strict attention to the questions, the frankness, decision, and correctness of their answers, produced a deep impression on the numerous assembly. Nothing was more striking in their answers than the evidence they gave of deep feeling and of inward strength of conviction. The questions put by the examiner were not such as to be {100} met by a simple "yes" or "no." They were carefully considered in order to give the audience a clear insight into the views and feelings of the young princes. One of the most touching moments was when the examiner asked the hereditary prince whether he intended steadfastly to hold to the Evangelical Church, and the Prince answered not only "Yes!" but added in a clear and decided tone: "I and my brother are firmly resolved ever to remain faithful to the acknowledged truth." The examination having lasted an hour, Dr. Jacobi made some concluding observations, followed by a short prayer; the second and third verses of the opening hymn were sung; and the ceremony was over. The Princes, stepping down from the altar, were embraced by the Duke and the Dowager Duchess; after which the loyal inhabitants of Coburg dispersed, well satisfied with their entertainment.[4] Albert's mental development now proceeded apace. In his seventeenth year he began a careful study of German literature and German philosophy. He set about, he told his tutor, 'to follow the thoughts of the great Klopstock into their depths--though in this, for the most part,' he modestly added, 'I do not succeed.' He wrote an essay on the 'Mode of Thought of the Germans, and a Sketch of the History of German Civilisation,' 'making use,' he said, 'in its general outlines, of the divisions which the treatment of the subject itself demands,' and concluding with 'a retrospect of the shortcomings of our time, with an appeal to every one to correct those shortcomings in his own case, and thus set a good example to others.'[5] Placed for some months under the care of King Leopold at Brussels, he came under the influence of Adolphe Quetelet, a mathematical {101} professor, who was particularly interested in the application of the laws of probability to political and moral phenomena; this line of inquiry attracted the Prince, and the friendship thus begun continued till the end of his life.[6] From Brussels he went to the University of Bonn, where he was speedily distinguished both by his intellectual and his social activities; his energies were absorbed in metaphysics, law, political economy, music, fencing, and amateur theatricals. Thirty years later his fellow-students recalled with delight the fits of laughter into which they had been sent by Prince Albert's mimicry. The _verve_ with which his Serene Highness reproduced the tones and gestures of one of the professors who used to point to a picture of a row of houses in Venice with the remark, 'That is the Ponte Realte,' and of another who fell down in a race and was obliged to look for his spectacles, was especially appreciated.[7] After a year at Bonn, the time had come for a foreign tour, and Baron Stockmar arrived from England to accompany the Prince on an expedition to Italy. The Baron had been already, two years previously, consulted by King Leopold as to his views upon the proposed marriage of Albert and Victoria. His reply had been remarkable. With a characteristic foresight, a characteristic absence of optimism, a characteristic sense of the moral elements in the situation, Stockmar had pointed out what were, in his opinion, the conditions essential to make the marriage a success. Albert, he wrote, was a fine young fellow, well grown for his age, with agreeable and valuable qualities; and it was probable that in a few years he would turn out a strong, handsome man, of a kindly, simple, yet dignified demeanour. {102} 'Thus, externally, he possesses all that pleases the sex, and at all times and in all countries must please.' Supposing, therefore, that Victoria herself was in favour of the marriage, the further question arose as to whether Albert's mental qualities were such as to fit him for the position of husband of the Queen of England. On this point, continued the Baron, one heard much to his credit; the Prince was said to be discreet and intelligent; but all such judgments were necessarily partial, and the Baron preferred to reserve his opinion until he could come to a trustworthy conclusion from personal observation. And then he added: 'But all this is not enough. The young man ought to have not merely great ability, but a _right_ ambition, and great force of will as well. To pursue for a lifetime a political career so arduous demands more than energy and inclination--it demands also that earnest frame of mind which is ready of its own accord to sacrifice mere pleasure to real usefulness. If he is not satisfied hereafter with the consciousness of having achieved one of the most influential positions in Europe, how often will he feel tempted to repent his adventure! If he does not from the very outset accept it as a vocation of grave responsibility, on the efficient performance of which his honour and happiness depend, there is small likelihood of his succeeding.'[8] Such were the views of Stockmar on the qualifications necessary for the due fulfilment of that destiny which Albert's family had marked out for him; and he hoped, during the tour in Italy, to come to some conclusion as to how far the Prince possessed them. Albert on his side was much impressed by the Baron, whom he had previously seen but rarely; he also became acquainted, for the first time in his life, with a young {103} Englishman, Lieut. Francis Seymour, who had been engaged to accompany him, whom he found _sehr liebenswürdig_, and with whom he struck up a warm friendship. He delighted in the galleries and scenery of Florence, though with Rome he was less impressed. 'But for some beautiful palaces,' he said, 'it might just as well be any town in Germany.' In an interview with Pope Gregory XVI, he took the opportunity of displaying his erudition. When the Pope observed that the Greeks had taken their art from the Etruscans, Albert replied that, on the contrary, in his opinion, they had borrowed from the Egyptians: his Holiness politely acquiesced. Wherever he went he was eager to increase his knowledge, and, at a ball in Florence, he was observed paying no attention whatever to the ladies, and deep in conversation with the learned Signor Capponi. 'Voilá un prince dont nous pouvons être fiers,' said the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who was standing by: 'la belle danseuse l'attend, le savant l'occupe.'[9] On his return to Germany, Stockmar's observations, imparted to King Leopold, were still critical. Albert, he said, was intelligent, kind, and amiable; he was full of the best intentions and the noblest resolutions, and his judgment was in many things beyond his years. But great exertion was repugnant to him; he seemed to be too willing to spare himself, and his good resolutions too often came to nothing. It was particularly unfortunate that he took not the slightest interest in politics, and never read a newspaper. In his manners, too, there was still room for improvement. 'He will always,' said the Baron, 'have more success with men than with women, in whose society he shows too little {104} _empressement_, and is too indifferent and retiring.' One other feature of the case was noted by the keen eye of the old physician: the Prince's constitution was not a strong one.[10] Yet, on the whole, he was favourable to the projected marriage. But by now the chief obstacle seemed to lie in another quarter. Victoria was apparently determined to commit herself to nothing. And so it happened that when Albert went to England he had made up his mind to withdraw entirely from the affair. Nothing would induce him, he confessed to a friend, to be kept vaguely waiting; he would break it all off at once. His reception at Windsor threw an entirely new light upon the situation. The wheel of fortune turned with a sudden rapidity; and he found, in the arms of Victoria, the irrevocable assurance of his overwhelming fate.[11] II He was not in love with her. Affection, gratitude, the natural reactions to the unqualified devotion of a lively young cousin who was also a queen--such feelings possessed him, but the ardours of reciprocal passion were not his. Though he found that he liked Victoria very much, what immediately interested him in his curious position was less her than himself. Dazzled and delighted, riding, dancing, singing, laughing, amid the splendours of Windsor, he was aware of a new sensation--the stirrings of ambition in his breast. His place would indeed be a high, an enviable one! And then, on the instant, came another thought. The teaching of religion, the admonitions of Stockmar, his {105} own inmost convictions, all spoke with the same utterance. He would not be there to please himself, but for a very different purpose--to do good. He must be 'noble, manly, and princely in all things,' he would have 'to live and to sacrifice himself for the benefit of his new country,' to 'use his powers and endeavours for a great object--that of promoting the welfare of multitudes of his fellow-men.' One serious thought led on to another. The wealth and the bustle of the English Court might be delightful for the moment, but, after all, it was Coburg that had his heart. 'While I shall be untiring,' he wrote to his grandmother, 'in my efforts and labours for the country to which I shall in future belong, and where I am called to so high a position, I shall never cease _ein treuer Deutscher, Coburger, Gothaner zu sein_.' And now he must part from Coburg for ever! Sobered and sad, he sought relief in his brother Ernest's company; the two young men would shut themselves up together, and, sitting down at the pianoforte, would escape from the present and the future in the sweet familiar gaiety of a Haydn duet.[12] They returned to Germany; and while Albert, for a few farewell months, enjoyed, for the last time, the happiness of home, Victoria, for the last time, resumed her old life in London and Windsor. She corresponded daily with her future husband in a mingled flow of German and English; but the accustomed routine reasserted itself; the business and the pleasures of the day would brook no interruption; Lord M. was once more constantly beside her; and the Tories were as intolerable as ever. Indeed, they were more so. For {106} now, in these final moments, the old feud burst out with redoubled fury.[13] The impetuous sovereign found, to her chagrin, that there might be disadvantages in being the declared enemy of one of the great parties in the State. On two occasions, the Tories directly thwarted her in a matter on which she had set her heart. She wished her husband's rank to be fixed by statute, and their opposition prevented it. She wished her husband to receive a settlement from the nation of £50,000 a year; and, again owing to the Tories, he was allowed only £30,000. It was too bad. When the question was discussed in Parliament, it had been pointed out that the bulk of the population was suffering from great poverty, and that £30,000 was the whole revenue of Coburg; but her uncle Leopold had been given £50,000, and it would be monstrous to give Albert less. Sir Robert Peel--it might have been expected--had had the effrontery to speak and vote for the smaller sum. She was very angry, and determined to revenge herself by omitting to invite a single Tory to her wedding. She would make an exception in favour of old Lord Liverpool, but even the Duke of Wellington she refused to ask. When it was represented to her that it would amount to a national scandal if the Duke were absent from her wedding, she was angrier than ever. 'What! That old rebel! I won't have him,' she was reported to have said. Eventually she was induced to send him an invitation; but she made no attempt to conceal the {107} bitterness of her feelings, and the Duke himself was only too well aware of all that had passed.[14] Nor was it only against the Tories that her irritation rose. As the time for her wedding approached, her temper grew steadily sharper and more arbitrary. Queen Adelaide annoyed her. King Leopold, too, was 'ungracious' in his correspondence; 'Dear Uncle,' she told Albert, 'is given to believe that he must rule the roast everywhere. However,' she added with asperity, 'that is not a necessity.'[15] Even Albert himself was not impeccable. Engulfed in Coburgs, he failed to appreciate the complexity of English affairs. There were difficulties about his household. He had a notion that he ought not to be surrounded by violent Whigs; very likely, but he would not understand that the only alternatives to violent Whigs were violent Tories; and it would be preposterous if his Lords and Gentlemen were to be found voting against the Queen's. He wanted to appoint his own Private Secretary. But how could he choose the right person? Lord M. was obviously best qualified to make the appointment; and Lord M. had decided that the Prince should take over his own Private Secretary--George Anson, a staunch Whig. Albert protested, but it was useless; Victoria simply announced that Anson was appointed, and instructed Lehzen to send the Prince an explanation of the details of the case. Then, again, he had written anxiously upon the necessity of maintaining unspotted the moral purity of the Court. Lord M.'s pupil considered that dear Albert was strait-laced, and, in a brisk Anglo-German missive, set forth her own views. 'I like Lady A. very much,' she told him, 'only she is {108} a little _strict and particular_, and too severe towards others, which is not right; for I think one ought always to be indulgent towards other people, as I always think, if we had not been well taken care of, we might also have gone astray. That is always my feeling. Yet it is always right to show that one does not like to see what is obviously wrong; but it is very dangerous to be too severe, and I am certain that as a rule such people always greatly regret that in their youth they have not been so careful as they ought to have been. I have explained this so badly and written it so badly, that I fear you will hardly be able to make it out.'[16] On one other matter she was insistent. Since the affair of Lady Flora Hastings, a sad fate had overtaken Sir James Clark. His flourishing practice had quite collapsed; nobody would go to him any more. But the Queen remained faithful. She would show the world how little she cared for its disapproval, and she desired Albert to make 'poor Clark' his physician in ordinary. He did as he was told; but, as it turned out, the appointment was not a happy one.[17] The wedding-day was fixed, and it was time for Albert to tear himself away from his family and the scenes of his childhood. With an aching heart, he had revisited his beloved haunts--the woods and the valleys where he had spent so many happy hours shooting rabbits and collecting botanical specimens; in deep depression, he had sat through the farewell banquets in the Palace and listened to the _Freischütz_ performed by the State band. It was time to go. The streets were packed as he drove through them; for a short space his {109} eyes were gladdened by a sea of friendly German faces, and his ears by a gathering volume of good guttural sounds. He stopped to bid a last adieu to his grandmother. It was a heart-rending moment. 'Albert! Albert!' she shrieked, and fell fainting into the arms of her attendants as his carriage drove away. He was whirled rapidly to his destiny. At Calais a steamboat awaited him, and, together with his father and his brother, he stepped, dejected, on board. A little later, he was more dejected still. The crossing was a very rough one; the Duke went hurriedly below; while the two Princes, we are told, lay on either side of the cabin staircase 'in an almost helpless state.' At Dover a large crowd was collected on the pier, and 'it was by no common effort that Prince Albert, who had continued to suffer up to the last moment, got up to bow to the people.' His sense of duty triumphed. It was a curious omen: his whole life in England was foreshadowed as he landed on English ground.[18] Meanwhile Victoria, in growing agitation, was a prey to temper and to nerves. She grew feverish, and at last Sir James Clark pronounced that she was going to have the measles. But, once again, Sir James's diagnosis was incorrect. It was not the measles that was attacking her, but a very different malady; she was suddenly prostrated by alarm, regret, and doubt. For two years she had been her own mistress--the two happiest years, by far, of her life. And now it was all to end! She was to come under an alien domination--she would have to promise that she would honour and obey ... someone, who might, after all, thwart her, oppose her--and how dreadful that would be! Why had she embarked on this hazardous experiment? Why {110} had she not been contented with Lord M.? No doubt, she loved Albert; but she loved power too. At any rate, one thing was certain: she might be Albert's wife, but she would always be Queen of England.[19] He reappeared, in an exquisite uniform, and her hesitations melted in his presence like mist before the sun. On February 10, 1840, the marriage took place. The wedded pair drove down to Windsor; but they were not, of course, entirely alone. They were accompanied by their suites, and, in particular, by two persons--the Baron Stockmar and the Baroness Lehzen. III Albert had foreseen that his married life would not be all plain sailing; but he had by no means realised the gravity and the complication of the difficulties which he would have to face. Politically, he was a cipher. Lord Melbourne was not only Prime Minister, he was in effect the Private Secretary of the Queen, and thus controlled the whole of the political existence of the sovereign. A queen's husband was an entity unknown to the British Constitution. In State affairs there seemed to be no place for him; nor was Victoria herself at all unwilling that this should be so. 'The English,' she had told the Prince when, during their engagement, a proposal had been made to give him a peerage, 'are very jealous of any foreigner interfering in the government of this country, and have already in some of the papers expressed a hope that you would not interfere. Now, though I know you never would, still, if you were a Peer, they would all say, the Prince meant to play a political part.'[20] 'I know you never would!' In {111} reality, she was not quite so certain; but she wished Albert to understand her views. He would, she hoped, make a perfect husband; but, as for governing the country, he would see that she and Lord M. between them could manage that very well, without his help. But it was not only in politics that the Prince discovered that the part cut out for him was a negligible one. Even as a husband, he found, his functions were to be of an extremely limited kind. Over the whole of Victoria's private life the Baroness reigned supreme; and she had not the slightest intention of allowing that supremacy to be diminished by one iota. Since the accession, her power had greatly increased. Besides the undefined and enormous influence which she exercised through her management of the Queen's private correspondence, she was now the superintendent of the royal establishment and controlled the important office of Privy Purse.[21] Albert very soon perceived that he was not master in his own house.[22] Every detail of his own and his wife's existence was supervised by a third person: nothing could be done until the consent of Lehzen had first been obtained. And Victoria, who adored Lehzen with unabated intensity, saw nothing in all this that was wrong. Nor was the Prince happier in his social surroundings. A shy young foreigner, awkward in ladies' company, unexpansive and self-opinionated, it was improbable that, in any circumstances, he would have been a society success. His appearance, too, was against him. Though in the eyes of Victoria he was the mirror of manly beauty, her subjects, whose eyes were of a less Teutonic cast, did not agree with her. To them--and particularly to the high-born ladies and {112} gentlemen who naturally saw him most--what was immediately and distressingly striking in Albert's face and figure and whole demeanour was his un-English look. His features were regular, no doubt, but there was something smooth and smug about them; he was tall, but he was clumsily put together, and he walked with a slight slouch. Really, they thought, this youth was more like some kind of foreign tenor than anything else. These were serious disadvantages; but the line of conduct which the Prince adopted from the first moment of his arrival was far from calculated to dispel them. Owing partly to a natural awkwardness, partly to a fear of undue familiarity, and partly to a desire to be absolutely correct, his manners were infused with an extraordinary stiffness and formality. Whenever he appeared in company, he seemed to be surrounded by a thick hedge of prickly etiquette. He never went out into ordinary society; he never walked in the streets of London; he was invariably accompanied by an equerry when he rode or drove. He wanted to be irreproachable and, if that involved friendlessness, it could not be helped. Besides, he had no very high opinion of the English. So far as he could see, they cared for nothing but fox-hunting and Sunday observances; they oscillated between an undue frivolity and an undue gloom; if you spoke to them of friendly joyousness they stared; and they did not understand either the Laws of Thought or the wit of a German University. Since it was clear that with such people he could have very little in common, there was no reason whatever for relaxing in their favour the rules of etiquette. In strict privacy, he could be natural and charming; Seymour and Anson were devoted to him, and he returned their affection; but they were subordinates--the {113} receivers of his confidences and the agents of his will. From the support and the solace of true companionship he was utterly cut off.[23] A friend, indeed, he had--or rather, a mentor. The Baron, established once more in the royal residence, was determined to work with as whole-hearted a detachment for the Prince's benefit as, more than twenty years before, he had worked for his uncle's. The situations then and now, similar in many respects, were yet full of differences. Perhaps in either case the difficulties to be encountered were equally great; but the present problem was the more complex and the more interesting. The young doctor, unknown and insignificant, whose only assets were his own wits and the friendship of an unimportant Prince, had been replaced by the accomplished confidant of kings and ministers, ripe in years, in reputation, and in the wisdom of a vast experience. It was possible for him to treat Albert with something of the affectionate authority of a father; but, on the other hand, Albert was no Leopold. As the Baron was very well aware, he had none of his uncle's rigidity of ambition, none of his overweening impulse to be personally great. He was virtuous and well-intentioned; he was clever and well-informed; but he took no interest in politics, and there were no signs that he possessed any commanding force of character. Left to himself, he would almost certainly have subsided into a high-minded nonentity, an aimless dilettante busy over culture, a palace appendage without influence or power. But he was not left to himself: Stockmar saw to that. For ever at his pupil's elbow, the hidden Baron pushed him forward, with tireless pressure, {114} along the path which had been trod by Leopold so many years ago. But, this time, the goal at the end of it was something more than the mediocre royalty that Leopold had reached. The prize which Stockmar, with all the energy of disinterested devotion, had determined should be Albert's was a tremendous prize indeed. The beginning of the undertaking proved to be the most arduous part of it. Albert was easily dispirited: what was the use of struggling to perform in a rôle which bored him and which, it was quite clear, nobody but the dear good Baron had any desire that he should take up? It was simpler, and it saved a great deal of trouble, to let things slide. But Stockmar would not have it.[24] Incessantly, he harped upon two strings--Albert's sense of duty and his personal pride. Had the Prince forgotten the noble aims to which his life was to be devoted? And was he going to allow himself, his wife, his family, his whole existence, to be governed by Baroness Lehzen? The latter consideration was a potent one. Albert had never been accustomed to giving way; and now, more than ever before, it would be humiliating to do so. Not only was he constantly exasperated by the position of the Baroness in the royal household; there was another and a still more serious cause of complaint. He was, he knew very well, his wife's intellectual superior, and yet he found, to his intense annoyance, that there were parts of her mind over which he exercised no influence. When, urged on by the Baron, he attempted to discuss politics with Victoria, she eluded the subject, drifted into generalities, and then began to talk of something else. She was treating him as she had once treated their uncle Leopold. {115} When at last he protested, she replied that her conduct was merely the result of indolence; that when she was with _him_ she could not bear to bother her head with anything so dull as politics. The excuse was worse than the fault: was he the wife and she the husband? It almost seemed so. But the Baron declared that the root of the mischief was Lehzen: that it was she who encouraged the Queen to have secrets; who did worse--undermined the natural ingenuousness of Victoria, and induced her to give, unconsciously no doubt, false reasons to explain away her conduct.[25] Minor disagreements made matters worse. The royal couple differed in their tastes. Albert, brought up in a régime of Spartan simplicity and early hours, found the great Court functions intolerably wearisome, and was invariably observed to be nodding on the sofa at half-past ten; while the Queen's favourite form of enjoyment was to dance through the night, and then, going out into the portico of the Palace, watch the sun rise behind St. Paul's and the towers of Westminster.[26] She loved London and he detested it. It was only in Windsor that he felt he could really breathe; but Windsor too had its terrors: though during the day there he could paint and walk and play on the piano, after dinner black tedium descended like a pall. He would have liked to summon distinguished scientific and literary men to his presence, and after ascertaining their views upon various points of art and learning, to set forth his own; but unfortunately Victoria 'had no fancy to encourage such people'; knowing that she was unequal to taking a part in their conversation, she insisted that the evening routine should remain unaltered; the regulation interchange of platitudes with {116} official persons was followed as usual by the round table and the books of engravings, while the Prince, with three of his attendants, played game after game of double chess.[27] It was only natural that in so peculiar a situation, in which the elements of power, passion, and pride were so strangely apportioned, there should have been occasionally something more than mere irritation--a struggle of angry wills. Victoria, no more than Albert, was in the habit of playing second fiddle. Her arbitrary temper flashed out. Her vitality, her obstinacy, her overweening sense of her own position, might well have beaten down before them his superiorities and his rights. But she fought at a disadvantage; she was, in very truth, no longer her own mistress; a profound preoccupation dominated her, seizing upon her inmost purposes for its own extraordinary ends. She was madly in love. The details of those curious battles are unknown to us; but Prince Ernest, who remained in England with his brother for some months, noted them with a friendly and startled eye.[28] One story, indeed, survives, ill-authenticated and perhaps mythical, yet summing up, as such stories often do, the central facts of the case. When, in wrath, the Prince one day had locked himself into his room, Victoria, no less furious, knocked on the door to be admitted. 'Who is there?' he asked. 'The Queen of England,' was the answer. He did not move, and again there was a hail of knocks. The question and the answer were repeated many times; but at last there was a pause, and then a gentler knocking. 'Who is there?' came once more the relentless question. But this time the reply was different. 'Your wife, Albert.' And the door was immediately opened.[29] {117} Very gradually the Prince's position changed. He began to find the study of politics less uninteresting than he had supposed; he read Blackstone, and took lessons in English Law; he was occasionally present when the Queen interviewed her Ministers; and at Lord Melbourne's suggestion he was shown all the despatches relating to Foreign Affairs. Sometimes he would commit his views to paper, and read them aloud to the Prime Minister, who, infinitely kind and courteous, listened with attention, but seldom made any reply.[30] An important step was taken when, before the birth of the Princess Royal, the Prince, without any opposition in Parliament, was appointed Regent in case of the death of the Queen.[31] Stockmar, owing to whose intervention with the Tories this happy result had been brought about, now felt himself at liberty to take a holiday with his family in Coburg; but his solicitude, poured out in innumerable letters, still watched over his pupil from afar. 'Dear Prince,' he wrote, 'I am satisfied with the news you have sent me. Mistakes, misunderstandings, obstructions, which come in vexatious opposition to one's views, are always to be taken for just what they are--namely, natural phenomena of life, which represent one of its sides, and that the shady one. In overcoming them with dignity, your mind has to exercise, to train, to enlighten itself; and your character to gain force, endurance, and the necessary hardness.' The Prince had done well so far; but he must continue in the right path; above all, he was 'never to relax.'--'Never to relax in putting your magnanimity to the proof; never to relax in logical separation of what is great and essential from what is trivial and of no moment; never to relax in keeping {118} yourself up to a high standard--in the determination, daily renewed, to be consistent, patient, courageous.' It was a hard programme, perhaps, for a young man of twenty-one; and yet there was something in it which touched the very depths of Albert's soul. He sighed, but he listened--listened as to the voice of a spiritual director inspired with divine truth. 'The stars which are needful to you now,' the voice continued, 'and perhaps for some time to come, are _Love, Honesty, Truth_. All those whose minds are warped, or who are destitute of true feeling, will _be apt to mistake you_, and to persuade themselves and the world that you are not the man you are--or, at least, may become.... Do you, therefore, be on the alert betimes, with your eyes open in every direction.... I wish for my Prince a great, noble, warm, and true heart, such as shall serve as the richest and surest basis for the noblest views of human nature, and the firmest resolve to give them development.'[32] Before long, the decisive moment came. There was a General Election, and it became certain that the Tories, at last, must come into power. The Queen disliked them as much as ever; but, with a large majority in the House of Commons, they would now be in a position to insist upon their wishes being attended to. Lord Melbourne himself was the first to realise the importance of carrying out the inevitable transition with as little friction as possible; and with his consent, the Prince, following up the _rapprochement_ which had begun over the Regency Act, opened, through Anson, a negotiation with Sir Robert Peel. In a series of secret interviews, a complete understanding was reached upon the difficult and complex question of the Bedchamber. It was agreed that the constitutional point {119} should not be raised, but that, on the formation of the Tory Government, the principal Whig ladies should retire, and their places be filled by others appointed by Sir Robert.[33] Thus, in effect, though not in form, the Crown abandoned the claims of 1839, and they have never been subsequently put forward. The transaction was a turning-point in the Prince's career. He had conducted an important negotiation with skill and tact; he had been brought into close and friendly relations with the new Prime Minister; it was obvious that a great political future lay before him. Victoria was much impressed and deeply grateful. 'My dearest Angel,' she told King Leopold, 'is indeed a great comfort to me. He takes the greatest interest in what goes on, feeling with and for me, and yet abstaining as he ought from biassing me either way, though we talk much on the subject, and his judgment is, as you say, good and mild.'[34] She was in need of all the comfort and assistance he could give her. Lord M. was going; and she could hardly bring herself to speak to Peel. Yes; she would discuss everything with Albert now! Stockmar, who had returned to England, watched the departure of Lord Melbourne with satisfaction. If all went well, the Prince should now wield a supreme political influence over Victoria. But would all go well? An unexpected development put the Baron into a serious fright. When the dreadful moment finally came, and the Queen, in anguish, bade adieu to her beloved Minister, it was settled between them that, though it would be inadvisable to meet very often, they could continue to correspond. Never were the inconsistencies of Lord Melbourne's character shown more clearly than in what followed. So long as he was {120} in office, his attitude towards Peel had been irreproachable; he had done all he could to facilitate the change of government; he had even, through more than one channel, transmitted privately to his successful rival advice as to the best means of winning the Queen's good graces.[35] Yet, no sooner was he in opposition than his heart failed him. He could not bear the thought of surrendering altogether the privilege and the pleasure of giving counsel to Victoria--of being cut off completely from the power and the intimacy which had been his for so long and in such abundant measure. Though he had declared that he would be perfectly discreet in his letters, he could not resist taking advantage of the opening they afforded. He discussed in detail various public questions, and, in particular, gave the Queen a great deal of advice in the matter of appointments. This advice was followed. Lord Melbourne recommended that Lord Heytesbury, who, he said, was an able man, should be made Ambassador at Vienna; and a week later the Queen wrote to the Foreign Secretary urging that Lord Heytesbury, whom she believed to be a very able man, should be employed 'on some important mission.' Stockmar was very much alarmed. He wrote a memorandum, pointing out the unconstitutional nature of Lord Melbourne's proceedings and the unpleasant position in which the Queen might find herself if they were discovered by Peel; and he instructed Anson to take this memorandum to the ex-Minister. Lord Melbourne, lounging on a sofa, read it through with compressed lips. 'This is quite an apple-pie opinion,' he said. When Anson ventured to expostulate further, suggesting that it was unseemly in the leader of the Opposition to maintain an intimate {121} relationship with the Sovereign, the old man lost his temper. 'God eternally damn it!' he exclaimed, leaping up from his sofa, and dashing about the room. 'Flesh and blood cannot stand this!' He continued to write to the Queen, as before; and two more violent bombardments from the Baron were needed before he was brought to reason. Then, gradually, his letters grew less and less frequent, with fewer and fewer references to public concerns; at last, they were entirely innocuous. The Baron smiled; Lord M. had accepted the inevitable.[36] The Whig ministry resigned in September, 1841; but more than a year was to elapse before another and an equally momentous change was effected--the removal of Lehzen. For, in the end, the mysterious governess was conquered. The steps are unknown by which Victoria was at last led to accept her withdrawal with composure--perhaps with relief; but it is clear that Albert's domestic position must have been greatly strengthened by the appearance of children. The birth of the Princess Royal had been followed in November 1841 by that of the Prince of Wales; and before very long another baby was expected. The Baroness, with all her affection, could have but a remote share in such family delights. She lost ground perceptibly. It was noticed as a phenomenon that, once or twice, when the Court travelled, she was left behind at Windsor.[37] The Prince was very cautious; at the change of Ministry, Lord Melbourne had advised him to choose that moment for decisive action; but he judged it wiser to wait.[38] Time and the pressure of inevitable circumstances were for him; every day his {122} predominance grew more assured--and every night. At length he perceived that he need hesitate no longer--that every wish, every velleity of his had only to be expressed to be at once Victoria's. He spoke, and Lehzen vanished for ever. No more would she reign in that royal heart and those royal halls. No more, watching from a window at Windsor, would she follow her pupil and her sovereign, walking on the terrace among the obsequious multitude, with the eye of triumphant love.[39] Returning to her native Hanover she established herself at Bückeburg in a small but comfortable house, the walls of which were entirely covered by portraits of Her Majesty.[40] The Baron, in spite of his dyspepsia, smiled again: Albert was supreme. IV The early discords had passed away completely--resolved into the absolute harmony of married life. Victoria, overcome by a new, an unimagined revelation, had surrendered her whole soul to her husband. The beauty and the charm which so suddenly had made her his at first were, she now saw, no more than the outward manifestation of the true Albert. There was an inward beauty, an inward glory which, blind that she was, she had then but dimly apprehended, but of which now she was aware in every fibre of her being--he was good--he was great! How could she ever have dreamt of setting up her will against his wisdom, her ignorance against his knowledge, her fancies against his perfect taste? Had she really once loved London and late hours and dissipation? She who now was {123} only happy in the country, she who jumped out of bed every morning--oh, so early!--with Albert, to take a walk, before breakfast, with Albert alone! How wonderful it was to be taught by him! To be told by him which trees were which; and to learn all about the bees! And then to sit doing cross-stitch while he read aloud to her Hallam's Constitutional History of England! Or to listen to him playing on his new organ ('The organ is the first of instruments,' he said); or to sing to him a song by Mendelssohn, with a great deal of care over the time and the breathing, and only a very occasional false note! And, after dinner, too--oh, how good of him! He had given up his double chess! And so there could be round games at the round table, or everyone could spend the evening in the most amusing way imaginable--spinning counters and rings.[41] When the babies came it was still more wonderful. Pussy was such a clever little girl ('I am not Pussy! I am the Princess Royal!' she had angrily exclaimed on one occasion); and Bertie--well, she could only pray _most_ fervently that the little Prince of Wales would grow up to 'resemble his angelic dearest Father in _every, every_ respect, both in body and mind.'[42] Her dear Mamma, too, had been drawn once more into the family circle, for Albert had brought about a reconciliation, and the departure of Lehzen had helped to obliterate the past.[43] In Victoria's eyes, life had become an idyll, and, if the essential elements of an idyll are happiness, love and simplicity, an idyll it was; though, indeed, it was of a kind that might have disconcerted Theocritus. 'Albert brought in {124} dearest little Pussy,' wrote Her Majesty in her journal, 'in such a smart white merino dress trimmed with blue, which Mamma had given her, and a pretty cap, and placed her on my bed, seating himself next to her, and she was very dear and good. And as my precious, invaluable Albert sat there, and our little Love between us, I felt quite moved with happiness and gratitude to God.'[44] The past--the past of only three years since--when she looked back upon it, seemed a thing so remote and alien that she could explain it to herself in no other way than as some kind of delusion--an unfortunate mistake. Turning over an old volume of her diary, she came upon this sentence--'As for "the confidence of the Crown," God knows! No _Minister, no friend_ EVER possessed it so entirely as this truly excellent Lord Melbourne possesses mine!' A pang shot through her--she seized a pen, and wrote upon the margin--'Reading this again, I cannot forbear remarking what an artificial sort of happiness _mine_ was _then_, and what a blessing it is I have now in my beloved Husband _real_ and solid happiness, which no Politics, no worldly reverses _can_ change; it could not have lasted long as it was then, for after all, kind and excellent as Lord M. is, and kind as he was to me, it was but in Society that I had amusement, and I was only living on that superficial resource, which I _then fancied_ was happiness! Thank God! for me and others, this is changed, and I _know what_ REAL _happiness_ is--V.R.'[45] How did she know? What is the distinction between happiness that is real and happiness that is felt? So a philosopher--Lord M. himself perhaps--might have inquired. But she was no philosopher, and Lord M. was a phantom, and Albert was beside her, and that was enough. {125} Happy, certainly, she was; and she wanted everyone to know it. Her letters to King Leopold are sprinkled thick with raptures. 'Oh! my dearest uncle, I am sure if you knew _how_ happy, how blessed I feel, and how _proud_ I feel in possessing _such_ a perfect being as my husband...' such ecstasies seemed to gush from her pen unceasingly and almost of their own accord.[46] When, one day, without thinking, Lady Lyttelton described someone to her as being 'as happy as a queen,' and then grew a little confused, 'Don't correct yourself, Lady Lyttelton,' said Her Majesty. 'A queen _is_ a very happy woman.'[47] But this new happiness was no lotus dream. On the contrary, it was bracing, rather than relaxing. Never before had she felt so acutely the necessity for doing her duty. She worked more methodically than ever at the business of State; she watched over her children with untiring vigilance. She carried on a large correspondence; she was occupied with her farm--her dairy--a whole multitude of household avocations--from morning till night. Her active, eager little body hurrying with quick steps after the long strides of Albert down the corridors and avenues of Windsor,[48] seemed the very expression of her spirit. Amid all the softness, the deliciousness of unmixed joy, all the liquescence, the overflowings of inexhaustible sentiment, her native rigidity remained. 'A vein of iron,' said Lady Lyttelton, who, as royal governess, had good means of observation, 'runs through her most extraordinary character.'[49] Sometimes the delightful routine of domestic existence had to be interrupted. It was necessary to {126} exchange Windsor for Buckingham Palace, to open Parliament, or to interview official personages, or, occasionally, to entertain foreign visitors at the Castle. Then the quiet Court put on a sudden magnificence, and sovereigns from over the seas--Louis Philippe, or the King of Prussia, or the King of Saxony--found at Windsor an entertainment that was indeed a royal one. Few spectacles in Europe, it was agreed, produced an effect so imposing as the great Waterloo banqueting hall, crowded with guests in sparkling diamonds and blazing uniforms, the long walls hung with the stately portraits of heroes, and the tables loaded with the gorgeous gold plate of the Kings of England.[50] But, in that wealth of splendour, the most imposing spectacle of all was the Queen. The little _Hausfrau_, who had spent the day before walking out with her children, inspecting her livestock, practising shakes at the piano, and filling up her journal with adoring descriptions of her husband, suddenly shone forth, without art, without effort, by a spontaneous and natural transition, the very culmination of Majesty. The Tsar of Russia himself was deeply impressed. Victoria on her side viewed with secret awe the tremendous Nicholas. 'A great event and a great compliment _his_ visit certainly is,' she told her uncle, 'and the people _here_ are extremely flattered at it. He is certainly a _very striking_ man; still very handsome. His profile is _beautiful_, and his manners _most_ dignified and graceful; extremely civil--quite alarmingly so, as he is so full of attentions and _politeness_. But the expression of the _eyes_ is _formidable_, and unlike anything I ever saw before.'[51] She and Albert and 'the good King of Saxony,' who happened {127} to be there at the same time, and whom, she said, 'we like much--he is _so_ unassuming'--drew together like tame villatic fowl in the presence of that awful eagle. When he was gone, they compared notes about his face, his unhappiness, and his despotic power over millions. Well! She for her part could not help pitying him, and she thanked God she was Queen of England.[52] When the time came for returning some of these visits, the royal pair set forth in their yacht, much to Victoria's satisfaction. 'I do love a ship!' she exclaimed, ran up and down ladders with the greatest agility, and cracked jokes with the sailors.[53] The Prince was more aloof. They visited Louis Philippe at the Château d'Eu; they visited King Leopold in Brussels. It happened that a still more remarkable Englishwoman was in the Belgian capital, but she was not remarked; and Queen Victoria passed unknowing before the steady gaze of one of the mistresses in M. Héger's _pensionnat_. 'A little, stout, vivacious lady, very plainly dressed--not much dignity or pretension about her,' was Charlotte Brontë's comment as the royal carriage and six flashed by her, making her wait on the pavement for a moment, and interrupting the train of her reflections.[54] Victoria was in high spirits, and even succeeded in instilling a little cheerfulness into her uncle's sombre Court. King Leopold, indeed, was perfectly contented. His dearest hopes had been fulfilled; all his ambitions were satisfied; and for the rest of his life he had only to enjoy, in undisturbed decorum, his throne, his respectability, the table of precedence, and the punctual discharge of his irksome duties. But unfortunately the felicity of those who {128} surrounded him was less complete. His Court, it was murmured, was as gloomy as a conventicle, and the most dismal of all the sufferers was his wife. 'Pas de plaisanteries, madame!' he had exclaimed to the unfortunate successor of the Princess Charlotte, when, in the early days of their marriage, she had attempted a feeble joke. Did she not understand that the consort of a constitutional sovereign must not be frivolous? She understood, at last, only too well; and when the startled walls of the state apartments re-echoed to the chattering and the laughter of Victoria, the poor lady found that she had almost forgotten how to smile. Another year, Germany was visited, and Albert displayed the beauties of his home. When Victoria crossed the frontier, she was much excited--and she was astonished as well. 'To hear the people speak German,' she noted in her diary, 'and to see the German soldiers, etc., seemed to me so singular.' Having recovered from this slight shock, she found the country charming. She was fêted everywhere, crowds of the surrounding royalties swooped down to welcome her, and the prettiest groups of peasant children, dressed in their best clothes, presented her with bunches of flowers. The principality of Coburg, with its romantic scenery and its well-behaved inhabitants, particularly delighted her; and when she woke up one morning to find herself in 'dear Rosenau, my Albert's birthplace,' it was 'like a beautiful dream.' On her return home, she expatiated, in a letter to King Leopold, upon the pleasures of the trip, dwelling especially upon the intensity of her affection for Albert's native land. 'I have a feeling,' she said, 'for our dear little Germany, which I cannot describe. I felt it at Rosenau so much. It is a something which touches me, and which goes {129} to my heart, and makes me inclined to cry. I never felt at any other place that sort of pensive pleasure and peace which I felt there. I fear I almost like it too much.'[55] V The husband was not so happy as the wife. In spite of the great improvement in his situation, in spite of a growing family and the adoration of Victoria, Albert was still a stranger in a strange land, and the serenity of spiritual satisfaction was denied him. It was something, no doubt, to have dominated his immediate environment; but it was not enough; and, besides, in the very completeness of his success, there was a bitterness. Victoria idolised him; but it was understanding that he craved for, not idolatry; and how much did Victoria, filled to the brim though she was with him, understand him? How much does the bucket understand the well? He was lonely. He went to his organ and improvised with learned modulations until the sounds, swelling and subsiding through elaborate cadences, brought some solace to his heart. Then, with the elasticity of youth, he hurried off to play with the babies, or to design a new pigsty, or to read aloud the 'Church History of Scotland' to Victoria, or to pirouette before her on one toe, like a ballet-dancer, with a fixed smile, to show her how she ought to behave when she appeared in public places.[56] Thus did he amuse himself; but there was one distraction in which he did not indulge. He never flirted--no, not with the prettiest ladies of the Court. When, during their engagement, the Queen had remarked with pride to {130} Lord Melbourne that the Prince paid no attention to any other woman, the cynic had answered 'No, that sort of thing is apt to come later'; upon which she had scolded him severely, and then hurried off to Stockmar to repeat what Lord M. had said. But the Baron had reassured her; though in other cases, he had replied, that might happen, he did not think it would in Albert's. And the Baron was right. Throughout their married life no rival female charms ever gave cause to Victoria for one moment's pang of jealousy.[57] What more and more absorbed him--bringing with it a curious comfort of its own--was his work. With the advent of Peel, he began to intervene actively in the affairs of the State. In more ways than one--in the cast of their intelligence, in their moral earnestness, even in the uneasy formalism of their manners--the two men resembled each other; there was a sympathy between them; and thus Peel was ready enough to listen to the advice of Stockmar, and to urge the Prince forward into public life. A royal commission was about to be formed to enquire whether advantage might not be taken of the rebuilding of the Houses of Parliament to encourage the Fine Arts in the United Kingdom; and Peel, with great perspicacity, asked the Prince to preside over it. The work was of a kind which precisely suited Albert: his love of art, his love of method, his love of coming into contact--close yet dignified--with distinguished men--it satisfied them all; and he threw himself into it _con amore_. Some of the members of the commission were somewhat alarmed when, in his opening speech, he pointed out the necessity of dividing the subjects to be considered into {131} 'categories'--the word, they thought, smacked dangerously of German metaphysics; but their confidence returned when they observed His Royal Highness's extraordinary technical acquaintance with the processes of fresco-painting. When the question arose as to whether the decorations upon the walls of the new buildings should, or should not, have a moral purpose, the Prince spoke strongly for the affirmative. Although many, he observed, would give but a passing glance to the works, the painter was not therefore to forget that others might view them with more thoughtful eyes. This argument convinced the commission, and it was decided that the subjects to be depicted should be of an improving nature. The frescoes were carried out in accordance with the commission's instructions, but unfortunately before very long they had become, even to the most thoughtful eyes, totally invisible. It seems that His Royal Highness's technical acquaintance with the processes of fresco-painting was incomplete.[58] The next task upon which the Prince embarked was a more arduous one: he determined to reform the organisation of the royal household. This reform had been long overdue. For years past the confusion, discomfort, and extravagance in the royal residences, and in Buckingham Palace particularly, had been scandalous; no reform had been practicable under the rule of the Baroness; but her functions had now devolved upon the Prince, and in 1844 he boldly attacked the problem. Three years earlier, Stockmar, after careful enquiry, had revealed in an elaborate memorandum an extraordinary state of affairs. The control of the household, it appeared, was divided in the strangest manner between a number of authorities, {132} each independent of the other, each possessed of vague and fluctuating powers, without responsibility and without co-ordination. Of these authorities, the most prominent were the Lord Steward and the Lord Chamberlain--noblemen of high rank and political importance, who changed office with every administration, who did not reside with the Court, and had no effective representatives attached to it. The distribution of their respective functions was uncertain and peculiar. In Buckingham Palace, it was believed that the Lord Chamberlain had charge of the whole of the rooms, with the exception of the kitchen, sculleries, and pantries, which were claimed by the Lord Steward. At the same time, the outside of the Palace was under the control of neither of these functionaries--but of the Office of Woods and Forests; and thus, while the insides of the windows were cleaned by the department of the Lord Chamberlain--or possibly, in certain cases, of the Lord Steward--the Office of Woods and Forests cleaned their outsides. Of the servants, the housekeepers, the pages, and the housemaids were under the authority of the Lord Chamberlain; the clerk of the kitchen, the cooks, and the porters were under that of the Lord Steward; but the footmen, the livery-porters, and the under-butlers took their orders from yet another official--the Master of the Horse. Naturally, in these circumstances the service was extremely defective and the lack of discipline among the servants disgraceful. They absented themselves for as long as they pleased and whenever the fancy took them; 'and if,' as the Baron put it, 'smoking, drinking, and other irregularities occur in the dormitories, where footmen, etc., sleep ten and twelve in each room, no one can help it.' As for Her Majesty's {133} guests, there was nobody to show them to their rooms, and they were often left, having utterly lost their way in the complicated passages, to wander helpless by the hour. The strange divisions of authority extended not only to persons but to things. The Queen observed that there was never a fire in the dining-room. She enquired why. The answer was, 'The Lord Steward lays the fire, and the Lord Chamberlain lights it'; the underlings of those two great noblemen having failed to come to an accommodation, there was no help for it--the Queen must eat in the cold.[59] A surprising incident opened everyone's eyes to the confusion and negligence that reigned in the Palace. A fortnight after the birth of the Princess Royal the nurse heard a suspicious noise in the room next to the Queen's bedroom. She called to one of the pages, who, looking under a large sofa, perceived there a crouching figure 'with a most repulsive appearance.' It was 'the boy Jones.' This enigmatical personage, whose escapades dominated the newspapers for several ensuing months, and whose motives and character remained to the end ambiguous, was an undersized lad of seventeen, the son of a tailor, who had apparently gained admittance to the Palace by climbing over the garden wall and walking in through an open window. Two years before he had paid a similar visit in the guise of a chimney-sweep. He now declared that he had spent three days in the Palace, hiding under various beds, that he had 'helped himself to soup and other eatables,' and that he had 'sat upon the throne, seen the Queen, and heard the Princess Royal squall.' Every detail of the strange affair was eagerly canvassed. _The Times_ reported that the boy {134} Jones had 'from his infancy been fond of reading,' but that 'his countenance is exceedingly sullen.' It added: 'The sofa under which the boy Jones was discovered, we understand, is one of the most costly and magnificent material and workmanship, and ordered expressly for the accommodation of the royal and illustrious visitors who call to pay their respects to Her Majesty.' The culprit was sent for three months to the 'House of Correction.' When he emerged, he immediately returned to Buckingham Palace. He was discovered, and sent back to the 'House of Correction' for another three months, after which he was offered £4 a week by a music hall to appear upon the stage. He refused this offer, and shortly afterwards was found by the police loitering round Buckingham Palace. The authorities acted vigorously, and, without any trial or process of law, shipped the boy Jones off to sea. A year later his ship put into Portsmouth to refit, and he at once disembarked and walked to London. He was re-arrested before he reached the Palace, and sent back to his ship, the _Warspite_. On this occasion it was noticed that he had 'much improved in personal appearance and grown quite corpulent'; and so the boy Jones passed out of history, though we catch one last glimpse of him in 1844 falling overboard in the night between Tunis and Algiers. He was fished up again; but it was conjectured--as one of the _Warspite's_ officers explained in a letter to _The Times_--that his fall had not been accidental, but that he had deliberately jumped into the Mediterranean in order to 'see the life-buoy light burning.' Of a boy with such a record, what else could be supposed?[60] {135} But discomfort and alarm were not the only results of the mismanagement of the household; the waste, extravagance, and peculation that also flowed from it were immeasurable. There were preposterous perquisites and malpractices of every kind. It was, for instance, an ancient and immutable rule that a candle that had once been lighted should never be lighted again; what happened to the old candles nobody knew. Again, the Prince, examining the accounts, was puzzled by a weekly expenditure of thirty-five shillings on 'Red Room Wine.' He enquired into the matter, and after great difficulty discovered that in the time of George III a room in Windsor Castle with red hangings had once been used as a guard-room, and that five shillings a day had been allowed to provide wine for the officers. The guard had long since been moved elsewhere, but the payment for wine in the Red Room continued, the money being received by a half-pay officer who held the sinecure position of under-butler.[61] After much laborious investigation, and a stiff struggle with the multitude of vested interests which had been brought into being by long years of neglect, the Prince succeeded in effecting a complete reform. The various conflicting authorities were induced to resign their powers into the hands of a single official, the Master of the Household, who became responsible for the entire management of the royal palaces. Great economies were made, and the whole crowd of venerable abuses was swept away. Among others, the unlucky half-pay officer of the Red Room was, much to his surprise, given the choice of relinquishing his weekly emolument or of performing the duties of an under-butler. Even the irregularities among the footmen, {136} etc., were greatly diminished. There were outcries and complaints; the Prince was accused of meddling, of injustice, and of saving candle-ends; but he held on his course, and before long the admirable administration of the royal household was recognised as a convincing proof of his perseverance and capacity.[62] At the same time his activity was increasing enormously in a more important sphere. He had become the Queen's Private Secretary, her confidential adviser, her second self. He was now always present at her interviews with Ministers.[63] He took, like the Queen, a special interest in foreign policy; but there was no public question in which his influence was not felt. A double process was at work; while Victoria fell more and more absolutely under his intellectual predominance, he, simultaneously, grew more and more completely absorbed by the machinery of high politics--the incessant and multifarious business of a great State. Nobody any more could call him a dilettante; he was a worker, a public personage, a man of affairs. Stockmar noted the change with exultation. 'The Prince,' he wrote, 'has improved very much lately. He has evidently a head for politics. He has become, too, far more independent. His mental activity is constantly on the increase, and he gives the greater part of his time to business, without complaining.' 'The relations between husband and wife,' added the Baron, 'are all one could desire.'[64] Long before Peel's ministry came to an end, there had been a complete change in Victoria's attitude towards him. His appreciation of the Prince had softened her heart; the sincerity and warmth of his {137} nature, which, in private intercourse with those whom he wished to please, had the power of gradually dissipating the awkwardness of his manners, did the rest.[65] She came in time to regard him with intense feelings of respect and attachment. She spoke of 'our worthy Peel,' for whom, she said, she had 'an _extreme_ admiration' and who had shown himself 'a man of unbounded _loyalty, courage_, patriotism, and _high-mindedness_, and his conduct towards me has been _chivalrous_ almost, I might say.'[66] She dreaded his removal from office almost as frantically as she had once dreaded that of Lord M. It would be, she declared, a _great calamity_. Six years before, what would she have said, if a prophet had told her that the day would come when she would be horrified by the triumph of the Whigs? Yet there was no escaping it; she had to face the return of her old friends. In the ministerial crises of 1845 and 1846, the Prince played a dominating part. Everybody recognised that he was the real centre of the negotiations--the actual controller of the forces and the functions of the Crown. The process by which this result was reached had been so gradual as to be almost imperceptible; but it may be said with certainty that, by the close of Peel's administration, Albert had become, in effect, the King of England.[67] VI With the final emergence of the Prince came the final extinction of Lord Melbourne. A year after his loss of office, he had been struck down by a paralytic seizure; he had apparently recovered, but his old {138} elasticity had gone for ever. Moody, restless, and unhappy, he wandered like a ghost about the town, bursting into soliloquies in public places, or asking odd questions, suddenly, _à propos de bottes_, 'I'll be hanged if I'll do it for you, my Lord,' he was heard to say in the hall at Brooks's, standing by himself, and addressing the air after much thought. 'Don't you consider,' he abruptly asked a fellow-guest at Lady Holland's, leaning across the dinner-table in a pause of the conversation, 'that it was a most damnable act of Henri Quatre to change his religion with a view to securing the Crown?' He sat at home, brooding for hours in miserable solitude. He turned over his books--his classics and his Testaments--but they brought him no comfort at all. He longed for the return of the past, for the impossible, for he knew not what, for the devilries of Caro, for the happy platitudes of Windsor. His friends had left him, and no wonder, he said in bitterness--the fire was out. He secretly hoped for a return to power, scanning the newspapers with solicitude, and occasionally making a speech in the House of Lords. His correspondence with the Queen continued, and he appeared from time to time at Court; but he was a mere simulacrum of his former self; 'the dream,' wrote Victoria, 'is _past_.' As for his political views, they could no longer be tolerated. The Prince was an ardent Free Trader, and so, of course, was the Queen; and when, dining at Windsor at the time of the repeal of the Corn Laws, Lord Melbourne suddenly exclaimed, 'Ma'am, it's a damned dishonest act!' everyone was extremely embarrassed. Her Majesty laughed and tried to change the conversation, but without avail; Lord Melbourne returned to the charge again and again with--'I say, Ma'am, it's damned dishonest!'--until {139} the Queen said 'Lord Melbourne, I must beg you not to say anything more on this subject now'; and then he held his tongue. She was kind to him, writing him long letters, and always remembering his birthday; but it was kindness at a distance, and he knew it. He had become 'poor Lord Melbourne.' A profound disquietude devoured him. He tried to fix his mind on the condition of agriculture and the Oxford Movement. He wrote long memoranda in utterly undecipherable handwriting. He was convinced that he had lost all his money, and could not possibly afford to be a Knight of the Garter. He had run through everything, and yet--if Peel went out, he might be sent for--why not? He was never sent for. The Whigs ignored him in their consultations, and the leadership of the party passed to Lord John Russell. When Lord John became Prime Minister, there was much politeness, but Lord Melbourne was not asked to join the Cabinet. He bore the blow with perfect amenity; but he understood, at last, that that was the end.[68] For two years more he lingered, sinking slowly into unconsciousness and imbecility. Sometimes, propped up in his chair, he would be heard to murmur, with unexpected appositeness, the words of Samson:-- 'So much I feel my general spirit droop, My hopes all flat, nature within me seems In all her functions weary of herself, My race of glory run, and race of shame, And I shall shortly be with them that rest.'[69] A few days before his death, Victoria, learning that there was no hope of his recovery, turned her mind for {140} a little towards that which had once been Lord M. 'You will grieve to hear,' she told King Leopold, 'that our good, dear, old friend Melbourne is dying.... One cannot forget how good and kind and amiable he was, and it brings back so many recollections to my mind, though, God knows! I never wish that time back again.'[70] She was in little danger. The tide of circumstance was flowing now with irresistible fullness towards a very different consummation. The seriousness of Albert, the claims of her children, her own inmost inclinations, and the movement of the whole surrounding world, combined to urge her forward along the narrow way of public and domestic duty. Her family steadily increased. Within eighteen months of the birth of the Prince of Wales the Princess Alice appeared, and a year later the Prince Alfred, and then the Princess Helena, and, two years afterwards, the Princess Louise; and still there were signs that the pretty row of royal infants was not complete. The parents, more and more involved in family cares and family happiness, found the pomp of Windsor galling, and longed for some more intimate and remote retreat. On the advice of Peel they purchased the estate of Osborne, in the Isle of Wight. Their skill and economy in financial matters had enabled them to lay aside a substantial sum of money; and they could afford, out of their savings, not merely to buy the property but to build a new house for themselves and to furnish it at a cost of £200,000.[71] At Osborne, by the sea-shore, and among the woods, which Albert, with memories of Rosenau in his mind, had so carefully planted, the royal family spent every {141} hour that could be snatched from Windsor and London--delightful hours of deep retirement and peaceful work.[72] The public looked on with approval. A few aristocrats might sniff or titter; but with the nation at large the Queen was now once more extremely popular. The middle-classes, in particular, were pleased. They liked a love-match; they liked a household which combined the advantages of royalty and virtue, and in which they seemed to see, reflected as in some resplendent looking-glass, the ideal image of the very lives they led themselves. Their own existences, less exalted, but oh! so soothingly similar, acquired an added excellence, an added succulence, from the early hours, the regularity, the plain tuckers, the round games, the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding of Osborne. It was indeed a model Court. Not only were its central personages the patterns of propriety, but no breath of scandal, no shadow of indecorum, might approach its utmost boundaries.[73] For Victoria, with all the zeal of a convert, upheld now the standard of moral purity with an inflexibility surpassing, if that were possible, Albert's own. She blushed to think how she had once believed--how she had once actually told _him_--that one might be too strict and particular in such matters, and that one ought to be indulgent towards other people's dreadful sins. But she was no longer Lord M.'s pupil: she was Albert's wife. She was more--the embodiment, the living apex of a new era in the generations of mankind. The last vestige of the eighteenth century had disappeared; cynicism and subtlety were shrivelled into powder; and duty, industry, morality, and domesticity triumphed over {142} them. Even the very chairs and tables had assumed, with a singular responsiveness, the forms of prim solidity. The Victorian Age was in full swing. VII Only one thing more was needed: material expression must be given to the new ideals and the new forces, so that they might stand revealed in visible glory before the eyes of an astonished world. It was for Albert to supply this want. He mused, and was inspired: the Great Exhibition came into his head. Without consulting anyone, he thought out the details of his conception with the minutest care. There had been exhibitions before in the world, but this should surpass them all. It should contain specimens of what every country could produce in raw materials, in machinery and mechanical inventions, in manufactures, and in the applied and plastic arts. It should not be merely useful and ornamental; it should teach a high moral lesson. It should be an international monument to those supreme blessings of civilisation--peace, progress, and prosperity. For some time past the Prince had been devoting much of his attention to the problems of commerce and industry. He had a taste for machinery of every kind, and his sharp eye had more than once detected, with the precision of an expert, a missing cog-wheel in some vast and complicated engine.[74] A visit to Liverpool, where he opened the Albert Dock, impressed upon his mind the immensity of modern industrial forces, though in a letter to Victoria describing his experiences, he was careful to retain his customary lightness of touch. 'As {143} I write,' he playfully remarked, 'you will be making your evening toilette, and not be ready in time for dinner. I must set about the same task, and not, let me hope, with the same result.... The loyalty and enthusiasm of the inhabitants are great; but the heat is greater still. I am satisfied that if the population of Liverpool had been weighed this morning, and were to be weighed again now, they would be found many degrees lighter. The docks are wonderful, and the mass of shipping incredible.'[75] In art and science he had been deeply interested since boyhood; his reform of the household had put his talent for organisation beyond a doubt; and thus from every point of view the Prince was well qualified for his task. Having matured his plans, he summoned a small committee and laid an outline of his scheme before it. The committee approved, and the great undertaking was set on foot without delay.[76] Two years, however, passed before it was completed. For two years the Prince laboured with extraordinary and incessant energy. At first all went smoothly. The leading manufacturers warmly took up the idea; the colonies and the East India Company were sympathetic; the great foreign nations were eager to send in their contributions; the powerful support of Sir Robert Peel was obtained, and the use of a site in Hyde Park, selected by the Prince, was sanctioned by the Government. Out of 234 plans for the Exhibition building, the Prince chose that of Joseph Paxton, famous as a designer of gigantic conservatories; and the work was on the point of being put in hand when a series of unexpected difficulties arose. Opposition to the whole scheme, which had long been smouldering {144} in various quarters, suddenly burst forth. There was an outcry, headed by _The Times_, against the use of the Park for the Exhibition; for a moment it seemed as if the building would be relegated to a suburb; but, after a fierce debate in the House, the supporters of the site in the Park won the day. Then it appeared that the project lacked a sufficient financial backing; but this obstacle, too, was surmounted, and eventually £200,000 was subscribed as a guarantee fund. The enormous glass edifice rose higher and higher, covering acres and enclosing towering elm trees beneath its roof: and then the fury of its enemies reached a climax. The fashionable, the cautious, the Protectionists, the pious, all joined in the hue and cry. It was pointed out that the Exhibition would serve as a rallying point for all the ruffians in England, for all the malcontents in Europe; and that on the day of its opening there would certainly be a riot and probably a revolution. It was asserted that the glass roof was porous, and that the droppings of fifty million sparrows would utterly destroy every object beneath it. Agitated Nonconformists declared that the Exhibition was an arrogant and wicked enterprise which would infallibly bring down God's punishment upon the nation. Colonel Sibthorpe, in the debate on the Address, prayed that hail and lightning might descend from heaven on the accursed thing. The Prince, with unyielding perseverance and infinite patience, pressed on to his goal. His health was seriously affected; he suffered from constant sleeplessness; his strength was almost worn out. But he remembered the injunctions of Stockmar and never relaxed. The volume of his labours grew more prodigious every day; he toiled at committees, presided over public meetings, made speeches, and carried on {145} communications with every corner of the civilised world--and his efforts were rewarded. On May 1, 1851, the Great Exhibition was opened by the Queen before an enormous concourse of persons, amid scenes of dazzling brilliancy and triumphant enthusiasm.[77] Victoria herself was in a state of excitement which bordered on delirium. She performed her duties in a trance of joy, gratitude, and amazement, and, when it was all over, her feelings poured themselves out into her journal in a torrential flood. The day had been nothing but an endless succession of glories--or rather, one vast glory--one vast radiation of Albert. Everything she had seen, everything she had felt or heard, had been so beautiful, so wonderful, that even the royal underlinings broke down under the burden of emphasis, while her remembering pen rushed on, regardless, from splendour to splendour--the huge crowds, so well-behaved and loyal--flags of all the nations floating--the inside of the building, so immense, with myriads of people and the sun shining through the roof--a little side-room, where we left our shawls--palm-trees and machinery--dear Albert--the place so big that we could hardly hear the organ--thankfulness to God--a curious assemblage of political and distinguished men--the March from 'Athalie'--God bless my dearest Albert, God bless my dearest country!--a glass fountain--the Duke and Lord Anglesey walking arm in arm--a beautiful Amazon, in bronze, by Kiss--Mr. Paxton, who might be justly proud, and rose from being a common gardener's boy--Sir George Grey in tears, and everybody astonished and delighted.[78] {146} A striking incident occurred when, after a short prayer by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the choir of 600 voices burst into the 'Hallelujah Chorus.' At that moment a Chinaman, dressed in full national costume, stepped out into the middle of the central nave, and, advancing slowly towards the royal group, did obeisance to Her Majesty. The Queen, much impressed, had no doubt that he was an eminent mandarin; and, when the final procession was formed, orders were given that, as no representative of the Celestial Empire was present, he should be included in the diplomatic cortège. He accordingly, with the utmost gravity, followed immediately behind the Ambassadors. He subsequently disappeared, and it was rumoured, among ill-natured people, that, far from being a mandarin, the fellow was a mere impostor. But nobody ever really discovered the nature of the comments that had been lurking behind the matchless impassivity of that yellow face.[79] A few days later Victoria poured out her heart to her uncle. The first of May, she said, was 'the _greatest_ day in our history, the most _beautiful_ and _imposing_ and _touching_ spectacle ever seen, and the triumph of my beloved Albert.... It was the _happiest, proudest_ day in my life, and I can think of nothing else. Albert's dearest name is immortalised with this _great_ conception, _his_ own, and my _own_ dear country _showed_ she was _worthy_ of it. The triumph is _immense_.'[80] It was. The enthusiasm was universal; even the bitterest scoffers were converted, and joined in the {147} chorus of praise.[81] Congratulations from public bodies poured in; the City of Paris gave a great _fête_ to the Exhibition committee; and the Queen and the Prince made a triumphal progress through the North of England. The financial results were equally remarkable. The total profit made by the Exhibition amounted to a sum of £165,000, which was employed in the purchase of land for the erection of a permanent National Museum in South Kensington. During the six months of its existence in Hyde Park over six million persons visited it, and not a single accident occurred. But there is an end to all things; and the time had come for the Crystal Palace to be removed to the salubrious seclusion of Sydenham. Victoria, sad but resigned, paid her final visit. 'It looked so beautiful,' she said, 'I could not believe it was the last time I was to see it. An organ, accompanied by a fine and powerful wind instrument called the sommerophone, was being played, and it nearly upset me. The canvas is very dirty, the red curtains are faded and many things are very much soiled, still the effect is fresh and new as ever and most beautiful. The glass fountain was already removed ... and the sappers and miners were rolling about the little boxes just as they did at the beginning. It made us all very melancholy.' But more cheerful thoughts followed. When all was over, she expressed her boundless satisfaction in a dithyrambic letter to the Prime Minister. Her beloved husband's name, she said, was for ever immortalised, and that this was universally recognised by the country was a source to her of immense happiness and gratitude. 'She feels grateful to Providence,' her Majesty concluded, 'to have permitted her to be united to so great, so noble, {148} so excellent a Prince, and this year will ever remain the proudest and happiest of her life. The day of the closing of the Exhibition (which the Queen regretted much she could not witness), was the twelfth anniversary of her betrothal to the Prince, which is a curious coincidence.'[82] [1] Martin, I, 1-2; Grey, 213-4. [2] Grey, 7-9; Crawford, 245-6; Panam, 256-7. [3] Grey, chaps. i to vi; Ernest, I, 18-23. [4] Grey, App. B. [5] _Ibid._, 124-7. [6] Gossart; Ernest, I, 72-3 [7] Grey, 169-73, [8] Stockmar, 310. [9] Grey, 133, 415, 416, 419. [10] Stockmar, 331-2. [11] Grey, 425. [12] Grey, 421-5; _Letters_, I, 188. [13] 'I had much talk with Lady Cowper about the Court. She lamented the obstinate character of the Queen, from which she thought that hereafter great evils might be apprehended. She said that her prejudices and antipathies were deep and strong, and her disposition very inflexible. Her hatred of Peel and her resentment against the Duke for having sided with him rather than with her in the old quarrel are unabated.' Greville, Nov. 13, 1839 (unpublished). [14] Greville, Jan. 29, Feb. 15, 1840 (unpublished). [15] _Letters_, I, 201. [16] _Letters_, I, 200-8; _Girlhood_, II, 287. [17] _Dictionary of National Biography_, Art. Sir James Clark; _Letters_, I. 202. [18] Grey, 292-303. [19] Greville, Feb. 15, 1840 (unpublished). [20] _Letters_, I, 199. [21] Martin, I, 71, 153. [22] Grey, 319-20. [23] Greville, April 3, 1840 (unpublished); Grey, 353-4; Ernest, I, 93-4. [24] Stockmar, 351. [25] _Letters_, I, 224. [26] Blomfield, I, 19. [27] Grey, 340; _Letters_, I, 256. [28] Ernest, I, 93. [29] Jerrold, _Married Life_, 56. [30] Grey, 320-1, 361-2. [31] Stockmar, 352-7. [32] Martin, I, 90-2. [33] _Letters_, I, 271-4, 284-6. [34] _Letters_, I, 280. [35] _Letters_, I, 305; Greville, V, 39-40. [36] _Letters_, I, 325-6, 329, 330-1, 339-42, 352-4, 360-3, 368. [37] _Ibid._, I, 291, 295. [38] _Ibid._, I, 303. [39] Lyttelton, 282-3. [40] Bloomfield, I, 215. [41] Grey, 338-9; Bloomfield, I, 28, 123; Lyttelton, 300, 303, 305-6, 312, 334-5; Martin, I, 488; _Letters_, I, 369. [42] _Letters_, I, 366. [43] _Ibid._, III, 439. [44] Martin, I, 125. [45] _Girlhood_, II, 135. [46] _Letters_, I, 366, 464-5, 475, etc. [47] Lyttelton, 306. [48] Crawford, 243 [49] Lyttelton, 348. [50] _Letters_, II, 13; Bunsen, II, 6; Bloomfield, I, 53-4. [51] _Letters_, II, 12-16. [52] Martin, I, 224. [53] Lyttelton, 292; Bloomfield, I, 76-7. [54] Gaskell, I, 313. [55] Martin, I, 275, 306. [56] Lyttelton, 303, 354, 402. [57] Clarendon, I, 181-2; _Girlhood_, II, 299, 306. [58] Martin, I, 119-25, 167; Stockmar, 660. [59] Stockmar, 404-10; Martin, I, 156-60. [60] _The Times_, Dec., 1840: March, July, Dec., 1841; Feb., Oct., 1842; July, 1844. [61] _The Times_ 'Life,' 45. [62] Stockmar, 409-10; Martin, I, 161. [63] Greville, VII, 132. [64] Stockmar, 466-7. [65] Disraeli, 311; Greville, VI, 367-8. [66] _Letters_, II, 64. [67] Greville, V, 329-30. [68] Torrens, 502, chap. xxxiii; _Letters_, I, 451; II, 140; Greville, V, 359; VI, 125. [69] Greville, VI, 255. [70] _Letters_, II, 203. [71] Greville, VI, 68-9. [72] Martin, I, 247-9; Grey, 113. [73] Stockmar, 363; Martin, I, 316. [74] Martin, II, 87. [75] Martin, I, 334. [76] _Ibid._, II, 224-5. [77] Martin, II, 225, 243-51, 289, 297-9, 358-9; _Dictionary of National Biography_, Art. 'Joseph Paxton'; Bloomfield, II, 3-4. [78] Martin, II, 364-8. [79] Martin, II, 367 and note. [80] _Letters_, II, 317-8. [81] Greville, VI, 413. [82] Martin, II, 369-72, 386-92, 403-5. {149} CHAPTER V LORD PALMERSTON I In 1851 the Prince's fortunes reached their highwater mark. The success of the Great Exhibition enormously increased his reputation and seemed to assure him henceforward a leading place in the national life. But before the year was out another triumph, in a very different sphere of action, was also his. This triumph, big with fateful consequences, was itself the outcome of a series of complicated circumstances which had been gathering to a climax for many years. The unpopularity of Albert in high society had not diminished with time. Aristocratic persons continued to regard him with disfavour; and he on his side withdrew further and further into a contemptuous reserve. For a moment, indeed, it appeared as if the dislike of the upper classes was about to be suddenly converted into cordiality; for they learnt with amazement that the Prince, during a country visit, had ridden to hounds and acquitted himself remarkably well. They had always taken it for granted that his horsemanship was of some second-rate foreign quality, and here he was jumping five-barred gates and tearing after the fox as if he had been born and bred in Leicestershire. They could hardly believe it; was it possible that they had made a mistake, and that Albert was a {150} good fellow after all? Had he wished to be thought so he would certainly have seized this opportunity, purchased several hunters, and used them constantly. But he had no such desire; hunting bored him, and made Victoria nervous. He continued, as before, to ride, as he himself put it, for exercise or convenience, not for amusement; and it was agreed that though the Prince, no doubt, could keep in his saddle well enough, he was no sportsman.[1] This was a serious matter. It was not merely that Albert was laughed at by fine ladies and sneered at by fine gentlemen; it was not merely that Victoria, who before her marriage had cut some figure in society, had, under her husband's influence, almost completely given it up. Since Charles the Second the sovereigns of England had, with a single exception, always been unfashionable; and the fact that the exception was George the Fourth seemed to give an added significance to the rule. What was grave was not the lack of fashion, but the lack of other and more important qualities. The hostility of the upper classes was symptomatic of an antagonism more profound than one of manners or even of tastes. The Prince, in a word, was un-English. What that word precisely meant it was difficult to say; but the fact was patent to every eye. Lord Palmerston, also, was not fashionable; the great Whig aristocrats looked askance at him, and tolerated him only as an unpleasant necessity thrust upon them by fate. But Lord Palmerston was English through and through; there was something in him that expressed, with extraordinary vigour, the fundamental qualities of the English race. And he was the very antithesis of the Prince. By a curious chance it so happened that this typical {151} Englishman was brought into closer contact than any other of his countrymen with the alien from over the sea. It thus fell out that differences which, in more fortunate circumstances, might have been smoothed away and obliterated, became accentuated to the highest pitch. All the mysterious forces in Albert's soul leapt out to do battle with his adversary, and, in the long and violent conflict that followed, it almost seemed as if he was struggling with England herself. Palmerston's whole life had been spent in the government of the country. At twenty-two he had been a Minister; at twenty-five he had been offered the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which, with that prudence which formed so unexpected a part of his character, he had declined to accept. His first spell of office had lasted uninterruptedly for twenty-one years. When Lord Grey came into power he received the Foreign Secretaryship, a post which he continued to occupy, with two intervals, for another twenty-one years. Throughout this period his reputation with the public had steadily grown, and when, in 1846, he became Foreign Secretary for the third time, his position in the country was almost, if not quite, on an equality with that of the Prime Minister, Lord John Russell. He was a tall, big man of sixty-two, with a jaunty air, a large face, dyed whiskers, and a long, sardonic upper lip. His private life was far from respectable, but he had greatly strengthened his position in society by marrying, late in life, Lady Cowper, the sister of Lord Melbourne, and one of the most influential of the Whig hostesses. Powerful, experienced, and supremely self-confident, he naturally paid very little attention to Albert. Why should he? The Prince was interested in foreign affairs? Very well, then; let the Prince {152} pay attention to _him_--to him, who had been a Cabinet Minister when Albert was in the cradle, who was the chosen leader of a great nation, and who had never failed in anything he had undertaken in the whole course of his life. Not that he wanted the Prince's attention--far from it: so far as he could see, Albert was merely a young foreigner, who suffered from having no vices, and whose only claim to distinction was that he had happened to marry the Queen of England. This estimate, as he found out to his cost, was a mistaken one. Albert was by no means insignificant, and, behind Albert, there was another figure by no means insignificant either--there was Stockmar. But Palmerston, busy with his plans, his ambitions, and the management of a great department, brushed all such considerations on one side; it was his favourite method of action. He lived by instinct--by a quick eye and a strong hand, a dexterous management of every crisis as it arose, a half-unconscious sense of the vital elements in a situation. He was very bold; and nothing gave him more exhilaration than to steer the ship of state in a high wind, on a rough sea, with every stitch of canvas on her that she could carry. But there is a point beyond which boldness becomes rashness--a point perceptible only to intuition and not to reason; and beyond that point Palmerston never went. When he saw that the case demanded it, he could go slow--very slow indeed; in fact, his whole career, so full of vigorous adventure, was nevertheless a masterly example of the proverb, 'Tout vient à point à qui sait attendre.' But when he decided to go quick, nobody went quicker. One day, returning from Osborne, he found that he had missed the train to London; he ordered a special, but the station-master told him that to put a special {153} train upon the line at that time of day would be dangerous, and he could not allow it. Palmerston insisted, declaring that he had important business in London, which could not wait. The station-master, supported by all the officials, continued to demur; the company, he said, could not possibly take the responsibility. 'On my responsibility, then!' said Palmerston, in his off-hand, peremptory way; whereupon the stationmaster ordered up the train, and the Foreign Secretary reached London in time for his work, without an accident.[2] The story is typical of the happy valiance with which he conducted both his own affairs and those of the nation. 'England,' he used to say, 'is strong enough to brave consequences.'[3] Apparently, under Palmerston's guidance, she was. While the officials protested and shook in their shoes, he would wave them away with his airy '_My_ responsibility!' and carry the country swiftly along the line of his choice, to a triumphant destination,--without an accident. His immense popularity was the result partly of his diplomatic successes, partly of his extraordinary personal affability, but chiefly of the genuine intensity with which he responded to the feelings and supported the interests of his countrymen. The public knew that it had in Lord Palmerston not only a high-mettled master, but also a devoted servant--that he was, in every sense of the word, a public man. When he was Prime Minister, he noticed that iron hurdles had been put up on the grass in the Green Park; he immediately wrote to the Minister responsible, ordering, in the severest language, their instant removal, declaring that they were 'an intolerable nuisance,' and that the purpose of the grass was 'to be walked upon freely and without restraint by the people, {154} old and young, for whose enjoyment the parks are maintained.'[4] It was in this spirit that, as Foreign Secretary, he watched over the interests of Englishmen abroad. Nothing could be more agreeable for Englishmen; but foreign governments were less pleased. They found Lord Palmerston interfering, exasperating, and alarming. In Paris they spoke with bated breath of 'ce terrible milord Palmerston'; and in Germany they made a little song about him-- 'Hat der Teufel einen Sohn, So ist er sicher Palmerston.'[5] But their complaints, their threats, and their agitations were all in vain. Palmerston, with his upper lip sardonically curving, braved consequences, and held on his course. The first diplomatic crisis which arose after his return to office, though the Prince and the Queen were closely concerned with it, passed off without serious disagreement between the Court and the Minister. For some years past a curious problem had been perplexing the chanceries of Europe. Spain, ever since the time of Napoleon a prey to civil convulsions, had settled down for a short interval to a state of comparative quiet under the rule of Christina, the Queen Mother, and her daughter Isabella, the young Queen. In 1846, the question of Isabella's marriage, which had for long been the subject of diplomatic speculations, suddenly became acute. Various candidates for her hand were proposed--among others, two cousins of her own, another Spanish prince, and Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, a first cousin of Victoria's and Albert's; for different reasons, however, none of these young men {155} seemed altogether satisfactory. Isabella was not yet sixteen; and it might have been supposed that her marriage could be put off for a few years more; but this was considered to be out of the question. 'Vous ne savez pas,' said a high authority, 'ce que c'est que ces princesses espagnoles; elles ont le diable au corps, et on a toujours dit que si nous ne nous hâtions pas, l'héritier viendrait avant le mari.'[6] It might also have been supposed that the young Queen's marriage was a matter to be settled by herself, her mother, and the Spanish Government; but this again was far from being the case. It had become, by one of those periodical reversions to the ways of the eighteenth century, which, it is rumoured, are still not unknown in diplomacy, a question of dominating importance in the foreign policies both of France and England. For several years, Louis Philippe and his Prime Minister Guizot had been privately maturing a very subtle plan. It was the object of the French King to repeat the glorious _coup_ of Louis XIV, and to abolish the Pyrenees by placing one of his grandsons on the throne of Spain. In order to bring this about, he did not venture to suggest that his younger son, the Duc de Montpensier, should marry Isabella; that would have been too obvious a move, which would have raised immediate and insurmountable opposition. He therefore proposed that Isabella should marry her cousin, the Duke of Cadiz, while Montpensier married Isabella's younger sister, the Infanta Fernanda; and pray, what possible objection could there be to that? The wily old King whispered into the chaste ears of Guizot the key to the secret; he had good reason to believe that the Duke of Cadiz was incapable of having children, and therefore the offspring {156} of Fernanda would inherit the Spanish crown. Guizot rubbed his hands, and began at once to set the necessary springs in motion; but, of course, the whole scheme was very soon divulged and understood. The English Government took an extremely serious view of the matter; the balance of power was clearly at stake, and the French intrigue must be frustrated at all hazards. A diplomatic struggle of great intensity followed; and it occasionally appeared that a second War of the Spanish Succession was about to break out. This was avoided, but the consequences of this strange imbroglio were far-reaching and completely different from what any of the parties concerned could have guessed. In the course of the long and intricate negotiations there was one point upon which Louis Philippe laid a special stress--the candidature of Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. The prospect of a marriage between a Coburg Prince and the Queen of Spain was, he declared, at least as threatening to the balance of power in Europe as that of a marriage between the Duc de Montpensier and the Infanta; and, indeed, there was much to be said for this contention. The ruin which had fallen upon the House of Coburg during the Napoleonic wars had apparently served only to multiply its vitality, for that princely family had by now extended itself over Europe in an extraordinary manner. King Leopold was firmly fixed in Belgium; his niece was Queen of England; one of his nephews was the husband of the Queen of England, and another the husband of the Queen of Portugal; yet another was Duke of Würtemberg. Where was this to end? There seemed to be a Coburg Trust ready to send out one of its members at any moment to fill up any vacant place among the ruling families of Europe. And even beyond Europe there {157} were signs of this infection spreading. An American who had arrived in Brussels had assured King Leopold that there was a strong feeling in the United States in favour of monarchy instead of the misrule of mobs, and had suggested, to the delight of His Majesty, that some branch of the Coburg family might be available for the position.[7] That danger might, perhaps, be remote; but the Spanish danger was close at hand; and if Prince Leopold were to marry Queen Isabella the position of France would be one of humiliation, if not of positive danger. Such were the asseverations of Louis Philippe. The English Government had no wish to support Prince Leopold, and, though Albert and Victoria had had some hankerings for the match, the wisdom of Stockmar had induced them to give up all thoughts of it. The way thus seemed open for a settlement: England would be reasonable about Leopold, if France would be reasonable about Montpensier. At the Château d'Eu, the agreement was made, in a series of conversations between the King and Guizot on the one side, and the Queen, the Prince, and Lord Aberdeen on the other. Aberdeen, as Foreign Minister, declared that England would neither recognise nor support Prince Leopold as a candidate for the hand of the Queen of Spain; while Louis Philippe solemnly promised, both to Aberdeen and to Victoria, that the Duc de Montpensier should not marry the Infanta Fernanda until after the Queen was married and had issue. All went well, and the crisis seemed to be over, when the whole question was suddenly reopened by Palmerston, who had succeeded Aberdeen at the Foreign Office. In a despatch to the English Minister at Madrid, he mentioned, in a list of possible candidates {158} for Queen Isabella's hand, Prince Leopold of Coburg; and at the same time he took occasion to denounce in violent language the tyranny and incompetence of the Spanish Government. This despatch, indiscreet in any case, was rendered infinitely more so by being communicated to Guizot. Louis Philippe saw his opportunity and pounced on it. Though there was nothing in Palmerston's language to show that he either recognised or supported Prince Leopold, the King at once assumed that the English had broken their engagement, and that he was therefore free to do likewise. He then sent the despatch to the Queen Mother, declared that the English were intriguing for the Coburg marriage, bade her mark the animosity of Palmerston against the Spanish Government, and urged her to escape from her difficulties and ensure the friendship of France by marrying Isabella to the Duke of Cadiz and Fernanda to Montpensier. The Queen Mother, alarmed and furious, was easily convinced. There was only one difficulty: Isabella loathed the very sight of her cousin. But this was soon surmounted; there was a wild supper-party at the Palace, and in the course of it the young girl was induced to consent to anything that was asked of her. Shortly after, and on the same day, both the marriages took place. The news burst like a bomb on the English Government, who saw with rage and mortification that they had been completely outmanoeuvred by the crafty King. Victoria, in particular, was outraged. Not only had she been the personal recipient of Louis Philippe's pledge, but he had won his way to her heart by presenting the Prince of Wales with a box of soldiers and sending the Princess Royal a beautiful Parisian doll with eyes that opened and shut. And now insult was {159} added to injury. The Queen of the French wrote her a formal letter, calmly announcing, as a family event in which she was sure Victoria would be interested, the marriage of her son, Montpensier--'qui ajoutera à notre bonheur intérieur, le seul vrai dans ce monde, et que vous, madame, savez si bien apprécier.'[8] But the English Queen had not long to wait for her revenge. Within eighteen months the monarchy of Louis Philippe, discredited, unpopular, and fatally weakened by the withdrawal of English support, was swept into limbo, while he and his family threw themselves as suppliant fugitives at the feet of Victoria.[9] II In this affair both the Queen and the Prince had been too much occupied with the delinquencies of Louis Philippe to have any wrath to spare for those of Palmerston; and, indeed, on the main issue, Palmerston's attitude and their own had been in complete agreement. But in this the case was unique. In every other foreign complication--and they were many and serious--during the ensuing years, the differences between the royal couple and the Foreign Secretary were constant and profound. There was a sharp quarrel over Portugal, where violently hostile parties were flying at each other's throats. The royal sympathy was naturally enlisted on behalf of the Queen and her Coburg husband, while Palmerston gave his support to the progressive elements in the country. It was not until 1848, however, that the strain became really serious. In that year of revolutions, when, in all directions and with alarming {160} frequency, crowns kept rolling off royal heads, Albert and Victoria were appalled to find that the policy of England was persistently directed--in Germany, in Switzerland, in Austria, in Italy, in Sicily--so as to favour the insurgent forces. The situation, indeed, was just such an one as the soul of Palmerston loved. There was danger and excitement, the necessity of decision, the opportunity for action, on every hand. A disciple of Canning, with an English gentleman's contempt and dislike of foreign potentates deep in his heart, the spectacle of the popular uprisings, and of the oppressors bundled ignominiously out of the palaces they had disgraced, gave him unbounded pleasure, and he was determined that there should be no doubt whatever, all over the Continent, on which side in the great struggle England stood. It was not that he had the slightest tincture in him of philosophical radicalism; he had no philosophical tinctures of any kind; he was quite content to be inconsistent--to be a Conservative at home and a Liberal abroad. There were very good reasons for keeping the Irish in their places; but what had that to do with it? The point was this--when any decent man read an account of the political prisons in Naples his gorge rose. He did not want war; but he saw that without war a skilful and determined use of England's power might do much to further the cause of the Liberals in Europe. It was a difficult and a hazardous game to play, but he set about playing it with delighted alacrity. And then, to his intense annoyance, just as he needed all his nerve and all possible freedom of action, he found himself being hampered and distracted at every turn by ... those people at Osborne. He saw what it was; the opposition was systematic and informed, and the Queen alone would {161} have been incapable of it; the Prince was at the bottom of the whole thing. It was exceedingly vexatious; but Palmerston was in a hurry, and could not wait; the Prince, if he would insist upon interfering, must be brushed on one side. Albert was very angry. He highly disapproved both of Palmerston's policy and of his methods of action. He was opposed to absolutism; but in his opinion Palmerston's proceedings were simply calculated to substitute for absolutism, all over Europe, something no better and very possibly worse--the anarchy of faction and mob violence. The dangers of this revolutionary ferment were grave; even in England Chartism was rampant--a sinister movement, which might at any moment upset the Constitution and abolish the Monarchy. Surely, with such dangers at home, this was a very bad time to choose for encouraging lawlessness abroad. He naturally took a particular interest in Germany. His instincts, his affections, his prepossessions, were ineradicably German; Stockmar was deeply involved in German politics; and he had a multitude of relatives among the ruling German families, who, from the midst of the hurly-burly of revolution, wrote him long and agitated letters once a week. Having considered the question of Germany's future from every point of view, he came to the conclusion, under Stockmar's guidance, that the great aim for every lover of Germany should be her unification under the sovereignty of Prussia. The intricacy of the situation was extreme, and the possibilities of good or evil which every hour might bring forth were incalculable; yet he saw with horror that Palmerston neither understood nor cared to understand the niceties of this momentous problem, but rushed on blindly, dealing blows to right {162} and left, quite--so far as he could see--without system, and even without motive--except, indeed, a totally unreasonable distrust of the Prussian State. But his disagreement with the details of Palmerston's policy was in reality merely a symptom of the fundamental differences between the characters of the two men. In Albert's eyes Palmerston was a coarse, reckless egotist, whose combined arrogance and ignorance must inevitably have their issue in folly and disaster. Nothing could be more antipathetic to him than a mind so strangely lacking in patience, in reflection, in principle, and in the habits of ratiocination. For to him it was intolerable to think in a hurry, to jump to slapdash decisions, to act on instincts that could not be explained. Everything must be done in due order, with careful premeditation; the premises of the position must first be firmly established; and he must reach the correct conclusion by a regular series of rational steps. In complicated questions--and what questions, rightly looked at, were not complicated?--to commit one's thoughts to paper was the wisest course, and it was the course which Albert, laborious though it might be, invariably adopted. It was as well, too, to draw up a reasoned statement after an event, as well as before it; and accordingly, whatever happened, it was always found that the Prince had made a memorandum. On one occasion he reduced to six pages of foolscap the substance of a confidential conversation with Sir Robert Peel, and, having read them aloud to him, asked him to append his signature; Sir Robert, who never liked to commit himself, became extremely uneasy; upon which the Prince, understanding that it was necessary to humour the singular susceptibilities of Englishmen, with great tact dropped that particular memorandum {163} into the fire. But as for Palmerston, he never even gave one so much as a chance to read him a memorandum; he positively seemed to dislike discussion; and, before one knew where one was, without any warning whatever, he would plunge into some hare-brained, violent project, which, as likely as not, would logically involve a European war. Closely connected, too, with this cautious, painstaking reasonableness of Albert's, was his desire to examine questions thoroughly from every point of view, to go down to the roots of things, and to act in strict accordance with some well-defined principle. Under Stockmar's tutelage he was constantly engaged in enlarging his outlook and in endeavouring to envisage vital problems both theoretically and practically--both with precision and with depth. To one whose mind was thus habitually occupied, the empirical activities of Palmerston, who had no notion what a principle meant, resembled the incoherent vagaries of a tiresome child. What did Palmerston know of economics, of science, of history? What did he care for morality and education? How much consideration had he devoted in the whole course of his life to the improvement of the condition of the working-classes and to the general amelioration of the human race? The answers to such questions were all too obvious; and yet it is easy to imagine, also, what might have been Palmerston's jaunty comment. 'Ah! your Royal Highness is busy with fine schemes and beneficent calculations--exactly! Well, as for me, I must say I'm quite satisfied with my morning's work--I've had the iron hurdles taken out of the Green Park.' The exasperating man, however, preferred to make no comment, and to proceed in smiling silence on his inexcusable way. The process of 'brushing on one {164} side' very soon came into operation. Important Foreign Office despatches were either submitted to the Queen so late that there was no time to correct them, or they were not submitted to her at all; or, having been submitted, and some passage in them being objected to and an alteration suggested, they were after all sent off in their original form. The Queen complained; the Prince complained; both complained together. It was quite useless. Palmerston was most apologetic--could not understand how it had occurred--must give the clerks a wigging--certainly Her Majesty's wishes should be attended to, and such a thing should never happen again. But, of course, it very soon happened again, and the royal remonstrances redoubled. Victoria, her partisan passions thoroughly aroused, imported into her protests a personal vehemence which those of Albert lacked. Did Lord Palmerston forget that she was Queen of England? How could she tolerate a state of affairs in which despatches written in her name were sent abroad without her approval or even her knowledge? What could be more derogatory to her position than to be obliged to receive indignant letters from the crowned heads to whom those despatches were addressed--letters which she did not know how to answer, since she so thoroughly agreed with them? She addressed herself to the Prime Minister. 'No remonstrance has any effect with Lord Palmerston,' she said.[10] 'Lord Palmerston,' she told him on another occasion, 'has as usual pretended not to have had time to submit the draft to the Queen before he had sent it off.'[11] She summoned Lord John to her presence, poured out her indignation, and afterwards, on the advice of Albert, noted down what had passed in a memorandum: 'I said that I {165} thought that Lord Palmerston often endangered the honour of England by taking a very prejudiced and one-sided view of a question; that his writings were always as bitter as gall and did great harm, which Lord John entirely assented to, and that I often felt quite ill from anxiety.'[12] Then she turned to her uncle. 'The state of Germany,' she wrote in a comprehensive and despairing review of the European situation, 'is dreadful, and one does feel quite ashamed about that once really so peaceful and happy country. That there are still good people there I am sure, but they allow themselves to be worked upon in a frightful and shameful way. In France a crisis seems at hand. _What_ a very bad figure we cut in this mediation! Really it is quite immoral, with Ireland quivering in our grasp and ready to throw off her allegiance at any moment, for us to force Austria to give up her lawful possessions.[13] What shall we say if Canada, Malta, etc., begin to trouble us? It hurts me terribly.'[14] But what did Lord Palmerston care? Lord John's position grew more and more irksome. He did not approve of his colleague's treatment of the Queen. When he begged him to be more careful, he was met with the reply that 28,000 despatches passed through the Foreign Office in a single year, that, if every one of these were to be subjected to the royal criticism, the delay would be most serious, that, as it was, the waste of time and the worry involved in submitting drafts to the meticulous examination of Prince Albert was almost too much for an overworked Minister, and that, as a matter of fact, the postponement of important decisions owing to this cause had already {166} produced very unpleasant diplomatic consequences.[15] These excuses would have impressed Lord John more favourably if he had not himself had to suffer from a similar neglect. As often as not Palmerston failed to communicate even to him the most important despatches. The Foreign Secretary was becoming an almost independent power, acting on his own initiative, and swaying the policy of England on his own responsibility. On one occasion, in 1847, he had actually been upon the point of threatening to break off diplomatic relations with France without consulting either the Cabinet or the Prime Minister.[16] And such incidents were constantly recurring. When this became known to the Prince, he saw that his opportunity had come. If he could only drive in to the utmost the wedge between the two statesmen, if he could only secure the alliance of Lord John, then the suppression or the removal of Lord Palmerston would be almost certain to follow. He set about the business with all the pertinacity of his nature. Both he and the Queen put every kind of pressure upon the Prime Minister. They wrote, they harangued, they relapsed into awful silence. It occurred to them that Lord Clarendon, an important member of the Cabinet, would be a useful channel for their griefs. They commanded him to dine at the Palace, and, directly the meal was over, 'the Queen,' as he described it afterwards, 'exploded, and went with the utmost vehemence and bitterness into the whole of Palmerston's conduct, all the effects produced all over the world, and all her own feelings and sentiments about it.' When she had finished, the Prince took up the tale, with less excitement, but with equal force. Lord Clarendon found himself {167} in an awkward situation; he disliked Palmerston's policy, but he was his colleague, and he disapproved of the attitude of his royal hosts. In his opinion, they were 'wrong in wishing that courtiers rather than Ministers should conduct the affairs of the country,' and he thought that they 'laboured under the curious mistake that the Foreign Office was their peculiar department, and that they had the right to control, if not to direct, the foreign policy of England.' He, therefore, with extreme politeness, gave it to be understood that he would not commit himself in any way.[17] But Lord John, in reality, needed no pressure. Attacked by his Sovereign, ignored by his Foreign Secretary, he led a miserable life.[18] With the advent of the dreadful Schleswig-Holstein question--the most complex in the whole diplomatic history of Europe--his position, crushed between the upper and the nether millstones, grew positively unbearable. He became anxious above all things to get Palmerston out of the Foreign Office. But then--supposing Palmerston refused to go? In a memorandum made by the Prince, at about this time, of an interview between himself, the Queen, and the Prime Minister, we catch a curious glimpse of the states of mind of those three high personages--the anxiety and irritation of Lord John, the vehement acrimony of Victoria, and the reasonable animosity of Albert--drawn together, as it were, under the shadow of an unseen Presence, the cause of that celestial anger--the gay, portentous Palmerston. At one point in the conversation Lord John observed that he believed the Foreign Secretary would consent to a change of offices; {168} Lord Palmerston, he said, realised that he had lost the Queen's confidence--though only on public, and not on personal, grounds. But on that, the Prince noted, 'the Queen interrupted Lord John by remarking that she distrusted him on _personal_ grounds also, but I remarked that Lord Palmerston had so far at least seen rightly; that he had become disagreeable to the Queen, not on account of his person, but of his political doings--to which the Queen assented.' Then the Prince suggested that there was a danger of the Cabinet breaking up, and of Lord Palmerston returning to office as Prime Minister. But on that point Lord John was reassuring: he 'thought Lord Palmerston too old to do much in the future (having passed his sixty-fifth year).' Eventually it was decided that nothing could be done for the present, but that the _utmost secrecy_ must be observed; and so the conclave ended.[19] At last, in 1850, deliverance seemed to be at hand. There were signs that the public were growing weary of the alarums and excursions of Palmerston's diplomacy; and when his support of Don Pacifico, a British subject, in a quarrel with the Greek Government, seemed to be upon the point of involving the country in a war not only with Greece but also with France, and possibly with Russia into the bargain, a heavy cloud of distrust and displeasure appeared to be gathering and about to burst over his head. A motion directed against him in the House of Lords was passed by a substantial majority. The question was next to be discussed in the House of Commons, where another adverse vote was not improbable, and would seal the doom of the Minister. Palmerston received the attack with complete nonchalance, and then, at the last possible moment, he struck. {169} In a speech of over four hours, in which exposition, invective, argument, declamation, plain talk and resounding eloquence were mingled together with consummate art and extraordinary felicity, he annihilated his enemies. The hostile motion was defeated, and Palmerston was once more the hero of the hour. Simultaneously, Atropos herself conspired to favour him. Sir Robert Peel was thrown from his horse and killed. By this tragic chance, Palmerston saw the one rival great enough to cope with him removed from his path. He judged--and judged rightly--that he was the most popular man in England; and when Lord John revived the project of his exchanging the Foreign Office for some other position in the Cabinet, he absolutely refused to stir.[20] Great was the disappointment of Albert; great was the indignation of Victoria. 'The House of Commons,' she wrote, 'is becoming very unmanageable and troublesome.'[21] The Prince, perceiving that Palmerston was more firmly fixed in the saddle than ever, decided that something drastic must be done. Five months before, the prescient Baron had drawn up, in case of emergency, a memorandum, which had been carefully docketed, and placed in a pigeon-hole ready to hand. The emergency had now arisen, and the memorandum must be used. The Queen copied out the words of Stockmar, and sent them to the Prime Minister, requesting him to show her letter to Palmerston. 'She thinks it right,' she wrote, 'in order _to prevent any mistake for the future_, shortly to explain _what it is she expects from her Foreign Secretary_. She requires: (1) That he will distinctly state what he proposes in a given case, in order that the Queen may know as distinctly to _what_ she has given her Royal sanction; (2) Having _once given_ her sanction {170} to a measure, that it be not arbitrarily altered or modified by the Minister; such an act she must consider as failing in sincerity towards the Crown, and justly to be visited by the exercise of her Constitutional right of dismissing that Minister.'[22] Lord John Russell did as he was bid, and forwarded the Queen's letter to Lord Palmerston. This transaction, which was of grave constitutional significance, was entirely unknown to the outside world. If Palmerston had been a sensitive man, he would probably have resigned on the receipt of the Queen's missive. But he was far from sensitive; he loved power, and his power was greater than ever; an unerring instinct told him that this was not the time to go. Nevertheless, he was seriously perturbed. He understood at last that he was struggling with a formidable adversary, whose skill and strength, unless they were mollified, might do irreparable injury to his career. He therefore wrote to Lord John, briefly acquiescing in the Queen's requirements--'I have taken a copy of this memorandum of the Queen and will not fail to attend to the directions which it contains'--and at the same time, he asked for an interview with the Prince. Albert at once summoned him to the Palace, and was astonished to observe, as he noted in a memorandum, that when Palmerston entered the room 'he was very much agitated, shook, and had tears in his eyes, so as quite to move me, who never under any circumstances had known him otherwise than with a bland smile on his face.' The old statesman was profuse in protestations and excuses; the young one was coldly polite. At last, after a long and inconclusive conversation, the Prince, drawing himself up, said that, in order to give Lord {171} Palmerston 'an example of what the Queen wanted,' he would 'ask him a question point-blank.' Lord Palmerston waited in respectful silence, while the Prince proceeded as follows:--'You are aware that the Queen has objected to the Protocol about Schleswig, and of the grounds on which she has done so. Her opinion has been overruled, the Protocol stating the desire of the Great Powers to see the integrity of the Danish monarchy preserved has been signed, and upon this the King of Denmark has invaded Schleswig, where the war is raging. If Holstein is attacked also, which is likely, the Germans will not be restrained from flying to her assistance, and Russia has menaced to interfere with arms, if the Schleswigers are successful. What will you do, if this emergency arises (provoking most likely an European war), and which will arise very probably when we shall be at Balmoral and Lord John in another part of Scotland? The Queen expects from your foresight that you have contemplated this possibility, and requires a categorical answer as to what you would do in the event supposed.' Strangely enough, to this point-blank question, the Foreign Secretary appeared to be unable to reply. The whole matter, he said, was extremely complicated, and the contingencies mentioned by His Royal Highness were very unlikely to arise. The Prince persisted; but it was useless; for a full hour he struggled to extract a categorical answer, until at length Palmerston bowed himself out of the room. Albert threw up his hands in shocked amazement: what could one do with such a man?[23] What indeed? For, in spite of all his apologies and all his promises, within a few weeks the incorrigible reprobate was at his tricks again. The Austrian {172} General Haynau, notorious as a rigorous suppressor of rebellion in Hungary and Italy, and in particular as a flogger of women, came to England and took it into his head to pay a visit to Messrs. Barclay and Perkins's brewery. The features of 'General Hyæna,' as he was everywhere called--his grim thin face, his enormous pepper-and-salt moustaches--had gained a horrid celebrity; and it so happened that among the clerks at the brewery there was a refugee from Vienna, who had given his fellow-workers a first-hand account of the General's characteristics. The Austrian Ambassador, scenting danger, begged his friend not to appear in public, or, if he must do so, to cut off his moustaches first. But the General would take no advice. He went to the brewery, was immediately recognised, surrounded by a crowd of angry draymen, pushed about, shouted at, punched in the ribs, and pulled by the moustaches until, bolting down an alley with the mob at his heels brandishing brooms and roaring 'Hyaena!' he managed to take refuge in a public-house, whence he was removed under the protection of several policemen. The Austrian Government was angry and demanded explanations. Palmerston, who, of course, was privately delighted by the incident, replied regretting what had occurred, but adding that in his opinion the General had 'evinced a want of propriety in coming to England at the present moment'; and he delivered his note to the Ambassador without having previously submitted it to the Queen or to the Prime Minister. Naturally, when this was discovered, there was a serious storm. The Prince was especially indignant; the conduct of the draymen he regarded, with disgust and alarm, as 'a slight foretaste of what an unregulated mass of illiterate people is capable'; and Palmerston {173} was requested by Lord John to withdraw his note, and to substitute for it another from which all censure of the General had been omitted. On this the Foreign Secretary threatened resignation, but the Prime Minister was firm. For a moment the royal hopes rose high, only to be dashed to the ground again by the cruel compliance of the enemy. Palmerston, suddenly lamb-like, agreed to everything; the note was withdrawn and altered, and peace was patched up once more.[24] It lasted for a year, and then, in October 1851, the arrival of Kossuth in England brought on another crisis. Palmerston's desire to receive the Hungarian patriot at his house in London was vetoed by Lord John; once more there was a sharp struggle; once more Palmerston, after threatening resignation, yielded. But still the insubordinate man could not keep quiet. A few weeks later a deputation of Radicals from Finsbury and Islington waited on him at the Foreign Office and presented him with an address, in which the Emperors of Austria and Russia were stigmatised as 'odious and detestable assassins' and 'merciless tyrants and despots.' The Foreign Secretary in his reply, while mildly deprecating these expressions, allowed his real sentiments to appear with a most undiplomatic _insouciance_. There was an immediate scandal, and the Court flowed over with rage and vituperation. 'I think,' said the Baron, 'the man has been for some time insane.' Victoria, in an agitated letter, urged Lord John to assert his authority. But Lord John perceived that on this matter the Foreign Secretary had the support of public opinion, and he judged it wiser to bide his time.[25] {174} He had not long to wait. The culmination of the long series of conflicts, threats, and exacerbations came before the year was out. On December 2, Louis Napoleon's _coup d'état_ took place in Paris; and on the following day Palmerston, without consulting anybody, expressed in a conversation with the French Ambassador his approval of Napoleon's act. Two days later, he was instructed by the Prime Minister, in accordance with a letter from the Queen, that it was the policy of the English Government to maintain an attitude of strict neutrality towards the affairs of France. Nevertheless, in an official despatch to the British Ambassador in Paris, he repeated the approval of the _coup d'état_ which he had already given verbally to the French Ambassador in London. This despatch was submitted neither to the Queen nor to the Prime Minister. Lord John's patience, as he himself said, 'was drained to the last drop.' He dismissed Lord Palmerston.[26] Victoria was in ecstasies; and Albert knew that the triumph was his even more than Lord John's. It was his wish that Lord Granville, a young man whom he believed to be pliant to his influence, should be Palmerston's successor; and Lord Granville was appointed. Henceforward, it seemed that the Prince would have his way in foreign affairs. After years of struggle and mortification, success greeted him on every hand. In his family, he was an adored master; in the country, the Great Exhibition had brought him respect and glory; and now in the secret seats of power he had gained a new supremacy. He had wrestled with the terrible Lord Palmerston, the embodiment of {175} all that was most hostile to him in the spirit of England, and his redoubtable opponent had been overthrown.[27] Was England herself at his feet? It might be so; and yet ... it is said that the sons of England have a certain tiresome quality: they never know when they are beaten. It was odd, but Palmerston was positively still jaunty. Was it possible? Could he believe, in his blind arrogance, that even his ignominious dismissal from office was something that could be brushed aside? III The Prince's triumph was short-lived. A few weeks later, owing to Palmerston's influence, the Government was defeated in the House, and Lord John resigned. Then, after a short interval, a coalition between the Whigs and the followers of Peel came into power, under the premiership of Lord Aberdeen. Once more, Palmerston was in the Cabinet. It was true that he did not return to the Foreign Office; that was something to the good; in the Home Department it might be hoped that his activities would be less dangerous and disagreeable. But the Foreign Secretary was no longer the complacent Granville; and in Lord Clarendon the Prince knew that he had a Minister to deal with, who, discreet and courteous as he was, had a mind of his own. These changes, however, were merely the preliminaries of a far more serious development. Events, on every side, were moving towards a catastrophe. Suddenly the nation found itself under the awful shadow of imminent war. For several months, amid the {176} shifting mysteries of diplomacy and the perplexed agitations of politics, the issue grew more doubtful and more dark, while the national temper was strained to the breaking-point. At the very crisis of the long and ominous negotiations, it was announced that Lord Palmerston had resigned. Then the pent-up fury of the people burst forth. They had felt that in the terrible complexity of events they were being guided by weak and embarrassed counsels; but they had been reassured by the knowledge that at the centre of power there was one man with strength, with courage, with determination, in whom they could put their trust. They now learnt that that man was no longer among their leaders. Why? In their rage, anxiety, and nervous exhaustion, they looked round desperately for some hidden and horrible explanation of what had occurred. They suspected plots, they smelt treachery in the air. It was easy to guess the object upon which their frenzy would vent itself. Was there not a foreigner in the highest of high places, a foreigner whose hostility to their own adored champion was unrelenting and unconcealed? The moment that Palmerston's resignation was known, there was a universal outcry; and an extraordinary tempest of anger and hatred burst, with unparalleled violence, upon the head of the Prince. It was everywhere asserted and believed that the Queen's husband was a traitor to the country, that he was a tool of the Russian Court, that in obedience to Russian influences he had forced Palmerston out of the Government, and that he was directing the foreign policy of England in the interests of England's enemies. For many weeks these accusations filled the whole of the {177} press; repeated at public meetings, elaborated in private talk, they flew over the country, growing every moment more extreme and more improbable. While respectable newspapers thundered out their grave invectives, halfpenny broadsides, hawked through the streets of London, re-echoed in doggerel vulgarity the same sentiments and the same suspicions.[28] At last the wildest rumours began to spread. In January 1854, it was whispered that the Prince had been seized, that he had been found guilty of high treason, that he was to be committed to the Tower. The Queen herself, some declared, had been arrested, {178} and large crowds actually collected round the Tower to watch the incarceration of the royal miscreants.[29] These fantastic hallucinations were the result of the fevered atmosphere of approaching war. The cause of Palmerston's resignation, indeed, remains wrapped in obscurity, and it is possible that it was brought about by the continued hostility of the Court.[30] But the supposition that Albert's influence had been used to favour the interests of Russia was devoid of any basis in actual fact. As often happens in such cases, the Government had been swinging backwards and forwards between two incompatible policies--that of non-interference and that of threats supported by force--either of which, if consistently followed, might well have had a successful and peaceful issue, but which, mingled together, could only lead to war. Albert, with characteristic scrupulosity, attempted to thread his way through the complicated labyrinth of European diplomacy, and eventually was lost in the maze. But so was the whole of the Cabinet; and, when war came, his anti-Russian feelings were quite as vehement as those of the most bellicose of Englishmen. Nevertheless, though the gravest of the charges levelled against the Prince were certainly without foundation, there were underlying elements in the situation {179} which explained, if they did not justify, the popular state of mind. It was true that the Queen's husband was a foreigner, who had been brought up in a foreign Court, was impregnated with foreign ideas, and was closely related to a multitude of foreign princes. Clearly this, though perhaps an unavoidable, was an undesirable, state of affairs; nor were the objections to it merely theoretical; it had in fact produced unpleasant consequences of a serious kind. The Prince's German proclivities were perpetually lamented by English Ministers; Lord Palmerston, Lord Clarendon, Lord Aberdeen,[31] all told the same tale; and it was constantly necessary, in grave questions of national policy, to combat the prepossessions of a Court in which German views and German sentiments held a disproportionate place. As for Palmerston, his language on this topic was apt to be unbridled. At the height of his annoyance over his resignation, he roundly declared that he had been made a victim to foreign intrigue.[32] He afterwards toned down this accusation; but the mere fact that such a suggestion from such a quarter was possible at all showed to what unfortunate consequences Albert's foreign birth and foreign upbringing might lead. But this was not all. A constitutional question of the most profound importance was raised by the position of the Prince in England. His presence gave a new prominence to an old problem--the precise definition of the functions and the powers of the Crown. Those functions and powers had become, in effect, his; and {180} what sort of use was he making of them? His views as to the place of the Crown in the Constitution are easily ascertainable; for they were Stockmar's; and it happens that we possess a detailed account of Stockmar's opinions upon the subject in a long letter addressed by him to the Prince at the time of this very crisis, just before the outbreak of the Crimean War. Constitutional Monarchy, according to the Baron, had suffered an eclipse since the passing of the Reform Bill. It was now 'constantly in danger of becoming a pure Ministerial Government.' The old race of Tories, who 'had a direct interest in upholding the prerogatives of the Crown,' had died out; and the Whigs were 'nothing but partly conscious, partly unconscious Republicans, who stand in the same relation to the Throne as the wolf does to the lamb.' There was a rule that it was unconstitutional to introduce 'the name and person of the irresponsible Sovereign' into parliamentary debates on constitutional matters; this was 'a constitutional fiction, which, although undoubtedly of old standing, was fraught with danger'; and the Baron warned the Prince that 'if the English Crown permit a Whig Ministry to follow this rule in practice, without exception, you must not wonder if in a little time you find the majority of the people impressed with the belief that the King, in the view of the law, is nothing but a mandarin figure, which has to nod its head in assent, or shake it in denial, as his Minister pleases.' To prevent this from happening, it was of extreme importance, said the Baron, 'that no opportunity should be let slip of vindicating the legitimate position of the Crown.' 'And this is not hard to do,' he added, 'and can never embarrass a Minister where such straightforward loyal personages as the Queen and {181} the Prince are concerned.' In his opinion, the very lowest claim of the Royal Prerogative should include 'a right on the part of the King to be the permanent President of his Ministerial Council.' The Sovereign ought to be 'in the position of a permanent Premier, who takes rank above the temporary head of the Cabinet, and in matters of discipline exercises supreme authority.' The Sovereign 'may even take a part in the initiation and the maturing of the Government measures; for it would be unreasonable to expect that a King, himself as able, as accomplished, and as patriotic as the best of his Ministers, should be prevented from making use of these qualities at the deliberations of his Council.' 'The judicious exercise of this right,' concluded the Baron, 'which certainly requires a master mind, would not only be the best guarantee for Constitutional Monarchy, but would raise it to a height of power, stability, and symmetry, which has never been attained.'[33] Now it may be that this reading of the Constitution is a possible one, though indeed it is hard to see how it can be made compatible with the fundamental doctrine of ministerial responsibility. William III presided over his Council, and he was a constitutional monarch; and it seems that Stockmar had in his mind a conception of the Crown which would have given it a place in the Constitution analogous to that which it filled at the time of William III. But it is clear that such a theory, which would invest the Crown with more power than it possessed even under George III, runs counter to the whole development of English public life since the Revolution; and the fact that it was held by Stockmar, and instilled by him into Albert, was of very serious {182} importance. For there was good reason to believe not only that these doctrines were held by Albert in theory, but that he was making a deliberate and sustained attempt to give them practical validity. The history of the struggle between the Crown and Palmerston provided startling evidence that this was the case. That struggle reached its culmination when, in Stockmar's memorandum of 1850, the Queen asserted her 'constitutional right' to dismiss the Foreign Secretary if he altered a despatch which had received her sanction. The memorandum was, in fact, a plain declaration that the Crown intended to act independently of the Prime Minister. Lord John Russell, anxious at all costs to strengthen himself against Palmerston, accepted the memorandum, and thereby implicitly allowed the claim of the Crown. More than that; after the dismissal of Palmerston, among the grounds on which Lord John justified that dismissal in the House of Commons he gave a prominent place to the memorandum of 1850. It became apparent that the displeasure of the Sovereign might be a reason for the removal of a powerful and popular Minister. It seemed indeed as if, under the guidance of Stockmar and Albert, the 'Constitutional Monarchy' might in very truth be rising 'to a height of power, stability, and symmetry, which had never been attained.' But this new development in the position of the Crown, grave as it was in itself, was rendered peculiarly disquieting by the unusual circumstances which surrounded it. For the functions of the Crown were now, in effect, being exercised by a person unknown to the Constitution, who wielded over the Sovereign an undefined and unbounded influence. The fact that this person was the Sovereign's husband, while it {183} explained his influence and even made it inevitable, by no means diminished its strange and momentous import. An ambiguous, prepotent figure had come to disturb the ancient, subtle, and jealously guarded balance of the English Constitution. Such had been the unexpected outcome of the tentative and faint-hearted opening of Albert's political life. He himself made no attempt to minimise either the multiplicity or the significance of the functions he performed. He considered that it was his duty, he told the Duke of Wellington in 1850, to 'sink his _own individual_ existence in that of his wife ... --assume no separate responsibility before the public, but make his position entirely a part of hers--fill up every gap which, as a woman, she would naturally leave in the exercise of her regal functions--continually and anxiously watch every part of the public business, in order to be able to advise and assist her at any moment in any of the multifarious and difficult questions or duties brought before her, sometimes international, sometimes political, or social, or personal. As the natural head of her family, superintendent of her household, manager of her private affairs, sole _confidential_ adviser in politics, and only assistant in her communications with the officers of the Government, he is, besides, the husband of the Queen, the tutor of the royal children, the private secretary of the Sovereign, and her permanent minister.'[34] Stockmar's pupil had assuredly gone far and learnt well. Stockmar's pupil!--precisely; the public, painfully aware of Albert's predominance, had grown, too, uneasily conscious that Victoria's master had a master of his own. Deep in the darkness the Baron loomed. Another foreigner! Decidedly, there were elements {184} in the situation which went far to justify the popular alarm. A foreign Baron controlled a foreign Prince, and the foreign Prince controlled the Crown of England. And the Crown itself was creeping forward ominously; and when, from under its shadow, the Baron and the Prince had frowned, a great Minister, beloved of the people, had fallen. Where was all this to end? Within a few weeks Palmerston withdrew his resignation, and the public frenzy subsided as quickly as it had arisen. When Parliament met, the leaders of both the parties in both the Houses made speeches in favour of the Prince, asserting his unimpeachable loyalty to the country and vindicating his right to advise the Sovereign in all matters of State. Victoria was delighted. 'The position of my beloved lord and master,' she told the Baron, 'has been defined for once and all and his merits have been acknowledged on all sides most duly. There was an immense concourse of people assembled when we went to the House of Lords, and the people were very friendly.'[35] Immediately afterwards, the country finally plunged into the Crimean War. In the struggle that followed, Albert's patriotism was put beyond a doubt, and the animosities of the past were forgotten. But the war had another consequence, less gratifying to the royal couple: it crowned the ambition of Lord Palmerston. In 1855, the man who five years before had been pronounced by Lord John Russell to be 'too old to do much in the future,' became Prime Minister of England, and, with one short interval, remained in that position for ten years. [1] Martin, I, 194-6; _Letters_, I, 510-11. [2] Bunsen, II, 152. [3] Dalling, I, 346. [4] Dalling, III, 413-5. [5] Ashley, II, 213. [6] Greville, VI, 33. [7] _Letters_, I, 511. [8] _Letters_, II, 100-1. [9] Dalling, III, chaps. vii and viii; Stockmar, cap. xxi. [10] _Letters_, II, 181. [11] _Ibid._, II, 194. [12] _Letters_, II, 195. [13] Venice and Lombardy. [14] _Letters_, II, 199. [15] _Letters_, II, 221; Ashley, II, 195-6. [16] Greville, VI, 63-4. [17] Greville, VI, 324-6; Clarendon, I, 341. [18] Clarendon, I, 337, 342. [19] _Letters_, II, 235-7. [20] _Letters_, II, 261-4. [21] _Ibid._, II, 253. [22] _Letters_, II, 238 and 264. [23] Martin, II, 307-10. [24] _Letters_, II, 267-70; Martin, II, 324-7; Ashley, II, 169-70. [25] _Letters_, II, 324-31; Martin, II, 406-11; Spencer Walpole, II, 133-7; Stockmar, 642; Greville, VI, 421-4. [26] _Letters_, II, 334-43; Martin, II, 411-18; Ashley, II, 200-12; Walpole, II, 138-42; Clarendon, I, 338. [27] Ernest, III, 14. [28] 'The Turkish war both far and near Has played the very deuce then, And little Al, the royal pal, They say has turned a Russian; Old Aberdeen, as may be seen, Looks woeful pale and yellow, And Old John Bull had his belly full Of dirty Russian tallow. _Chorus_. 'We'll send him home and make him groan, Oh, Al! you've played the deuce then; The German lad has acted sad And turned tail with the Russians. * * * * 'Last Monday night, all in a fright, Al out of bed did tumble. The German lad was raving mad, How he did groan and grumble! He cried to Vic, "I've cut my stick: To St. Petersburg go right slap." When Vic, 'tis said, jumped out of bed, And wopped him with her night-cap.' From _Lovely Albert!_ a broadside preserved at the British Museum; Martin, II, 539-41; Greville, VII, 127-9. [29] Martin, II, 540, 562. 'You jolly Turks, now go to work, And show the Bear your power. It is rumoured over Britain's isle That A---- is in the Tower; The Postmen some suspicion had, And opened the two letters, 'Twas a pity sad the German lad Should not have known much better.' _Lovely Albert!_ [30] Kinglake, II, 27-32. [31] 'Aberdeen spoke much of the Queen and Prince, of course with great praise. He said the Prince's views were generally sound and wise, with one exception, which was his violent and incorrigible German unionism. He goes all lengths with Prussia.'--Greville, VI, 305. [32] Ashley, II, 218. [33] Martin, II, 545-57. [34] Martin, II, 259-60. [35] Martin, II, 563-4. [Illustration: QUEEN VICTORIA AND THE PRINCE CONSORT IN 1860.] {185} CHAPTER VI LAST YEARS OF THE PRINCE CONSORT I The weak-willed youth who took no interest in politics and never read a newspaper had grown into a man of unbending determination whose tireless energies were incessantly concentrated upon the laborious business of government and the highest questions of State. He was busy now from morning till night. In the winter, before the dawn, he was to be seen, seated at his writing-table, working by the light of the green reading-lamp which he had brought over with him from Germany, and the construction of which he had much improved by an ingenious device. Victoria was early too, but she was not so early as Albert; and when, in the chill darkness, she took her seat at her own writing-table, placed side by side with his, she invariably found upon it a neat pile of papers arranged for her inspection and her signature.[1] The day, thus begun, continued in unremitting industry. At breakfast, the newspapers--the once hated newspapers--made their appearance, and the Prince, absorbed in their perusal, would answer no questions, or, if an article struck him, would read it aloud. After that there were ministers and secretaries to interview; there was a vast correspondence to be carried on; there were numerous {186} memoranda to be made. Victoria, treasuring every word, preserving every letter, was all breathless attention and eager obedience. Sometimes Albert would actually ask her advice. He consulted her about his English: 'Lese recht aufmerksam, und sage wenn irgend ein Fehler ist,'[2] he would say; or, as he handed her a draft for her signature, he would observe 'Ich hab' Dir hier ein Draft gemacht, lese es mal! Ich dächte es wäre recht so.'[3] Thus the diligent, scrupulous, absorbing hours passed by. Fewer and fewer grew the moments of recreation and of exercise. The demands of society were narrowed down to the smallest limits, and even then but grudgingly attended to. It was no longer a mere pleasure, it was a positive necessity, to go to bed as early as possible in order to be up and at work on the morrow betimes.[4] The important and exacting business of government, which became at last the dominating preoccupation in Albert's mind, still left unimpaired his old tastes and interests; he remained devoted to art, to science, to philosophy; and a multitude of subsidiary activities showed how his energies increased as the demands upon them grew. For whenever duty called, the Prince was all alertness. With indefatigable perseverance he opened museums, laid the foundation-stones of hospitals, made speeches to the Royal Agricultural Society, and attended meetings of the British Association.[5] The National Gallery particularly interested him: he drew up careful regulations for the arrangement of the pictures according to schools; and he attempted--though {187} in vain--to have the whole collection transported to South Kensington.[6] Feodora, now the Princess Hohenlohe, after a visit to England, expressed in a letter to Victoria her admiration of Albert both as a private and a public character. Nor did she rely only on her own opinion. 'I must just copy out,' she said, 'what Mr. Klumpp wrote to me some little time ago, and which is quite true.--"Prince Albert is one of the few Royal personages who can sacrifice to any principle (as soon as it has become evident to them to be good and noble) all those notions (or sentiments) to which others, owing to their narrow-mindedness, or to the prejudices of their rank, are so thoroughly inclined strongly to cling."--There is something so truly religious in this,' the Princess added, 'as well as humane and just, most soothing to my feelings which are so often hurt and disturbed by what I hear and see.'[7] Victoria, from the depth of her heart, subscribed to all the eulogies of Feodora and Mr. Klumpp. She only found that they were insufficient. As she watched her beloved Albert, after toiling with state documents and public functions, devoting every spare moment of his time to domestic duties, to artistic appreciation, and to intellectual improvements; as she listened to him cracking his jokes at the luncheon-table, or playing Mendelssohn on the organ, or pointing out the merits of Sir Edwin Landseer's pictures; as she followed him round while he gave instructions about the breeding of cattle, or decided that the Gainsboroughs must be hung higher up so that the Winterhalters might be properly seen--she felt perfectly certain that no other wife had ever had such a husband. His mind was apparently capable of everything, and she was hardly {188} surprised to learn that he had made an important discovery for the conversion of sewage into agricultural manure. Filtration from below upwards, he explained, through some appropriate medium, which retained the solids and set free the fluid sewage for irrigation, was the principle of the scheme. 'All previous plans,' he said, 'would have cost millions; mine costs next to nothing.' Unfortunately, owing to a slight miscalculation, the invention proved to be impracticable; but Albert's intelligence was unrebuffed, and he passed on, to plunge with all his accustomed ardour into a prolonged study of the rudiments of lithography.[8] But naturally it was upon his children that his private interests and those of Victoria were concentrated most vigorously. The royal nurseries showed no sign of emptying. The birth of the Prince Arthur in 1850 was followed, three years later, by that of the Prince Leopold; and in 1857 the Princess Beatrice was born. A family of nine must be, in any circumstances, a grave responsibility; and the Prince realised to the full how much the high destinies of his offspring intensified the need of parental care. It was inevitable that he should believe profoundly in the importance of education; he himself had been the product of education; Stockmar had made him what he was; it was for him, in his turn, to be a Stockmar--to be even more than a Stockmar--to the young creatures he had brought into the world. Victoria would assist him; a Stockmar, no doubt, she could hardly be; but she could be perpetually vigilant, she could mingle strictness with her affection, and she could always set a good example. These considerations, of course, applied pre-eminently to the education of the Prince of Wales. How tremendous was the significance {189} of every particle of influence which went to the making of the future King of England! Albert set to work with a will. But, watching with Victoria the minutest details of the physical, intellectual, and moral training of his children, he soon perceived, to his distress, that there was something unsatisfactory in the development of his eldest son. The Princess Royal was an extremely intelligent child; but Bertie, though he was good-humoured and gentle, seemed to display a deep-seated repugnance to every form of mental exertion. This was most regrettable, but the remedy was obvious: the parental efforts must be redoubled; instruction must be multiplied; not for a single instant must the educational pressure be allowed to relax. Accordingly, more tutors were selected, the curriculum was revised, the time-table of studies was rearranged, elaborate memoranda dealing with every possible contingency were drawn up. It was above all essential that there should be no slackness: 'work,' said the Prince, 'must be work.' And work indeed it was. The boy grew up amid a ceaseless round of paradigms, syntactical exercises, dates, genealogical tables, and lists of capes. Constant notes flew backwards and forwards between the Prince, the Queen, and the tutors, with inquiries, with reports of progress, with detailed recommendations; and these notes were all carefully preserved for future reference. It was, besides, vital that the heir to the throne should be protected from the slightest possibility of contamination from the outside world. The Prince of Wales was not as other boys; he might, occasionally, be allowed to invite some sons of the nobility, boys of good character, to play with him in the garden of Buckingham Palace; but his father presided, with alarming precision, over their sports. In short, every {190} possible precaution was taken, every conceivable effort was made. Yet, strange to say, the object of all this vigilance and solicitude continued to be unsatisfactory--appeared, in fact, to be positively growing worse. It was certainly very odd: the more lessons that Bertie had to do, the less he did them; and the more carefully he was guarded against excitements and frivolities, the more desirous of mere amusement he seemed to become. Albert was deeply grieved and Victoria was sometimes very angry; but grief and anger produced no more effect than supervision and time-tables. The Prince of Wales, in spite of everything, grew up into manhood without the faintest sign of 'adherence to and perseverance in the plan both of studies and life'--as one of the Royal memoranda put it--which had been laid down with such extraordinary forethought by his father.[9] II Against the insidious worries of politics, the boredom of society functions, and the pompous publicity of state ceremonies, Osborne had afforded a welcome refuge; but it soon appeared that even Osborne was too little removed from the world. After all, the Solent was a feeble barrier. Oh, for some distant, some almost inaccessible sanctuary, where, in true domestic privacy, one could make happy holiday, just as if--or at least very, very, nearly--one were anybody else! Victoria, ever since, together with Albert, she had visited Scotland in the early years of her marriage, had felt that her heart was in the Highlands. She had {191} returned to them a few years later, and her passion had grown. How romantic they were! And how Albert enjoyed them too! His spirits rose quite wonderfully as soon as he found himself among the hills and the conifers. 'It is a happiness to see him,' she wrote. 'Oh! What can equal the beauties of nature!' she exclaimed in her journal, during one of these visits. 'What enjoyment there is in them! Albert enjoys it so much; he is in ecstasies here.' 'Albert said,' she noted next day, 'that the chief beauty of mountain scenery consists in its frequent changes. We came home at six o'clock.' Then she went on a longer expedition--up to the very top of a high hill. 'It was quite romantic. Here we were with only this Highlander behind us holding the ponies (for we got off twice and walked about) .... We came home at half past eleven,--the most delightful, most romantic ride and walk I ever had. I had never been up such a mountain, and then the day was so fine. The Highlanders, too, were such astonishing people. They 'never make difficulties,' she noted, 'but are cheerful, and happy, and merry, and ready to walk, and run, and do anything.' As for Albert he 'highly appreciated the good-breeding, simplicity, and intelligence, which make it so pleasant and even instructive to talk to them.' 'We were always in the habit,' wrote Her Majesty, 'of conversing with the Highlanders--with whom one comes so much in contact in the Highlands.' She loved everything about them--their customs, their dress, their dances, even their musical instruments. 'There were nine pipers at the castle,' she wrote, after staying with Lord Breadalbane; 'sometimes one and sometimes three played. They always played about breakfast-time, again during the {192} morning, at luncheon, and also whenever we went in and out; again before dinner, and during most of dinner-time. We both have become quite fond of the bag-pipes.'[10] It was quite impossible not to wish to return to such pleasures again and again; and in 1848 the Queen took a lease of Balmoral House, a small residence near Braemar in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. Four years later she bought the place outright. Now she could be really happy every summer; now she could be simple and at her ease; now she could be romantic every evening, and dote upon Albert, without a single distraction, all day long. The diminutive scale of the house was in itself a charm. Nothing was more amusing than to find oneself living in two or three little sitting-rooms, with the children crammed away upstairs, and the Minister in attendance with only a tiny bedroom to do all his work in. And then to be able to run in and out of doors as one liked, and to sketch, and to walk, and to watch the red deer coming so surprisingly close, and to pay visits to the cottagers! And occasionally one could be more adventurous still--one could go and stay for a night or two at the Bothie at Alt-na-giuthasach--a mere couple of huts with 'a wooden addition'--and only eleven people in the whole party! And there were mountains to be climbed and cairns to be built in solemn pomp. 'At last, when the cairn, which is, I think, seven or eight feet high, was nearly completed, Albert climbed up to the top of it, and placed the last stone; after which three cheers were given. It was a gay, pretty, and touching sight; and I felt almost inclined to cry. The view was so beautiful over the dear hills; the day so fine; the {193} whole so _gemüthlich_.'[11] And in the evening there were sword-dances and reels. But Albert had determined to pull down the little old house, and to build in its place a Castle of his own designing. With great ceremony, in accordance with a memorandum drawn up by the Prince for the occasion, the foundation-stone of the new edifice was laid,[12] and by 1855 it was habitable. Spacious, built of granite in the Scotch baronial style, with a tower 100 feet high, and minor turrets and castellated gables, the Castle was skilfully arranged to command the finest views of the surrounding mountains and of the neighbouring river Dee. Upon the interior decorations Albert and Victoria lavished all their care. The walls and the floors were of pitch-pine, and covered with specially manufactured tartans. The Balmoral tartan, in red and grey, designed by the Prince, and the Victoria tartan, with a white stripe, designed by the Queen, were to be seen in every room: there were tartan curtains, and tartan chair-covers, and even tartan linoleums. Occasionally the Royal Stuart tartan appeared, for Her Majesty always maintained that she was an ardent Jacobite. Water-colour sketches by Victoria hung upon the walls, together with innumerable stags' antlers, and the head of a boar, which had been shot by Albert in Germany. In an alcove in the hall stood a life-sized statue of Albert in Highland dress.[13] Victoria declared that it was perfection. 'Every year,' she wrote, 'my heart becomes more fixed in this dear paradise, and so much more so now, that _all_ has become my dear Albert's _own_ creation, own work, own {194} building, own laying-out; ... and his great taste, and the impress of his dear hand, have been stamped everywhere.'[14] And here, in very truth, her happiest days were passed. In after years, when she looked back upon them, a kind of glory, a radiance as of an unearthly holiness, seemed to glow about these golden hours. Each hallowed moment stood out clear, beautiful, eternally significant. For, at the time, every experience there, sentimental, or grave, or trivial, had come upon her with a peculiar vividness, like a flashing of marvellous lights. Albert's stalkings--an evening walk when she lost her way--Vicky sitting down on a wasps' nest--a torchlight dance--with what intensity such things, and ten thousand like them, impressed themselves upon her eager consciousness! And how she flew to her journal to note them down! The news of the Duke's death! What a moment!--when, as she sat sketching after a picnic by a loch in the lonely hills, Lord Derby's letter had been brought to her, and she had learnt that '_England's_, or rather _Britain's_ pride, her glory, her hero, the greatest man she had ever produced, was no more!' For such were her reflections upon the 'old rebel' of former days. But that past had been utterly obliterated--no faintest memory of it remained. For years she had looked up to the Duke as a figure almost superhuman. Had he not been a supporter of good Sir Robert? Had he not asked Albert to succeed him as Commander-in-Chief? And what a proud moment it had been when he stood as sponsor to her son Arthur, who was born on his eighty-first birthday! So now she filled a whole page of her diary with panegyrical regrets. 'His position was the highest a subject ever {195} had--above party,--looked up to by all,--revered by the whole nation,--the friend of the Sovereign ... The Crown never possessed,--and I fear never _will_--so _devoted_, loyal, and faithful a subject, so staunch a supporter! To us his loss is _irreparable_ ... To Albert he showed the greatest kindness and the utmost confidence ... Not an eye will be dry in the whole country.'[15] These were serious thoughts; but they were soon succeeded by others hardly less moving--by events as impossible to forget--by Mr. MacLeod's sermon on Nicodemus,--by the gift of a red flannel petticoat to Mrs. P. Farquharson, and another to old Kitty Kear.[16] But, without doubt, most memorable, most delightful of all were the expeditions--the rare, exciting expeditions up distant mountains, across broad rivers, through strange country, and lasting several days. With only two gillies--Grant and Brown--for servants, and with assumed names ... it was more like something in a story than real life. 'We had decided to call ourselves _Lord and Lady Churchill and party_--Lady Churchill passing as _Miss Spencer_ and General Grey as _Dr. Grey_! Brown once forgot this and called me "Your Majesty" as I was getting into the carriage, and Grant on the box once called Albert "Your Royal Highness," which set us off laughing, but no one observed it.' Strong, vigorous, enthusiastic, bringing, so it seemed, good fortune with her--the Highlanders declared she had 'a lucky foot'--she relished everything--the scrambles and the views and the contretemps and the rough inns with their coarse fare and Brown and Grant waiting at table. She could have gone on for ever and ever, absolutely happy with Albert beside her and Brown at {196} her pony's head. But the time came for turning homewards; alas! the time came for going back to England. She could hardly bear it; she sat disconsolate in her room and watched the snow falling. The last day! Oh! If only she could be snowed up![17] III The Crimean War brought new experiences, and most of them were pleasant ones. It was pleasant to be patriotic and pugnacious, to look out appropriate prayers to be read in the churches, to have news of glorious victories, and to know oneself, more proudly than ever, the representative of England. With that spontaneity of feeling which was so peculiarly her own, Victoria poured out her emotion, her admiration, her pity, her love, upon her 'dear soldiers.' When she gave them their medals her exultation knew no bounds. 'Noble fellows!' she wrote to the King of the Belgians. 'I own I feel as if these were _my own children_; my heart beats for _them_ as for my _nearest and dearest_. They were so touched, so pleased; many, I hear, cried--and they won't hear of giving up their medals to have their names engraved upon them for fear they should _not_ receive the _identical one_ put into _their hands by me_, which is quite touching. Several came by in a sadly mutilated state.'[18] She and they were at one. They felt that she had done them a splendid honour, and she, with perfect genuineness, shared their feeling. Albert's attitude towards such things was different; there was an austerity in him which quite prohibited the expansions of emotion. When General Williams returned {197} from the heroic defence of Kars and was presented at Court, the quick, stiff, distant bow with which the Prince received him struck like ice upon the beholders.[19] He was a stranger still. But he had other things to occupy him, more important, surely, than the personal impressions of military officers and people who went to Court. He was at work--ceaselessly at work--on the tremendous task of carrying through the war to a successful conclusion. State papers, despatches, memoranda, poured from him in an overwhelming stream. Between 1853 and 1857 fifty folio volumes were filled with the comments of his pen upon the Eastern question.[20] Nothing would induce him to stop. Weary ministers staggered under the load of his advice; but his advice continued, piling itself up over their writing-tables, and flowing out upon them from red box after red box. Nor was it advice to be ignored. The talent for administration which had reorganised the royal palaces and planned the Great Exhibition asserted itself no less in the confused complexities of war. Again and again the Prince's suggestions, rejected or unheeded at first, were adopted under the stress of circumstances and found to be full of value. The enrolment of a foreign legion, the establishment of a depôt for troops at Malta, the institution of periodical reports and tabulated returns as to the condition of the army at Sebastopol--such were the contrivances and the achievements of his indefatigable brain. He went further: in a lengthy minute he laid down the lines for a radical reform in the entire administration of the army. This was premature, but his proposal that 'a camp of evolution' should be created, in which troops should {198} be concentrated and drilled, proved to be the germ of Aldershot.[21] Meanwhile Victoria had made a new friend: she had suddenly been captivated by Napoleon III. Her dislike of him had been strong at first. She considered that he was a disreputable adventurer who had usurped the throne of poor old Louis Philippe; and besides he was hand-in-glove with Lord Palmerston. For a long time, although he was her ally, she was unwilling to meet him; but at last a visit of the Emperor and Empress to England was arranged. Directly he appeared at Windsor her heart began to soften. She found that she was charmed by his quiet manners, his low, soft voice, and by the soothing simplicity of his conversation. The good-will of England was essential to the Emperor's position in Europe, and he had determined to fascinate the Queen. He succeeded. There was something deep within her which responded immediately and vehemently to natures that offered a romantic contrast with her own. Her adoration of Lord Melbourne was intimately interwoven with her half-unconscious appreciation of the exciting unlikeness between herself and that sophisticated, subtle, aristocratical old man. Very different was the quality of her unlikeness to Napoleon; but its quantity was at least as great. From behind the vast solidity of her respectability, her conventionality, her established happiness, she peered out with a strange delicious pleasure at that unfamiliar, darkly-glittering foreign object, moving so meteorically before her, an ambiguous creature of wilfulness and Destiny. And, to her surprise, where she had dreaded antagonisms, she discovered only sympathies. He was, she said, 'so quiet, so simple, _naïf_ even, so pleased to be informed {199} about things he does not know, so gentle, so full of tact, dignity, and modesty, so full of kind attention towards us, never saying a word, or doing a thing, which could put me out ... There is something fascinating, melancholy, and engaging, which draws you to him, in spite of any _prévention_ you may have against him, and certainly without the assistance of any outward appearance, though I like his face.' She observed that he rode 'extremely well, and looks well on horseback, as he sits high.' And he danced 'with great dignity and spirit.' Above all, he listened to Albert; listened with the most respectful attention; showed, in fact, how pleased he was 'to be informed about things he did not know'; and afterwards was heard to declare that he had never met the Prince's equal. On one occasion, indeed--but only on one--he had seemed to grow slightly restive. In a diplomatic conversation, 'I expatiated a little on the Holstein question,' wrote the Prince in a memorandum, 'which appeared to bore the Emperor as "très-compliquée"'[22] Victoria, too, became much attached to the Empress, whose looks and graces she admired without a touch of jealousy. Eugénie, indeed, in the plenitude of her beauty, exquisitely dressed in wonderful Parisian crinolines which set off to perfection her tall and willowy figure, might well have caused some heartburning in the breast of her hostess, who, very short, rather stout, quite plain, in garish middle-class garments, could hardly be expected to feel at her best in such company. But Victoria had no misgivings. To her it mattered nothing that her face turned red in the heat and that her purple pork-pie hat was of last year's fashion, while Eugénie, cool and modish, floated in an infinitude of {200} flounces by her side. She was Queen of England, and was not that enough? It certainly seemed to be; true majesty was hers, and she knew it. More than once, when the two were together in public, it was the woman to whom, as it seemed, nature and art had given so little, who, by the sheer force of an inherent grandeur, completely threw her adorned and beautiful companion into the shade.[23] There were tears when the moment came for parting, and Victoria felt 'quite wehmüthig,' as her guests went away from Windsor. But before long she and Albert paid a return visit to France, where everything was very delightful, and she drove incognito through the streets of Paris in 'a common bonnet,' and saw a play in the theatre at St. Cloud, and, one evening, at a great party given by the Emperor in her honour at the Château of Versailles, talked a little to a distinguished-looking Prussian gentleman, whose name was Bismarck. Her rooms were furnished so much to her taste that she declared they gave her quite a home feeling--that, if her little dog were there, she should really imagine herself at home. Nothing was said, but three days later her little dog barked a welcome to her as she entered the apartments. The Emperor himself, sparing neither trouble nor expense, had personally arranged the charming surprise.[24] Such were his attentions. She returned to England more enchanted than ever. 'Strange indeed,' she exclaimed, 'are the dispensations and ways of Providence!'[25] The alliance prospered, and the war drew towards a conclusion. Both the Queen and the Prince, it is true, were most anxious that there should not be a premature {201} peace. When Lord Aberdeen wished to open negotiations Albert attacked him in a '_geharnischten_' letter, while Victoria rode about on horseback reviewing the troops. At last, however, Sebastopol was captured. The news reached Balmoral late at night, and 'in a few minutes Albert and all the gentlemen in every species of attire sallied forth, followed by all the servants, and gradually by all the population of the village--keepers, gillies, workmen--up to the top of the cairn.' A bonfire was lighted, the pipes were played, and guns were shot off. 'About three-quarters of an hour after Albert came down and said the scene had been wild and exciting beyond everything. The people had been drinking healths in whisky and were in great ecstasy.'[26] The 'great ecstasy,' perhaps, would be replaced by other feelings next morning; but at any rate the war was over--though, to be sure, its end seemed as difficult to account for as its beginning. The dispensations and ways of Providence continued to be strange. IV An unexpected consequence of the war was a complete change in the relations between the royal pair and Palmerston. The Prince and the Minister drew together over their hostility to Russia, and thus it came about that when Victoria found it necessary to summon her old enemy to form an administration she did so without reluctance. The premiership, too, had a sobering effect upon Palmerston; he grew less impatient and dictatorial; considered with attention the suggestions of the Crown, and was, besides, {202} genuinely impressed by the Prince's ability and knowledge.[27] Friction, no doubt, there still occasionally was, for, while the Queen and the Prince devoted themselves to foreign politics as much as ever, their views, when the war was over, became once more antagonistic to those of the Prime Minister. This was especially the case with regard to Italy. Albert, theoretically the friend of constitutional government, distrusted Cavour, was horrified by Garibaldi, and dreaded the danger of England being drawn into war with Austria. Palmerston, on the other hand, was eager for Italian independence; but he was no longer at the Foreign Office, and the brunt of the royal displeasure had now to be borne by Lord John Russell. In a few years the situation had curiously altered. It was Lord John who now filled the subordinate and the ungrateful rôle; but the Foreign Secretary, in his struggle with the Crown, was supported, instead of opposed, by the Prime Minister. Nevertheless the struggle was fierce, and the policy, by which the vigorous sympathy of England became one of the decisive factors in the final achievement of Italian unity, was only carried through in face of the violent opposition of the Court.[28] Towards the other European storm-centre, also, the Prince's attitude continued to be very different from that of Palmerston. Albert's great wish was for a united Germany under the leadership of a constitutional and virtuous Prussia; Palmerston did not think that there was much to be said for the scheme, but he took no particular interest in German politics, and was ready {203} enough to agree to a proposal which was warmly supported by both the Prince and the Queen--that the royal Houses of England and Prussia should be united by the marriage of the Princess Royal with the Prussian Crown Prince. Accordingly, when the Princess was not yet fifteen, the Prince, a young man of twenty-four, came over on a visit to Balmoral, and the betrothal took place.[29] Two years later, in 1857, the marriage was celebrated. At the last moment, however, it seemed that there might be a hitch. It was pointed out in Prussia that it was customary for Princes of the blood-royal to be married in Berlin, and it was suggested that there was no reason why the present case should be treated as an exception. When this reached the ears of Victoria, she was speechless with indignation. In a note, emphatic even for Her Majesty, she instructed the Foreign Secretary to tell the Prussian Ambassador 'not to _entertain_ the _possibility_ of such a question.... The Queen _never_ could consent to it, both for public and for private reasons, and the assumption of its being _too much_ for a Prince Royal of Prussia to come over to marry _the Princess Royal of Great Britain_ in England is too _absurd_ to say the least.... Whatever may be the usual practice of Prussian princes, it is not _every_ day that one marries the eldest daughter of the Queen of England. The question must therefore be considered as settled and closed.'[30] It was, and the wedding took place in St. James's Chapel. There were great festivities--illuminations, state concerts, immense crowds, and general rejoicings. At Windsor a magnificent banquet was given to the bride and bridegroom in the Waterloo room, at which, Victoria noted in her diary, 'everybody was most friendly and kind {204} about Vicky and full of the universal enthusiasm, of which the Duke of Buccleuch gave us most pleasing instances, he having been in the very thick of the crowd and among the lowest of the low.' Her feelings during several days had been growing more and more emotional, and when the time came for the young couple to depart she very nearly broke down--but not quite. 'Poor dear child!' she wrote afterwards. 'I clasped her in my arms and blessed her, and knew not what to say. I kissed good Fritz and pressed his hand again and again. He was unable to speak and the tears were in his eyes. I embraced them both again at the carriage door, and Albert got into the carriage, an open one, with them and Bertie.... The band struck up. I wished good-bye to the good Perponchers. General Schreckenstein was much affected. I pressed his hand, and the good Dean's, and then went quickly upstairs.'[31] Albert, as well as General Schreckenstein, was much affected. He was losing his favourite child, whose opening intelligence had already begun to display a marked resemblance to his own--an adoring pupil, who, in a few years, might have become an almost adequate companion. An ironic fate had determined that the daughter who was taken from him should be sympathetic, clever, interested in the arts and sciences, and endowed with a strong taste for memoranda, while not a single one of these qualities could be discovered in the son who remained. For certainly the Prince of Wales did not take after his father. Victoria's prayer had been unanswered, and with each succeeding year it became more obvious that Bertie was a true scion of the House of Brunswick. But these evidences of {205} innate characteristics served only to redouble the efforts of his parents; it still might not be too late to incline the young branch, by ceaseless pressure and careful fastenings, to grow in the proper direction. Everything was tried. The boy was sent on a continental tour with a picked body of tutors, but the results were unsatisfactory. At his father's request he kept a diary which, on his return, was inspected by the Prince. It was found to be distressingly meagre: what a multitude of highly interesting reflections might have been arranged under the heading: 'The First Prince of Wales visiting the Pope!' But there was not a single one. 'Le jeune prince plaisait à tout le monde,' old Metternich reported to Guizot, 'mais avait l'air embarrassé et très triste.' On his seventeenth birthday a memorandum was drawn up over the names of the Queen and the Prince informing their eldest son that he was now entering upon the period of manhood, and directing him henceforward to perform the duties of a Christian gentleman. 'Life is composed of duties,' said the memorandum, 'and in the due, punctual and cheerful performance of them the true Christian, true soldier, and true gentleman is recognised.... A new sphere of life will open for you in which you will have to be taught what to do and what not to do, a subject requiring study more important than any in which you have hitherto been engaged.' On receipt of the memorandum Bertie burst into tears. At the same time another memorandum was drawn up, headed 'Confidential: for the guidance of the gentlemen appointed to attend on the Prince of Wales.' This long and elaborate document laid down 'certain principles' by which the 'conduct and demeanour' of the gentlemen were to be regulated 'and which it {206} is thought may conduce to the benefit of the Prince of Wales.' 'The qualities which distinguish a gentleman in society,' continued this remarkable paper, 'are:-- (1) His appearance, his deportment and dress. (2) The character of his relations with, and treatment of, others. (3) His desire and power to acquit himself creditably in conversation or whatever is the occupation of the society with which he mixes.' A minute and detailed analysis of these sub-headings followed, filling several pages, and the memorandum ended with a final exhortation to the gentlemen: 'If they will duly appreciate the responsibility of their position, and taking the points above laid down as the outline, will exercise their own good sense in acting _upon all occasions_ upon these principles, thinking no point of detail too minute to be important, but maintaining one steady consistent line of conduct, they may render essential service to the young Prince and justify the flattering selection made by the royal parents.' A year later the young Prince was sent to Oxford, where the greatest care was taken that he should not mix with the undergraduates. Yes, everything had been tried--everything ... with one single exception. The experiment had never been made of letting Bertie enjoy himself. But why should it have been? 'Life is composed of duties.' What possible place could there be for enjoyment in the existence of a Prince of Wales?[32] The same year which deprived Albert of the Princess Royal brought him another and a still more serious loss. The Baron had paid his last visit to England. For twenty years, as he himself said in a letter to the {207} King of the Belgians, he had performed 'the laborious and exhausting office of a paternal friend and trusted adviser' to the Prince and the Queen. He was seventy; he was tired, physically and mentally; it was time to go. He returned to his home in Coburg, exchanging, once for all, the momentous secrecies of European statecraft for the tittle-tattle of a provincial capital and the gossip of family life. In his stiff chair by the fire he nodded now over old stories--not of emperors and generals, but of neighbours and relatives and the domestic adventures of long ago--the burning of his father's library--and the goat that ran upstairs to his sister's room and ran twice round the table and then ran down again. Dyspepsia and depression still attacked him; but, looking back over his life, he was not dissatisfied. His conscience was clear. 'I have worked as long as I had strength to work,' he said, 'and for a purpose no one can impugn. The consciousness of this is my reward--the only one which I desired to earn.'[33] Apparently, indeed, his 'purpose' had been accomplished. By his wisdom, his patience, and his example he had brought about, in the fullness of time, the miraculous metamorphosis of which he had dreamed. The Prince was his creation. An indefatigable toiler, presiding, for the highest ends, over a great nation--that was his achievement; and he looked upon his work and it was good. But had the Baron no misgivings? Did he never wonder whether, perhaps, he might have accomplished not too little but too much? How subtle and how dangerous are the snares which fate lays for the wariest of men! Albert, certainly, seemed to be everything that Stockmar could have {208} wished--virtuous, industrious, persevering, intelligent. And yet--why was it?--all was not well with him. He was sick at heart. For in spite of everything he had never reached to happiness. His work, for which at last he came to crave with an almost morbid appetite, was a solace and not a cure; the dragon of his dissatisfaction devoured with dark relish that ever-growing tribute of laborious days and nights; but it was hungry still. The causes of his melancholy were hidden, mysterious, unanalysable perhaps--too deeply rooted in the innermost recesses of his temperament for the eye of reason to apprehend. There were contradictions in his nature, which, to some of those who knew him best, made him seem an inexplicable enigma: he was severe and gentle; he was modest and scornful; he longed for affection and he was cold.[34] He was lonely, not merely with the loneliness of exile but with the loneliness of conscious and unrecognised superiority. He had the pride, at once resigned and overweening, of a doctrinaire. And yet to say that he was simply a doctrinaire would be a false description; for the pure doctrinaire rejoices always in an internal contentment, and Albert was very far from doing that. There was something that he wanted and that he could never get. What was it? Some absolute, some ineffable sympathy? Some extraordinary, some sublime success? Possibly, it was a mixture of both. To dominate and to be understood! To conquer, by the same triumphant influence, the submission and the appreciation of men--that would be worth while indeed! But, to such imaginations, he saw too clearly how faint were the responses of his actual environment. Who was there who appreciated {209} him, really and truly? Who _could_ appreciate him in England? And, if the gentle virtue of an inward excellence availed so little, could he expect more from the hard ways of skill and force? The terrible land of his exile loomed before him a frigid, an impregnable mass. Doubtless he had made some slight impression: it was true that he had gained the respect of his fellow workers, that his probity, his industry, his exactitude, had been recognised, that he was a highly influential, an extremely important man. But how far, how very far, was all this from the goal of his ambitions! How feeble and futile his efforts seemed against the enormous coagulation of dullness, of folly, of slackness, of ignorance, of confusion that confronted him! He might have the strength or the ingenuity to make some small change for the better here or there--to rearrange some detail, to abolish some anomaly, to insist upon some obvious reform; but the heart of the appalling organism remained untouched. England lumbered on, impervious and self-satisfied, in her old intolerable course. He threw himself across the path of the monster with rigid purpose and set teeth, but he was brushed aside. Yes! even Palmerston was still unconquered--was still there to afflict him with his jauntiness, his muddle-headedness, his utter lack of principle. It was too much. Neither nature nor the Baron had given him a sanguine spirit; the seeds of pessimism, once lodged within him, flourished in a propitious soil. He 'questioned things, and did not find One that would answer to his mind; And all the world appeared unkind.' He believed that he was a failure and he began to despair. {210} Yet Stockmar had told him that he must 'never relax,' and he never would. He would go on, working to the utmost and striving for the highest, to the bitter end. His industry grew almost maniacal. Earlier and earlier was the green lamp lighted; more vast grew the correspondence; more searching the examination of the newspapers; the interminable memoranda more punctilious, analytical, and precise. His very recreations became duties. He enjoyed himself by time-table, went deer-stalking with meticulous gusto, and made puns at lunch--it was the right thing to do. The mechanism worked with astonishing efficiency, but it never rested and it was never oiled. In dry exactitude the innumerable cog-wheels perpetually revolved. No, whatever happened, the Prince would not relax; he had absorbed the doctrines of Stockmar too thoroughly. He knew what was right, and, at all costs, he would pursue it. That was certain. But alas! in this our life what are the certainties? 'In nothing be over-zealous!' says an old Greek. 'The due measure in all the works of man is best. For often one who zealously pushes towards some excellence, though he be pursuing a gain, is really being led utterly astray by the will of some Power, which makes those things that are evil seem to him good, and those things seem to him evil that are for his advantage.'[35] Surely, both the Prince and the Baron might have learnt something from the frigid wisdom of Theognis. Victoria noticed that her husband sometimes seemed to be depressed and overworked. She tried to cheer him up. Realising uneasily that he was still regarded as a foreigner, she hoped that by conferring upon him the title of Prince Consort (1857) she would improve his {211} position in the country. 'The Queen has a right to claim that her husband should be an Englishman,' she wrote.[36] But unfortunately, in spite of the Royal Letters Patent, Albert remained as foreign as before; and as the years passed his dejection deepened. She worked with him, she watched over him, she walked with him through the woods at Osborne, while he whistled to the nightingales, as he had whistled once at Rosenau so long ago.[37] When his birthday came round, she took the greatest pains to choose him presents that he would really like. In 1858, when he was thirty-nine, she gave him 'a picture of Beatrice, life-size, in oil, by Horsley, a complete collection of photographic views of Gotha and the country round, which I had taken by Bedford, and a paper-weight of Balmoral granite and deers' teeth, designed by Vicky.'[38] Albert was of course delighted, and his merriment at the family gathering was more pronounced than ever: and yet ... what was there that was wrong? No doubt it was his health. He was wearing himself out in the service of the country; and certainly his constitution, as Stockmar had perceived from the first, was ill-adapted to meet a serious strain. He was easily upset; he constantly suffered from minor ailments. His appearance in itself was enough to indicate the infirmity of his physical powers. The handsome youth of twenty years since with the flashing eyes and the soft complexion had grown into a sallow, tired-looking man, whose body, in its stoop and its loose fleshiness, betrayed the sedentary labourer, and whose head was quite bald on the top. Unkind critics, who had once compared Albert to an operatic tenor, might {212} have remarked that there was something of the butler about him now. Beside Victoria, he presented a painful contrast. She, too, was stout, but it was with the plumpness of a vigorous matron; and an eager vitality was everywhere visible--in her energetic bearing, her protruding, enquiring glances, her small, fat, capable, and commanding hands. If only, by some sympathetic magic, she could have conveyed into that portly, flabby figure, that desiccated and discouraged brain, a measure of the stamina and the self-assurance which were so pre-eminently hers! But suddenly she was reminded that there were other perils besides those of ill-health. During a visit to Coburg in 1860, the Prince was very nearly killed in a carriage accident. He escaped with a few cuts and bruises; but Victoria's alarm was extreme, though she concealed it. 'It is when the Queen feels most deeply,' she wrote afterwards, 'that she always appears calmest, and she could not and dared not allow herself to speak of what might have been, or even to admit to herself (and she cannot and dare not now) the entire danger, for her head would turn!' Her agitation, in fact, was only surpassed by her thankfulness to God. She felt, she said, that she could not rest 'without doing something to mark permanently her feelings,' and she decided that she would endow a charity in Coburg. '£1,000, or even £2,000, given either at once, or in instalments yearly, would not, in the Queen's opinion, be too much.' Eventually, the smaller sum having been fixed upon, it was invested in a trust, called the 'Victoria-Stift,' in the names of the Burgomaster and chief clergyman of Coburg, who were directed to distribute the interest yearly among a certain number {213} of young men and women of exemplary character belonging to the humbler ranks of life.[39] Shortly afterwards the Queen underwent, for the first time in her life, the actual experience of close personal loss. Early in 1861 the Duchess of Kent was taken seriously ill, and in March she died. The event overwhelmed Victoria. With a morbid intensity, she filled her diary for pages with minute descriptions of her mother's last hours, her dissolution, and her corpse, interspersed with vehement apostrophes, and the agitated outpourings of emotional reflection. In the grief of the present the disagreements of the past were totally forgotten. It was the horror and the mystery of Death--Death present and actual--that seized upon the imagination of the Queen. Her whole being, so instinct with vitality, recoiled in agony from the grim spectacle of the triumph of that awful power. Her own mother, with whom she had lived so closely and so long that she had become a part almost of her existence, had fallen into nothingness before her very eyes! She tried to forget it, but she could not. Her lamentations continued with a strange abundance, a strange persistency. It was almost as if, by some mysterious and unconscious precognition, she realised that for her, in an especial manner, that grisly Majesty had a dreadful dart in store. For indeed, before the year was out, a far more terrible blow was to fall upon her. Albert, who had for long been suffering from sleeplessness, went, on a cold and drenching day towards the end of November, to inspect the buildings for the new Military Academy at Sandhurst. On his return, it was clear that the {214} fatigue and exposure to which he had been subjected had seriously affected his health. He was attacked by rheumatism, his sleeplessness continued, and he complained that he felt thoroughly unwell. Three days later a painful duty obliged him to visit Cambridge. The Prince of Wales, who had been placed at that University in the previous year, was behaving in such a manner that a parental visit and a parental admonition had become necessary. The disappointed father, suffering in mind and body, carried through his task; but, on his return journey to Windsor, he caught a fatal chill.[40] During the next week he gradually grew weaker and more miserable. Yet, depressed and enfeebled as he was, he continued to work. It so happened that at that very moment a grave diplomatic crisis had arisen. Civil war had broken out in America, and it seemed as if England, owing to a violent quarrel with the Northern States, was upon the point of being drawn into the conflict. A severe despatch by Lord John Russell was submitted to the Queen; and the Prince perceived that, if it were sent off unaltered, war would be the almost inevitable consequence. At seven o'clock on the morning of December 1, he rose from his bed, and with a quavering hand wrote a series of suggestions for the alteration of the draft, by which its language might be softened, and a way left open for a peaceful solution of the question. These changes were accepted by the Government, and war was averted. It was the Prince's last memorandum.[41] He had always declared that he viewed the prospect of death with equanimity. 'I do not cling to life,' he had once said to Victoria. 'You do; but I set no {215} store by it.' And then he had added: 'I am sure, if I had a severe illness, I should give up at once, I should not struggle for life. I have no tenacity of life.'[42] He had judged correctly. Before he had been ill many days, he told a friend that he was convinced he would not recover.[43] He sank and sank. Nevertheless, if his case had been properly understood and skilfully treated from the first, he might conceivably have been saved; but the doctors failed to diagnose his symptoms; and it is noteworthy that his principal physician was Sir James Clark. When it was suggested that other advice should be taken, Sir James pooh-poohed the idea: 'there was no cause for alarm,' he said. But the strange illness grew worse. At last, after a letter of fierce remonstrance from Palmerston, Dr. Watson was sent for; and Dr. Watson saw at once that he had come too late. The Prince was in the grip of typhoid fever. 'I think that everything so far is satisfactory,' said Sir James Clark.[44] The restlessness and the acute suffering of the earlier days gave place to a settled torpor and an ever-deepening gloom. Once the failing patient asked for music--'a fine chorale at a distance'; and a piano having been placed in the adjoining room, Princess Alice played on it some of Luther's hymns, after which the Prince repeated 'The Rock of Ages.' Sometimes his mind wandered; sometimes the distant past came rushing upon him; he heard the birds in the early {216} morning, and was at Rosenau again, a boy. Or Victoria would come and read to him 'Peveril of the Peak,' and he showed that he could follow the story, and then she would bend over him, and he would murmur 'liebes Frauchen' and 'gutes Weibchen,' stroking her cheek. Her distress and her agitation were great, but she was not seriously frightened. Buoyed up by her own abundant energies, she would not believe that Albert's might prove unequal to the strain. She refused to face such a hideous possibility. She declined to see Dr. Watson. Why should she? Had not Sir James Clark assured her that all would be well? Only two days before the end, which was seen now to be almost inevitable by everyone about her, she wrote, full of apparent confidence, to the King of the Belgians: 'I do not sit up with him at night,' she said, 'as I could be of no use; and there is nothing to cause alarm.'[45] The Princess Alice tried to tell her the truth, but her hopefulness would not be daunted. On the morning of December 14, Albert, just as she had expected, seemed to be better; perhaps the crisis was over. But in the course of the day there was a serious relapse. Then at last she allowed herself to see that she was standing on the edge of an appalling gulf. The whole family was summoned, and, one after another, the children took a silent farewell of their father. 'It was a terrible moment,' Victoria wrote in her diary, 'but, thank God! I was able to command myself, and to be perfectly calm, and remained sitting by his side.' He murmured something, but she could not hear what it was; she thought he was speaking in French. Then all at once he began to arrange his hair, 'just as he used to do when well and he was {217} dressing.' 'Es ist kleines Frauchen,' she whispered to him; and he seemed to understand. For a moment, towards the evening, she went into another room, but was immediately called back: she saw at a glance that a ghastly change had taken place. As she knelt by the bed, he breathed deeply, breathed gently, breathed at last no more. His features became perfectly rigid. She shrieked--one long wild shriek that rang through the terror-stricken Castle--and understood that she had lost him for ever.[46] [1] Martin, II, 161. [2] 'Read this carefully, and tell me if there are any mistakes in it.' [3] 'Here is a draft I have made for you. Read it. I should think this would do.' [4] Martin, V, 273-5. [5] _Ibid._, II, 379. [6] Martin, IV, 14-15, 60. [7] _Ibid._, II, 479. [8] Martin, II, 251-2; Bloomfield, II, 110. [9] _D.N.B._, Second Supplement, Art. 'Edward VII'; _Quarterly Review_, CCXIII, 4-7, 16. [10] _Leaves_, 18, 33, 34, 36, 127-8, 132_n_. [11] _Leaves_, 73-4, 95-6; Greville, VI, 303-4. [12] _Leaves_, 99-100. [13] _Private Life_, 209-11; _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 335. [14] _Leaves_, 103, 111. [15] _Leaves_, 92-4. [16] _Ibid._, 102, 113-4. [17] _Leaves_, 72, 117, 137. [18] _Letters_, III, 127. [19] Private information. [20] Martin, III, v. [21] Martin, III, 146-7, 168-9, 177-9, [22] Martin, III, 242, 245, 351; IV, 111. [23] _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 313-4; _Spinster Lady_, 7. [24] Crawford, 311-2. [25] Martin, III, 350. [26] _Leaves_, 105-6. [27] Martin, II, 429. [28] _Letters_, III, especially July-December 1859; Martin, IV, 488-91; V, 189. [29] _Leaves_, 107. [30] _Letters_, III, 253. [31] Martin, IV, 160-9. [32] _D.N.B._, Second Supplement, 551; _Quarterly Review_, CCXIII, 9-20, 24; Greville, VIII, 217. [33] Stockmar, 4, 44. [34] Ernest, I, 140-1. [35] Theognis, 401 ff. [36] _Letters_, III, 194. [37] Grey, 195_n_. [38] Martin, IV, 298. [39] Martin, V, 202-4, 217-9. [40] _D.N.B._, Second Supplement, 557. [41] Martin, V, 416-27. [42] Martin, V, 415. [43] Bloomfield, II, 155. [44] Martin, V, 427-35; Clarendon, II, 253-4: 'One cannot speak with certainty; but it is horrible to think that such a life _may_ have been sacrificed to Sir J. Clark's selfish jealousy of every member of his profession.'--The Earl of Clarendon to the Duchess of Manchester, Dec. 17, 1861. [45] _Letters_, III, 472-3. [46] Martin, V, 435-42; Hare, II, 286-8; _Spinster Lady_, 176-7. {218} CHAPTER VII WIDOWHOOD I The death of the Prince Consort was the central turning-point in the history of Queen Victoria. She herself felt that her true life had ceased with her husband's, and that the remainder of her days upon earth was of a twilight nature--an epilogue to a drama that was done. Nor is it possible that her biographer should escape a similar impression. For him, too, there is a darkness over the latter half of that long career. The first forty-two years of the Queen's life are illuminated by a great and varied quantity of authentic information. With Albert's death a veil descends. Only occasionally, at fitful and disconnected intervals, does it lift for a moment or two; a few main outlines, a few remarkable details may be discerned; the rest is all conjecture and ambiguity. Thus, though the Queen survived her great bereavement for almost as many years as she had lived before it, the chronicle of those years can bear no proportion to the tale of her earlier life. We must be content in our ignorance with a brief and summary relation. [Illustration: QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1863.] The sudden removal of the Prince was not merely a matter of overwhelming personal concern to Victoria; it was an event of national, of European importance. He was only forty-two, and in the ordinary course of {219} nature he might have been expected to live at least thirty years longer. Had he done so it can hardly be doubted that the whole development of the English polity would have been changed. Already at the time of his death he filled a unique place in English public life; already among the inner circle of politicians he was accepted as a necessary and useful part of the mechanism of the State. Lord Clarendon, for instance, spoke of his death as 'a national calamity of far greater importance than the public dream of,' and lamented the loss of his 'sagacity and foresight,' which, he declared, would have been 'more than ever valuable' in the event of an American war.[1] And, as time went on, the Prince's influence must have enormously increased. For, in addition to his intellectual and moral qualities, he enjoyed, by virtue of his position, one supreme advantage which every other holder of high office in the country was without: he was permanent. Politicians came and went, but the Prince was perpetually installed at the centre of affairs. Who can doubt that, towards the end of the century, such a man, grown grey in the service of the nation, virtuous, intelligent, and with the unexampled experience of a whole lifetime of government, would have acquired an extraordinary prestige? If, in his youth, he had been able to pit the Crown against the mighty Palmerston and to come off with equal honours from the contest, of what might he not have been capable in his old age? What Minister, however able, however popular, could have withstood the wisdom, the irreproachability, the vast prescriptive authority, of the venerable Prince? It is easy to imagine how, under such a ruler, an attempt might have been made to convert England into a State as exactly {220} organised, as elaborately trained, as efficiently equipped, and as autocratically controlled, as Prussia herself. Then perhaps, eventually, under some powerful leader--a Gladstone or a Bright--the democratic forces in the country might have rallied together, and a struggle might have followed in which the Monarchy would have been shaken to its foundations. Or, on the other hand, Disraeli's hypothetical prophecy might have come true. 'With Prince Albert,' he said, 'we have buried our sovereign. This German Prince has governed England for twenty-one years with a wisdom and energy such as none of our kings have ever shown.... If he had outlived some of our "old stagers" he would have given us the blessings of absolute government."[2] The English Constitution--that indescribable entity--is a living thing, growing with the growth of men, and assuming ever-varying forms in accordance with the subtle and complex laws of human character. It is the child of wisdom and chance. The wise men of 1688 moulded it into the shape we know; but the chance that George I could not speak English gave it one of its essential peculiarities--the system of a Cabinet independent of the Crown and subordinate to the Prime Minister. The wisdom of Lord Grey saved it from petrifaction and destruction, and set it upon the path of Democracy. Then chance intervened once more; a female sovereign happened to marry an able and pertinacious man; and it seemed likely that an element which had been quiescent within it for years--the element of irresponsible administrative power--was about to become its predominant characteristic and to change completely the direction of its growth. But what chance gave, chance took away. The Consort perished {221} in his prime; and the English Constitution, dropping the dead limb with hardly a tremor, continued its mysterious life as if he had never been. One human being, and one alone, felt the full force of what had happened. The Baron, by his fireside at Coburg, suddenly saw the tremendous fabric of his creation crash down into sheer and irremediable ruin. Albert was gone, and he had lived in vain. Even his blackest hypochondria had never envisioned quite so miserable a catastrophe. Victoria wrote to him, visited him, tried to console him by declaring with passionate conviction that she would carry on her husband's work. He smiled a sad smile and looked into the fire. Then he murmured that he was going where Albert was--that he would not be long.[3] He shrank into himself. His children clustered round him and did their best to comfort him, but it was useless: the Baron's heart was broken. He lingered for eighteen months, and then, with his pupil, explored the shadow and the dust. II With appalling suddenness Victoria had exchanged the serene radiance of happiness for the utter darkness of woe. In the first dreadful moments those about her had feared that she might lose her reason, but the iron strain within her held firm, and in the intervals between the intense paroxysms of grief it was observed that the Queen was calm. She remembered, too, that Albert had always disapproved of exaggerated manifestations of feeling, and her one remaining desire was to do nothing but what he would have wished. Yet there were moments when her royal anguish would {222} brook no restraints. One day she sent for the Duchess of Sutherland, and, leading her to the Prince's room, fell prostrate before his clothes in a flood of weeping, while she adjured the Duchess to tell her whether the beauty of Albert's character had ever been surpassed.[4] At other times a feeling akin to indignation swept over her. 'The poor fatherless baby of eight months,' she wrote to the King of the Belgians, 'is now the utterly heart-broken and crushed widow of forty-two! My _life_ as a _happy_ one is _ended_! The world is gone for _me_! ... Oh! to be cut off in the prime of life--to see our pure, happy, quiet, domestic life, which _alone_ enabled me to bear my _much_ disliked position, CUT OFF at forty-two--when I _had_ hoped with such instinctive certainty that God never _would_ part us, and would let us grow old together (though _he_ always talked of the shortness of life)--is _too awful_, too cruel!'[5] The tone of outraged Majesty seems to be discernible. Did she wonder in her heart of hearts how the Deity could have dared? But all other emotions gave way before her overmastering determination to continue, absolutely unchanged, and for the rest of her life on earth, her reverence, her obedience, her idolatry. 'I am anxious to repeat one thing,' she told her uncle, 'and _that one_ is _my firm_ resolve, my _irrevocable decision_, viz. that _his_ wishes--_his_ plans--about everything, _his_ views about _every_ thing are to be _my law_! And _no human power_ will make me swerve from _what he_ decided and wished.' She grew fierce, she grew furious, at the thought of any possible intrusion between her and her desire. Her uncle was coming to visit her, and it flashed upon her that _he_ might try to interfere with her and seek to 'rule the roost' as of old. She would give him a hint. 'I {223} am _also determined_,' she wrote, 'that _no one_ person--may he be ever so good, ever so devoted among my servants--is to lead or guide or dictate _to me_. I know _how he_ would disapprove it ... Though miserably weak and utterly shattered, my spirit rises when I think any wish or plan of his is to be touched or changed, or I am to be _made to do_ anything.' She ended her letter in grief and affection. She was, she said, his 'ever wretched but devoted child, Victoria R.' And then she looked at the date: it was the 24th of December. An agonising pang assailed her, and she dashed down a postscript--'What a Xmas! I won't think of it.'[6] At first, in the tumult of her distresses, she declared that she could not see her Ministers, and the Princess Alice, assisted by Sir Charles Phipps, the keeper of the Privy Purse, performed, to the best of her ability, the functions of an intermediary. After a few weeks, however, the Cabinet, through Lord John Russell, ventured to warn the Queen that this could not continue.[7] She realised that they were right: Albert would have agreed with them; and so she sent for the Prime Minister. But when Lord Palmerston arrived at Osborne, in the pink of health, brisk, with his whiskers freshly dyed, and dressed in a brown overcoat, light grey trousers, green gloves, and blue studs, he did not create a very good impression.[8] Nevertheless, she had grown attached to her old enemy, and the thought of a political change filled her with agitated apprehensions. The Government, she knew, might fall at any moment; she felt she could not face such an eventuality; and therefore, six months after the death of the Prince, she took the unprecedented {224} step of sending a private message to Lord Derby, the leader of the Opposition, to tell him that she was not in a fit state of mind or body to undergo the anxiety of a change of Government, and that if he turned the present Ministers out of office it would be at the risk of sacrificing her life--or her reason. When this message reached Lord Derby he was considerably surprised. 'Dear me!' was his cynical comment. 'I didn't think she was so fond of them as _that_.'[9] Though the violence of her perturbations gradually subsided, her cheerfulness did not return. For months, for years, she continued in settled gloom. Her life became one of almost complete seclusion. Arrayed in thickest _crêpe_, she passed dolefully from Windsor to Osborne, from Osborne to Balmoral. Rarely visiting the capital, refusing to take any part in the ceremonies of state, shutting herself off from the slightest intercourse with society, she became almost as unknown to her subjects as some potentate of the East. They might murmur, but they did not understand. What had she to do with empty shows and vain enjoyments? No! She was absorbed by very different preoccupations. She was the devoted guardian of a sacred trust. Her place was in the inmost shrine of the house of mourning--where she alone had the right to enter, where she could feel the effluence of a mysterious presence, and interpret, however faintly and feebly, the promptings of a still living soul. That, and that only, was her glorious, her terrible duty. For terrible indeed it was. As the years passed her depression seemed to deepen and her loneliness to grow more intense. 'I am on a dreary sad pinnacle of solitary grandeur,' she said.[10] Again and again she felt that she {225} could bear her situation no longer--that she would sink under the strain. And then, instantly, that Voice spoke: and she braced herself once more to perform, with minute conscientiousness, her grim and holy task. Above all else, what she had to do was to make her own the master-impulse of Albert's life--she must work, as he had worked, in the service of the country. That vast burden of toil which he had taken upon his shoulders it was now for her to bear. She assumed the gigantic load; and naturally she staggered under it. While he had lived, she had worked, indeed, with regularity and application; but it was work made easy, made delicious, by his care, his forethought, his advice, and his infallibility. The mere sound of his voice, asking her to sign a paper, had thrilled her; in such a presence she could have laboured gladly for ever. But now there was a hideous change. Now there were no neat piles and docketings under the green lamp; now there were no simple explanations of difficult matters; now there was nobody to tell her what was right and what was wrong. She had her secretaries, no doubt: there were Sir Charles Phipps, and General Grey, and Sir Thomas Biddulph; and they did their best. But they were mere subordinates: the whole weight of initiative and responsibility rested upon her alone. For so it had to be. 'I am _determined_'--had she not declared it?--'that no one person is to lead or guide or dictate _to me_'; anything else would be a betrayal of her trust. She would follow the Prince in all things. He had refused to delegate authority; he had examined into every detail with his own eyes; he had made it a rule never to sign a paper without having first, not merely read it, but made notes on it too. She {226} would do the same. She sat from morning till night surrounded by huge heaps of despatch-boxes, reading and writing at her desk--at her desk, alas! which stood alone now in the room.[11] Within two years of Albert's death a violent disturbance in foreign politics put Victoria's faithfulness to a crucial test. The fearful Schleswig-Holstein dispute, which had been smouldering for more than a decade, showed signs of bursting out into conflagration. The complexity of the questions at issue was indescribable. 'Only three people,' said Palmerston, 'have ever really understood the Schleswig-Holstein business--the Prince Consort, who is dead--a German professor, who has gone mad--and I, who have forgotten all about it.'[12] But, though the Prince might be dead, had he not left a vicegerent behind him? Victoria threw herself into the seething embroilment with the vigour of inspiration. She devoted hours daily to the study of the affair in all its windings; but she had a clue through the labyrinth: whenever the question had been discussed, Albert, she recollected it perfectly, had always taken the side of Prussia. Her course was clear. She became an ardent champion of the Prussian point of view. It was a legacy from the Prince, she said.[13] She did not realise that the Prussia of the Prince's days was dead, and that a new Prussia, the Prussia of Bismarck, was born. Perhaps Palmerston, with his queer prescience, instinctively apprehended the new danger; at any rate, he and Lord John were agreed upon the necessity of {227} supporting Denmark against Prussia's claims. But opinion was sharply divided, not only in the country but in the Cabinet. For eighteen months the controversy raged; while the Queen, with persistent vehemence, opposed the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary. When at last the final crisis arose--when it seemed possible that England would join forces with Denmark in a war against Prussia--Victoria's agitation grew febrile in its intensity. Towards her German relatives she preserved a discreet appearance of impartiality; but she poured out upon her Ministers a flood of appeals, protests, and expostulations. She invoked the sacred cause of Peace. 'The only chance of preserving peace for Europe,' she wrote, 'is by not assisting Denmark, who has brought this entirely upon herself.... The Queen suffers much, and her nerves are more and more totally shattered.... But though all this anxiety is wearing her out, it will not shake her firm purpose of resisting any attempt to involve this country in a mad and useless combat.' She was, she declared, 'prepared to make a stand,' even if the resignation of the Foreign Secretary should follow.[14] 'The Queen,' she told Lord Granville, 'is completely exhausted by the anxiety and suspense, and misses her beloved husband's help, advice, support, and love in an overwhelming manner.' She was so worn out by her efforts for peace that she could 'hardly hold up her head or hold her pen.'[15] England did not go to war, and Denmark was left to her fate; but how far the attitude of the Queen contributed to this result it is impossible, with our present knowledge, to say. On the whole, however, it seems probable that the determining factor in the situation was the {228} powerful peace party in the Cabinet rather than the imperious and pathetic pressure of Victoria. It is, at any rate, certain that the Queen's enthusiasm for the sacred cause of peace was short-lived. Within a few months her mind had completely altered. Her eyes were opened to the true nature of Prussia, whose designs upon Austria were about to culminate in the Seven Weeks' War. Veering precipitately from one extreme to the other, she now urged her Ministers to interfere by force of arms in support of Austria. But she urged in vain.[16] Her political activity, no more than her social seclusion, was approved by the public. As the years passed, and the royal mourning remained as unrelieved as ever, the animadversions grew more general and more severe. It was observed that the Queen's protracted privacy not only cast a gloom over high society, not only deprived the populace of its pageantry, but also exercised a highly deleterious effect upon the dress-making, millinery, and hosiery trades. This latter consideration carried great weight. At last, early in 1864, the rumour spread that Her Majesty was about to go out of mourning, and there was much rejoicing in the newspapers; but unfortunately it turned out that the rumour was quite without foundation. Victoria, with her own hand, wrote a letter to _The Times_ to say so. 'This idea,' she declared, 'cannot be too explicitly contradicted.' 'The Queen,' the letter continued, 'heartily appreciates the desire of her subjects to see her, and whatever she _can_ do to gratify them in this loyal and affectionate wish, she _will_ do.... But there are other and higher duties than those of mere representation which are now thrown upon the Queen, alone {229} and unassisted--duties which she cannot neglect without injury to the public service, which weigh unceasingly upon her, overwhelming her with work and anxiety.'[17] The justification might have been considered more cogent had it not been known that those 'other and higher duties' emphasised by the Queen consisted for the most part of an attempt to counteract the foreign policy of Lord Palmerston and Lord John Russell. A large section--perhaps a majority--of the nation were violent partisans of Denmark in the Schleswig-Holstein quarrel; and Victoria's support of Prussia was widely denounced. A wave of unpopularity, which reminded old observers of the period preceding the Queen's marriage more than twenty-five years before, was beginning to rise. The press was rude; Lord Ellenborough attacked the Queen in the House of Lords; there were curious whispers in high quarters that she had had thoughts of abdicating--whispers followed by regrets that she had not done so.[18] Victoria, outraged and injured, felt that she was misunderstood. She was profoundly unhappy. After Lord Ellenborough's speech, General Grey declared that he 'had never seen the Queen so completely upset.' 'Oh, how fearful it is,' she herself wrote to Lord Granville, 'to be suspected--uncheered--unguided and unadvised--and how alone the poor Queen feels!'[19] Nevertheless, suffer as she might, she was as resolute as ever; she would not move by a hair's-breadth from the course that a supreme obligation marked out for her; she would be faithful to the end. And so, when Schleswig-Holstein was forgotten, {230} and even the image of the Prince had begun to grow dim in the fickle memories of men, the solitary watcher remained immutably concentrated at her peculiar task. The world's hostility, steadily increasing, was confronted and outfaced by the impenetrable weeds of Victoria. Would the world never understand? It was not mere sorrow that kept her so strangely sequestered; it was devotion, it was self-immolation; it was the laborious legacy of love. Unceasingly the pen moved over the black-edged paper. The flesh might be weak, but that vast burden must be borne. And fortunately, if the world would not understand, there were faithful friends who did. There was Lord Granville, and there was kind Mr. Theodore Martin. Perhaps Mr. Martin, who was so clever, would find means to make people realise the facts. She would send him a letter, pointing out her arduous labours and the difficulties under which she struggled, and then he might write an article for one of the magazines. It is not, she told him in 1863, 'the Queen's _sorrow_ that keeps her secluded.... It is her _overwhelming work_ and her health, which is greatly shaken by her sorrow, and the totally overwhelming amount of work and responsibility--work which she feels really wears her out. Alice Helps was wonder-struck at the Queen's room; and if Mrs. Martin will look at it, she can tell Mr. Martin what surrounds her. From the hour she gets out of bed till she gets into it again there is work, work, work,--letter-boxes, questions, &c., which are dreadfully exhausting--and if she had not comparative rest and quiet in the evening she would most likely not be _alive_. Her brain is constantly overtaxed.'[20] It was too true. {231} III To carry on Albert's work--that was her first duty; but there was another, second only to that, and yet nearer, if possible, to her heart--to impress the true nature of his genius and character upon the minds of her subjects. She realised that during his life he had not been properly appreciated; the full extent of his powers, the supreme quality of his goodness, had been necessarily concealed; but death had removed the need of barriers, and now her husband, in his magnificent entirety, should stand revealed to all. She set to work methodically. She directed Sir Arthur Helps to bring out a collection of the Prince's speeches and addresses, and the weighty tome appeared in 1862. Then she commanded General Grey to write an account of the Prince's early years--from his birth to his marriage; she herself laid down the design of the book, contributed a number of confidential documents, and added numerous notes; General Grey obeyed, and the work was completed in 1866. But the principal part of the story was still untold, and Mr. Martin was forthwith instructed to write a complete biography of the Prince Consort. Mr. Martin laboured for fourteen years. The mass of material with which he had to deal was almost incredible, but he was extremely industrious, and he enjoyed throughout the gracious assistance of Her Majesty. The first bulky volume was published in 1874; four others slowly followed; so that it was not until 1880 that the monumental work was finished.[21] Mr. Martin was rewarded by a knighthood; and {232} yet it was sadly evident that neither Sir Theodore nor his predecessors had achieved the purpose which the Queen had in view. Perhaps she was unfortunate in her coadjutors, but, in reality, the responsibility for the failure must lie with Victoria herself. Sir Theodore and the others faithfully carried out the task which she had set them--faithfully put before the public the very image of Albert that filled her own mind. The fatal drawback was that the public did not find that image attractive. Victoria's emotional nature, far more remarkable for vigour than for subtlety, rejecting utterly the qualifications which perspicacity, or humour, might suggest, could be satisfied with nothing but the absolute and the categorical. When she disliked she did so with an unequivocal emphasis which swept the object of her repugnance at once and finally outside the pale of consideration; and her feelings of affection were equally unmitigated. In the case of Albert her passion for superlatives reached its height. To have conceived of him as anything short of perfect--perfect in virtue, in wisdom, in beauty, in all the glories and graces of man--would have been an unthinkable blasphemy: perfect he was, and perfect he must be shown to have been. And so Sir Arthur, Sir Theodore, and the General painted him. In the circumstances, and under such supervision, to have done anything else would have required talents considerably more distinguished than any that those gentlemen possessed. But that was not all. By a curious mischance Victoria was also able to press into her service another writer, the distinction of whose talents was this time beyond a doubt. The Poet Laureate, adopting, either from complaisance or conviction, the tone of his sovereign, joined in the chorus, and endowed the royal formula {233} with the magical resonance of verse. This settled the matter. Henceforward it was impossible to forget that Albert had worn the white flower of a blameless life. The result was doubly unfortunate. Victoria, disappointed and chagrined, bore a grudge against her people for their refusal, in spite of all her efforts, to rate her husband at his true worth. She did not understand that the picture of an embodied perfection is distasteful to the majority of mankind. The cause of this is not so much an envy of the perfect being as a suspicion that he must be inhuman; and thus it happened that the public, when it saw displayed for its admiration a figure resembling the sugary hero of a moral story-book rather than a fellow man of flesh and blood, turned away with a shrug, a smile, and a flippant ejaculation. But in this the public was the loser as well as Victoria. For in truth Albert was a far more interesting personage than the public dreamed. By a curious irony an impeccable waxwork had been fixed by the Queen's love in the popular imagination, while the creature whom it represented--the real creature, so full of energy and stress and torment, so mysterious and so unhappy, and so fallible, and so very human--had altogether disappeared. IV Words and books may be ambiguous memorials; but who can misinterpret the visible solidity of bronze and stone? At Frogmore, near Windsor, where her mother was buried, Victoria constructed, at the cost of £200,000, a vast and elaborate mausoleum for herself and her husband.[22] But that was a private and domestic {234} monument, and the Queen desired that wherever her subjects might be gathered together they should be reminded of the Prince. Her desire was gratified; all over the country--at Aberdeen, at Perth, and at Wolverhampton--statues of the Prince were erected; and the Queen, making an exception to her rule of retirement, unveiled them herself. Nor did the capital lag behind. A month after the Prince's death a meeting was called together at the Mansion House to discuss schemes for honouring his memory. Opinions, however, were divided upon the subject. Was a statue or an institution to be preferred? Meanwhile a subscription was opened; an influential committee was appointed, and the Queen was consulted as to her wishes in the matter. Her Majesty replied that she would prefer a granite obelisk, with sculptures at the base, to an institution. But the committee hesitated: an obelisk, to be worthy of the name, must clearly be a monolith; and where was the quarry in England capable of furnishing a granite block of the required size? It was true that there was granite in Russian Finland; but the committee were advised that it was not adapted to resist exposure to the open air. On the whole, therefore, they suggested that a Memorial Hall should be erected, together with a statue of the Prince. Her Majesty assented; but then another difficulty arose. It was found that not more than £60,000 had been subscribed--a sum insufficient to defray the double expense. The Hall, therefore, was abandoned; a statue alone was to be erected; and certain eminent architects were asked to prepare designs. Eventually the committee had at their disposal a total sum of £120,000, since the public subscribed another £10,000, while £50,000 was voted by Parliament. Some years later a joint-stock company {235} was formed and built, as a private speculation, the Albert Hall.[23] The architect whose design was selected, both by the committee and by the Queen, was Mr. Gilbert Scott, whose industry, conscientiousness, and genuine piety had brought him to the head of his profession. His lifelong zeal for the Gothic style having given him a special prominence, his handiwork was strikingly visible, not only in a multitude of original buildings, but in most of the cathedrals of England. Protests, indeed, were occasionally raised against his renovations; but Mr. Scott replied with such vigour and unction in articles and pamphlets that not a Dean was unconvinced, and he was permitted to continue his labours without interruption. On one occasion, however, his devotion to Gothic had placed him in an unpleasant situation. The Government offices in Whitehall were to be rebuilt; Mr. Scott competed, and his designs were successful. Naturally, they were in the Gothic style, combining 'a certain squareness and horizontality of outline' with pillar-mullions, gables, high-pitched roofs, and dormers; and the drawings, as Mr. Scott himself observed, 'were, perhaps, the best ever sent in to a competition, or nearly so.' After the usual difficulties and delays the work was at last to be put in hand, when there was a change of Government and Lord Palmerston became Prime Minister. Lord Palmerston at once sent for Mr. Scott. 'Well, Mr. Scott,' he said, in his jaunty way, 'I can't have anything to do with this Gothic style. I must insist on your making a design in the Italian manner, which I am sure you can do very cleverly.' Mr. Scott was appalled; the style of the Italian renaissance was not {236} only unsightly, it was positively immoral, and he sternly refused to have anything to do with it. Thereupon Lord Palmerston assumed a fatherly tone. 'Quite true; a Gothic architect can't be expected to put up a Classical building; I must find someone else.' This was intolerable, and Mr. Scott, on his return home, addressed to the Prime Minister a strongly-worded letter, in which he dwelt upon his position as an architect, upon his having won two European competitions, his being an A.R.A., a gold medallist of the Institute, and a lecturer on architecture at the Royal Academy; but it was useless--Lord Palmerston did not even reply. It then occurred to Mr. Scott that, by a judicious mixture, he might, while preserving the essential character of the Gothic, produce a design which would give a superficial impression of the Classical style. He did so, but no effect was produced upon Lord Palmerston. The new design, he said, was 'neither one thing nor t'other--a regular mongrel affair--and he would have nothing to do with it either.' After that Mr. Scott found it necessary to recruit for two months at Scarborough, 'with a course of quinine.' He recovered his tone at last, but only at the cost of his convictions. For the sake of his family he felt that it was his unfortunate duty to obey the Prime Minister; and, shuddering with horror, he constructed the Government offices in a strictly Renaissance style. Shortly afterwards Mr. Scott found some consolation in building the St. Pancras Hotel in a style of his own.[24] And now another and yet more satisfactory task was his. 'My idea in designing the Memorial,' he wrote, 'was to erect a kind of ciborium to protect a statue of {237} the Prince; and its special characteristic was that the ciborium was designed in some degree on the principles of the ancient shrines. These shrines were models of imaginary buildings, such as had never in reality been erected; and my idea was to realise one of these imaginary structures with its precious materials, its inlaying, its enamels, &c. &c.'[25] His idea was particularly appropriate since it chanced that a similar conception, though in the reverse order of magnitude, had occurred to the Prince himself, who had designed and executed several silver cruet-stands upon the same model. At the Queen's request a site was chosen in Kensington Gardens as near as possible to that of the Great Exhibition; and in May 1864 the first sod was turned. The work was long, complicated, and difficult; a great number of workmen were employed, besides several subsidiary sculptors and metal-workers under Mr. Scott's direction, while at every stage sketches and models were submitted to her Majesty, who criticised all the details with minute care, and constantly suggested improvements. The frieze, which encircled the base of the monument, was in itself a very serious piece of work. 'This,' said Mr. Scott, 'taken as a whole, is perhaps one of the most laborious works of sculpture ever undertaken, consisting, as it does, of a continuous range of figure-sculpture of the most elaborate description, in the highest _alto-relievo_ of life-size, of more than 200 feet in length, containing about 170 figures, and executed in the hardest marble which could be procured.' After three years of toil the memorial was still far from completion, and Mr. Scott thought it advisable to give a dinner to the workmen, 'as a substantial recognition of his appreciation of their {238} skill and energy.' 'Two long tables,' we are told, 'constructed of scaffold planks, were arranged in the workshops, and covered with newspapers, for want of table-cloths. Upwards of eighty men sat down. Beef and mutton, plum-pudding and cheese, were supplied in abundance, and each man who desired it had three pints of beer, gingerbeer and lemonade being provided for the teetotalers, who formed a very considerable proportion.... Several toasts were given and many of the workmen spoke, almost all of them commencing by "Thanking God that they enjoyed good health"; some alluded to the temperance that prevailed amongst them, others observed how little swearing was ever heard, whilst all said how pleased and proud they were to be engaged on so great a work.' Gradually the edifice approached completion. The one hundred and seventieth life-size figure in the frieze was chiselled, the granite pillars arose, the mosaics were inserted in the allegorical pediments, the four colossal statues representing the greater Christian virtues, the four other colossal statues representing the greater moral virtues, were hoisted into their positions, the eight bronzes representing the greater sciences--Astronomy, Chemistry, Geology, Geometry, Rhetoric, Medicine, Philosophy, and Physiology--were fixed on their glittering pinnacles, high in air. The statue of Physiology was particularly admired. 'On her left arm,' the official description informs us, 'she bears a new-born infant, as a representation of the development of the highest and most perfect of physiological forms; her hand points towards a microscope, the instrument which lends its assistance for the investigation of the minuter forms of animal and vegetable organisms.' At last the gilded cross crowned the {239} dwindling galaxies of superimposed angels, the four continents in white marble stood at the four corners of the base, and, seven years after its inception, in July 1872, the monument was thrown open to the public. But four more years were to elapse before the central figure was ready to be placed under its starry canopy. It was designed by Mr. Foley, though in one particular the sculptor's freedom was restricted by Mr. Scott. 'I have chosen the sitting posture,' Mr. Scott said, 'as best conveying the idea of dignity befitting a royal personage.' Mr. Foley ably carried out the conception of his principal. 'In the attitude and expression,' he said, 'the aim has been, with the individuality of portraiture, to embody rank, character, and enlightenment, and to convey a sense of that responsive intelligence indicating an active, rather than a passive, interest in those pursuits of civilisation illustrated in the surrounding figures, groups, and relievos.... To identify the figure with one of the most memorable undertakings of the public life of the Prince--the International Exhibition of 1851--a catalogue of the works collected in that first gathering of the industry of all nations, is placed in the right hand.' The statue was of bronze gilt and weighed nearly ten tons. It was rightly supposed that the simple word 'Albert,' cast on the base, would be a sufficient means of identification.[26] [1] Clarendon, II, 251. [2] Vitzthum, II, 161. [3] Stockmar, 49; Ernest, IV-71 [4] Clarendon, II, 251, 253. [5] _Letters_, III, 474-5. [6] _Letters_, III, 476. [7] Lee, 322-3; Crawford, 368. [8] Clarendon, II, 257. [9] Clarendon, II, 261-2. [10] Martin, _Queen Victoria_, 155. [11] Clarendon, II, 261; Lee, 327; Martin, _Queen Victoria_, 30. [12] Robertson, 156. [13] Morley, II, 102; Ernest, IV, 133: 'I know that our dear angel Albert always regarded a strong Prussia as a necessity, for which, therefore, it is a sacred duty for me to work.'--Queen Victoria to the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, August 29, 1863. [14] Fitzmaurice, I, 459, 460. [15] _Ibid._, I, 472-3. [16] Clarendon, II, 310-1. [17] _The Times_, April 6, 1864; Clarendon, II, 290. [18] Clarendon, II, 292-3. [19] Fitzmaurice, I, 466, 469. [20] Martin, _Queen Victoria_, 28-9. [21] Martin, _Queen Victoria_, 97-106. [22] Lee, 390 [23] _National Memorial_. [24] Scott, 177-201, 271. [25] Scott, 225. [26] _National Memorial_; Dafforne, 43-4. {240} CHAPTER VIII MR. GLADSTONE AND LORD BEACONSFIELD I Lord Palmerston's laugh--a queer metallic 'Ha! ha! ha!' with reverberations in it from the days of Pitt and the Congress of Vienna--was heard no more in Piccadilly;[1] Lord John Russell dwindled into senility; Lord Derby tottered from the stage. A new scene opened; and new protagonists--Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli--struggled together in the limelight. Victoria, from her post of vantage, watched these developments with that passionate and personal interest which she invariably imported into politics. Her prepossessions were of an unexpected kind. Mr. Gladstone had been the disciple of her revered Peel, and had won the approval of Albert; Mr. Disraeli had hounded Sir Robert to his fall with hideous virulence, and the Prince had pronounced that he 'had not one single element of a gentleman in his composition.'[2] Yet she regarded Mr. Gladstone with a distrust and dislike which steadily deepened, while upon his rival she lavished an abundance of confidence, esteem, and affection such as Lord Melbourne himself had hardly known. [Illustration: QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1876. _From the Portrait by Von Angeli_.] Her attitude towards the Tory Minister had suddenly {241} changed when she found that he alone among public men had divined her feelings at Albert's death. Of the others she might have said 'they pity me and not my grief'; but Mr. Disraeli had understood; and all his condolences had taken the form of reverential eulogies of the departed. The Queen declared that he was 'the only person who appreciated the Prince.'[3] She began to show him special favour; gave him and his wife two of the coveted seats in St. George's Chapel at the Prince of Wales's wedding, and invited him to stay a night at Windsor. When the grant for the Albert Memorial came before the House of Commons, Disraeli, as leader of the Opposition, eloquently supported the project. He was rewarded by a copy of the Prince's speeches, bound in white morocco, with an inscription in the royal hand. In his letter of thanks he 'ventured to touch upon a sacred theme,' and, in a strain which re-echoed with masterly fidelity the sentiments of his correspondent, dwelt at length upon the absolute perfection of Albert. 'The Prince,' he said, 'is the only person whom Mr. Disraeli has ever known who realised the Ideal. None with whom he is acquainted have ever approached it. There was in him an union of the manly grace and sublime simplicity, of chivalry with the intellectual splendour of the Attic Academe. The only character in English history that would, in some respects, draw near to him is Sir Philip Sidney: the same high tone, the same universal accomplishment, the same blended tenderness and vigour, the same rare combination of romantic energy and classic repose.' As for his own acquaintance with the Prince, it had been, he said, 'one of the most satisfactory incidents of his life: full of refined and beautiful {242} memories, and exercising, as he hopes, over his remaining existence, a soothing and exalting influence.' Victoria was much affected by 'the depth and delicacy of these touches,' and henceforward Disraeli's place in her affections was assured.[4] When, in 1866, the Conservatives came into office, Disraeli's position as Chancellor of the Exchequer and leader of the House necessarily brought him into a closer relation with the Sovereign. Two years later Lord Derby resigned, and Victoria, with intense delight and peculiar graciousness, welcomed Disraeli as her First Minister.[5] But only for nine agitated months did he remain in power. The Ministry, in a minority in the Commons, was swept out of existence by a general election. Yet by the end of that short period the ties which bound together the Queen and her Premier had grown far stronger than ever before; the relationship between them was now no longer merely that between a grateful mistress and a devoted servant: they were friends. His official letters, in which the personal element had always been perceptible, developed into racy records of political news and social gossip, written, as Lord Clarendon said, 'in his best novel style,' Victoria was delighted; she had never, she declared, had such letters in her life, and had never before known _everything_.[6] In return, she sent him, when the spring came, several bunches of flowers, picked by her own hands. He despatched to her a set of his novels, for which, she said, she was 'most grateful, and which she values much.' She herself had lately published her 'Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands,' and it was observed that the Prime Minister, in conversing {243} with Her Majesty at this period, constantly used the words 'we authors, ma'am.'[7] Upon political questions, she was his staunch supporter. 'Really there never was such conduct as that of the Opposition,' she wrote. And when the Government was defeated in the House she was 'really shocked at the way in which the House of Commons go on; they really bring discredit on Constitutional Government.'[8] She dreaded the prospect of a change; she feared that if the Liberals insisted upon disestablishing the Irish Church, her Coronation Oath might stand in the way.[9] But a change there had to be, and Victoria vainly tried to console herself for the loss of her favourite Minister by bestowing a peerage upon Mrs. Disraeli. Mr. Gladstone was in his shirt-sleeves at Hawarden, cutting down a tree, when the royal message was brought to him. 'Very significant,' he remarked, when he had read the letter, and went on cutting down his tree. His secret thoughts on the occasion were more explicit, and were committed to his diary. 'The Almighty,' he wrote, 'seems to sustain and spare me for some purpose of His own, deeply unworthy as I know myself to be. Glory be to His name.'[10] The Queen, however, did not share her new Minister's view of the Almighty's intentions. She could not believe that there was any divine purpose to be detected in the programme of sweeping changes which Mr. Gladstone was determined to carry out. But what could she do? Mr. Gladstone, with his daemonic energy and his powerful majority in the House of Commons, was irresistible; and for five years (1869-74) Victoria found herself condemned {244} to live in an agitating atmosphere of interminable reform--reform in the Irish Church and the Irish land system, reform in education, reform in parliamentary elections, reform in the organisation of the Army and the Navy, reform in the administration of justice. She disapproved, she struggled, she grew very angry; she felt that if Albert had been living things would never have happened so; but her protests and her complaints were alike unavailing. The mere effort of grappling with the mass of documents which poured in upon her in an ever-growing flood was terribly exhausting. When the draft of the lengthy and intricate Irish Church Bill came before her, accompanied by an explanatory letter from Mr. Gladstone covering a dozen closely-written quarto pages, she almost despaired. She turned from the Bill to the explanation, and from the explanation back again to the Bill, and she could not decide which was the most confusing. But she had to do her duty: she had not only to read, but to make notes. At last she handed the whole heap of papers to Mr. Martin, who happened to be staying at Osborne, and requested him to make a précis of them.[11] When he had done so, her disapproval of the measure became more marked than ever; but, such was the strength of the Government, she actually found herself obliged to urge moderation upon the Opposition, lest worse should ensue.[12] In the midst of this crisis, when the future of the Irish Church was hanging in the balance, Victoria's attention was drawn to another proposed reform. It was suggested that the sailors in the Navy should henceforward be allowed to wear beards. 'Has Mr. Childers ascertained anything on the subject of the beards?' the Queen wrote anxiously to the First Lord {245} of the Admiralty. On the whole, Her Majesty was in favour of the change. 'Her own personal feeling,' she wrote, 'would be for the beards without the moustaches, as the latter have rather a soldierlike appearance; but then the object in view would not be obtained, viz. to prevent the necessity of shaving. Therefore it had better be as proposed, the entire beard, only it should be kept short and very clean.' After thinking over the question for another week, the Queen wrote a final letter. She wished, she said, 'to make one additional observation respecting the beards, viz. that on no account should moustaches be allowed without beards. That must be clearly understood.'[13] Changes in the Navy might be tolerated; to lay hands upon the Army was a more serious matter. From time immemorial there had been a particularly close connection between the Army and the Crown; and Albert had devoted even more time and attention to the details of military business than to the processes of fresco-painting or the planning of sanitary cottages for the deserving poor. But now there was to be a great alteration: Mr. Gladstone's fiat had gone forth, and the Commander-in-Chief was to be removed from his direct dependence upon the Sovereign, and made subordinate to Parliament and the Secretary of State for War. Of all the liberal reforms this was the one which aroused the bitterest resentment in Victoria. She considered that the change was an attack upon her personal position--almost an attack upon the personal position of Albert. But she was helpless, and the Prime Minister had his way. When she heard that the dreadful man had yet another reform in contemplation--that he was about to abolish the purchase of military {246} commissions--she could only feel that it was just what might have been expected. For a moment she hoped that the House of Lords would come to the rescue; the Peers opposed the change with unexpected vigour; but Mr. Gladstone, more conscious than ever of the support of the Almighty, was ready with an ingenious device. The purchase of commissions had been originally allowed by Royal Warrant; it should now be disallowed by the same agency. Victoria was faced by a curious dilemma: she abominated the abolition of purchase; but she was asked to abolish it by an exercise of sovereign power which was very much to her taste. She did not hesitate for long; and when the Cabinet, in a formal minute, advised her to sign the Warrant, she did so with a good grace.[14] Unacceptable as Mr. Gladstone's policy was, there was something else about him which was even more displeasing to Victoria. She disliked his personal demeanour towards herself. It was not that Mr. Gladstone, in his intercourse with her, was in any degree lacking in courtesy or respect. On the contrary, an extraordinary reverence permeated his manner, both in his conversation and his correspondence with the Sovereign. Indeed, with that deep and passionate conservatism which, to the very end of his incredible career, gave such an unexpected colouring to his inexplicable character, Mr. Gladstone viewed Victoria through a haze of awe which was almost religious--as a sacrosanct embodiment of venerable traditions--a vital element in the British Constitution--a Queen by Act of Parliament. But unfortunately the lady did not appreciate the compliment. The well-known complaint--'He speaks to me as if I were a public meeting'--whether authentic or no--and the turn of the sentence {247} is surely a little too epigrammatic to be genuinely Victorian--undoubtedly expresses the essential element of her antipathy. She had no objection to being considered as an institution; she was one, and she knew it. But she was a woman too, and to be considered only as an institution--that was unbearable. And thus all Mr. Gladstone's zeal and devotion, his ceremonious phrases, his low bows, his punctilious correctitudes, were utterly wasted; and when, in the excess of his loyalty, he went further, and imputed to the object of his veneration, with obsequious blindness, the subtlety of intellect, the wide reading, the grave enthusiasm, which he himself possessed, the misunderstanding became complete. The discordance between the actual Victoria and this strange Divinity made in Mr. Gladstone's image produced disastrous results. Her discomfort and dislike turned at last into positive animosity, and, though her manners continued to be perfect, she never for a moment unbent; while he on his side was overcome with disappointment, perplexity, and mortification.[15] Yet his fidelity remained unshaken. When the Cabinet met, the Prime Minister, filled with his beatific vision, would open the proceedings by reading aloud the letters which he had received from the Queen upon the questions of the hour. The assembly sat in absolute silence while, one after another, the royal missives, with their emphases, their ejaculations, and their grammatical peculiarities, boomed forth in all the deep solemnity of Mr. Gladstone's utterance. Not a single comment, of any kind, was ever hazarded; and, after a fitting pause, the Cabinet proceeded with the business of the day.[16] {248} II Little as Victoria appreciated her Prime Minister's attitude towards her, she found that it had its uses. The popular discontent at her uninterrupted seclusion had been gathering force for many years, and now burst out in a new and alarming shape. Republicanism was in the air. Radical opinion in England, stimulated by the fall of Napoleon III and the establishment of a republican government in France, suddenly grew more extreme than it had ever been since 1848. It also became for the first time almost respectable. Chartism had been entirely an affair of the lower classes; but now Members of Parliament, learned professors, and ladies of title openly avowed the most subversive views. The monarchy was attacked both in theory and in practice. And it was attacked at a vital point: it was declared to be too expensive. What benefits, it was asked, did the nation reap to counterbalance the enormous sums which were expended upon the Sovereign? Victoria's retirement gave an unpleasant handle to the argument. It was pointed out that the ceremonial functions of the Crown had virtually lapsed; and the awkward question remained whether any of the other functions which it did continue to perform were really worth £385,000 per annum. The royal balance-sheet was curiously examined. An anonymous pamphlet entitled 'What does she do with it?' appeared, setting forth the financial position with malicious clarity. The Queen, it stated, was granted by the Civil List £60,000 a year for her private use; but the rest of her vast annuity was given, as the Act declared, to enable her 'to defray the expenses of her royal household and to support the honour and dignity of the Crown.' Now it was obvious that, since {249} the death of the Prince, the expenditure for both these purposes must have been very considerably diminished, and it was difficult to resist the conclusion that a large sum of money was diverted annually from the uses for which it had been designed by Parliament, to swell the private fortune of Victoria. The precise amount of that private fortune it was impossible to discover; but there was reason to suppose that it was gigantic; perhaps it reached a total of five million pounds. The pamphlet protested against such a state of affairs, and its protests were repeated vigorously in newspapers and at public meetings. Though it is certain that the estimate of Victoria's riches was much exaggerated, it is equally certain that she was an exceedingly wealthy woman. She probably saved £20,000 a year from the Civil List, the revenues of the Duchy of Lancaster were steadily increasing, she had inherited a considerable property from the Prince Consort, and she had been left, in 1852, an estate of half a million by Mr. John Neild, an eccentric miser. In these circumstances it was not surprising that when, in 1871, Parliament was asked to vote a dowry of £30,000 to the Princess Louise on her marriage with the eldest son of the Duke of Argyll, together with an annuity of £6,000, there should have been a serious outcry.[17] In order to conciliate public opinion, the Queen opened Parliament in person, and the vote was passed {250} almost unanimously. But a few months later another demand was made: the Prince Arthur had come of age, and the nation was asked to grant him an annuity of £15,000. The outcry was redoubled. The newspapers were filled with angry articles; Bradlaugh thundered against 'princely paupers' to one of the largest crowds that had ever been seen in Trafalgar Square; and Sir Charles Dilke expounded the case for a republic in a speech to his constituents at Newcastle. The Prince's annuity was ultimately sanctioned in the House of Commons by a large majority; but a minority of fifty members voted in favour of reducing the sum to £10,000. Towards every aspect of this distasteful question, Mr. Gladstone presented an iron front. He absolutely discountenanced the extreme section of his followers. He declared that the whole of the Queen's income was justly at her personal disposal, argued that to complain of royal savings was merely to encourage royal extravagance, and successfully convoyed through Parliament the unpopular annuities, which, he pointed out, were strictly in accordance with precedent. When, in 1872, Sir Charles Dilke once more returned to the charge in the House of Commons, introducing a motion for a full enquiry into the Queen's expenditure with a view to a root-and-branch reform of the Civil List, the Prime Minister brought all the resources of his powerful and ingenious eloquence to the support of the Crown. He was completely successful; and amid a scene of great disorder the motion was ignominiously dismissed. Victoria was relieved; but she grew no fonder of Mr. Gladstone.[18] {251} It was perhaps the most miserable moment of her life. The Ministers, the press, the public, all conspired to vex her, to blame her, to misinterpret her actions, to be unsympathetic and disrespectful in every way. She was 'a cruelly misunderstood woman,' she told Mr. Martin, complaining to him bitterly of the unjust attacks which were made upon her, and declaring that 'the great worry and anxiety and hard work for ten years, alone, unaided, with increasing age and never very strong health,' were breaking her down, and 'almost drove her to despair.'[19] The situation was indeed deplorable. It seemed as if her whole existence had gone awry; as if an irremediable antagonism had grown up between the Queen and the nation. If Victoria had died in the early seventies, there can be little doubt that the voice of the world would have pronounced her a failure. III But she was reserved for a very different fate. The outburst of republicanism had been in fact the last flicker of an expiring cause. The liberal tide, which had been flowing steadily ever since the Reform Bill, reached its height with Mr. Gladstone's first administration; and towards the end of that administration the inevitable ebb began. The reaction, when it came, was sudden and complete. The General Election of 1874 changed the whole face of politics. Mr. Gladstone and the Liberals were routed; and the Tory party, for the first time for over forty years, attained an unquestioned supremacy in England. It was obvious that their surprising triumph was pre-eminently {252} due to the skill and vigour of Disraeli. He returned to office no longer the dubious commander of an insufficient host, but with drums beating and flags flying, a conquering hero. And as a conquering hero Victoria welcomed her new Prime Minister. Then there followed six years of excitement, of enchantment, of felicity, of glory, of romance. The amazing being, who now at last, at the age of seventy, after a lifetime of extraordinary struggles, had turned into reality the absurdest of his boyhood's dreams, knew well enough how to make his own, with absolute completeness, the heart of the Sovereign Lady whose servant, and whose master, he had so miraculously become. In women's hearts he had always read as in an open book. His whole career had turned upon those curious entities; and the more curious they were, the more intimately at home with them he seemed to be. But Lady Beaconsfield, with her cracked idolatry, and Mrs. Brydges-Williams, with her clogs, her corpulence, and her legacy, were gone: an even more remarkable phenomenon stood in their place. He surveyed what was before him with the eye of a past-master; and he was not for a moment at a loss. He realised everything--the interacting complexities of circumstance and character, the pride of place mingled so inextricably with personal arrogance, the superabundant emotionalism, the ingenuousness of outlook, the solid, the laborious respectability, shot through so incongruously by temperamental cravings for the coloured and the strange, the singular intellectual limitations, and the mysteriously essential female element impregnating every particle of the whole. A smile hovered over his impassive features, and he dubbed Victoria 'the Faery.' The name delighted him, for, with that epigrammatic {253} ambiguity so dear to his heart, it precisely expressed his vision of the Queen. The Spenserian allusion was very pleasant--the elegant evocation of Gloriana; but there was more in it than that: there was the suggestion of a diminutive creature, endowed with magical--and mythical--properties, and a portentousness almost ridiculously out of keeping with the rest of her make-up. The Faery, he determined, should henceforward wave her wand for him alone. Detachment is always a rare quality, and rarest of all, perhaps, among politicians; but that veteran egotist possessed it in a supreme degree. Not only did he know what he had to do, not only did he do it; he was in the audience as well as on the stage; and he took in with the rich relish of a connoisseur every feature of the entertaining situation, every phase of the delicate drama, and every detail of his own consummate performance. The smile hovered and vanished, and, bowing low with Oriental gravity and Oriental submissiveness, he set himself to his task. He had understood from the first that in dealing with the Faery the appropriate method of approach was the very antithesis of the Gladstonian; and such a method was naturally his. It was not his habit to harangue and exhort and expatiate in official conscientiousness; he liked to scatter flowers along the path of business, to compress a weighty argument into a happy phrase, to insinuate what was in his mind with an air of friendship and confidential courtesy. He was nothing if not personal; and he had perceived that personality was the key that opened the Faery's heart. Accordingly, he never for a moment allowed his intercourse with her to lose the personal tone; he invested all the transactions of State with the charms of familiar conversation; she was always the royal lady, {254} the adored and revered mistress, he the devoted and respectful friend. When once the personal relation was firmly established, every difficulty disappeared. But to maintain that relation uninterruptedly in a smooth and even course, a particular care was necessary: the bearings had to be most assiduously oiled. Nor was Disraeli in any doubt as to the nature of the lubricant. 'You have heard me called a flatterer,' he said to Matthew Arnold, 'and it is true. Everyone likes flattery; and when you come to royalty you should lay it on with a trowel.'[20] He practised what he preached. His adulation was incessant, and he applied it in the very thickest slabs. 'There is no honor and no reward,' he declared, 'that with him can ever equal the possession of your Majesty's kind thoughts. All his own thoughts and feelings and duties and affections are now concentrated in your Majesty, and he desires nothing more for his remaining years than to serve your Majesty, or, if that service ceases, to live still on its memory as a period of his existence most interesting and fascinating.'[21] 'In life,' he told her, 'one must have for one's thoughts a sacred depository, and Lord Beaconsfield ever presumes to seek that in his Sovereign Mistress.'[22] She was not only his own solitary support; she was the one prop of the State. 'If your Majesty is ill,' he wrote during a grave political crisis, 'he is sure he will himself break down. All, really, depends upon your Majesty.' 'He lives only for Her,' he asseverated, and works only for Her, and without Her all is lost.'[23] When her birthday came he produced an elaborate confection of hyperbolic compliment. 'To-day Lord Beaconsfield ought fitly, perhaps, to congratulate a powerful Sovereign on her {255} imperial sway, the vastness of her Empire, and the success and strength of her fleets and armies. But he cannot, his mind is in another mood. He can only think of the strangeness of his destiny that it has come to pass that he should be the servant of one so great, and whose infinite kindness, the brightness of whose intelligence and the firmness of whose will, have enabled him to undertake labours to which he otherwise would be quite unequal, and supported him in all things by a condescending sympathy, which in the hour of difficulty alike charms and inspires. Upon the Sovereign of many lands and many hearts may an omnipotent Providence shed every blessing that the wise can desire and the virtuous deserve!'[24] In those expert hands the trowel seemed to assume the qualities of some lofty masonic symbol--to be the ornate and glittering vehicle of verities unrealised by the profane. Such tributes were delightful, but they remained in the nebulous region of words, and Disraeli had determined to give his blandishments a more significant solidity. He deliberately encouraged those high views of her own position which had always been native to Victoria's mind and had been reinforced by the principles of Albert and the doctrines of Stockmar. He professed to a belief in a theory of the Constitution which gave the Sovereign a leading place in the councils of government; but his pronouncements upon the subject were indistinct; and when he emphatically declared that there ought to be 'a real Throne,' it was probably with the mental addition that that throne would be a very unreal one indeed whose occupant was unamenable to his cajoleries. But the vagueness of his language was in itself an added stimulant to Victoria. Skilfully confusing the woman {256} and the Queen, he threw, with a grandiose gesture, the government of England at her feet, as if in doing so he were performing an act of personal homage. In his first audience after returning to power, he assured her that 'whatever she wished should be done.'[25] When the intricate Public Worship Regulation Bill was being discussed by the Cabinet, he told the Faery that his 'only object' was 'to further your Majesty's wishes in this matter.'[26] When he brought off his great _coup_ over the Suez Canal, he used expressions which implied that the only gainer by the transaction was Victoria. 'It is just settled,' he wrote in triumph; 'you have it, Madam ... Four millions sterling! and almost immediately. There was only one firm that could do it--Rothschilds. They behaved admirably; advanced the money at a low rate, and the entire interest of the Khedive is now yours, Madam.'[27] Nor did he limit himself to highly-spiced insinuations. Writing with all the authority of his office, he advised the Queen that she had the constitutional right to dismiss a Ministry which was supported by a large majority in the House of Commons; he even urged her to do so, if, in her opinion, 'your Majesty's Government have from wilfulness, or even from weakness, deceived your Majesty.'[28] To the horror of Mr. Gladstone, he not only kept the Queen informed as to the general course of business in the Cabinet, but revealed to her the part taken in its discussions by individual members of it.[29] Lord Derby, the son of the late Prime Minister and Disraeli's Foreign Secretary, viewed these developments with grave mistrust. 'Is there not,' he ventured to write to his Chief, 'just a risk of encouraging her in too large ideas of her personal power, and too great {257} indifference to what the public expects? I only ask; it is for you to judge.'[30] As for Victoria, she accepted everything--compliments, flatteries, Elizabethan prerogatives--without a single qualm. After the long gloom of her bereavement, after the chill of the Gladstonian discipline, she expanded to the rays of Disraeli's devotion like a flower in the sun. The change in her situation was indeed miraculous. No longer was she obliged to puzzle for hours over the complicated details of business, for now she had only to ask Mr. Disraeli for an explanation, and he would give it her in the most concise, in the most amusing, way. No longer was she worried by alarming novelties; no longer was she put out at finding herself treated, by a reverential gentleman in high collars, as if she were some embodied precedent, with a recondite knowledge of Greek. And her deliverer was surely the most fascinating of men. The strain of charlatanism, which had unconsciously captivated her in Napoleon III, exercised the same enchanting effect in the case of Disraeli. Like a dram-drinker, whose ordinary life is passed in dull sobriety, her unsophisticated intelligence gulped down his rococo allurements with peculiar zest. She became intoxicated, entranced. Believing all that he told her of herself, she completely regained the self-confidence which had been slipping away from her throughout the dark period that followed Albert's death. She swelled with a new elation, while he, conjuring up before her wonderful Oriental visions, dazzled her eyes with an imperial grandeur of which she had only dimly dreamed. Under the compelling influence, her very demeanour altered. Her short, stout figure, with its folds of black velvet, its muslin streamers, its heavy pearls at the heavy neck, {258} assumed an almost menacing air. In her countenance, from which the charm of youth had long since vanished, and which had not yet been softened by age, the traces of grief, of disappointment, and of displeasure were still visible, but they were overlaid by looks of arrogance and sharp lines of peremptory hauteur. Only, when Mr. Disraeli appeared, the expression changed in an instant, and the forbidding visage became charged with smiles.[31] For him she would do anything. Yielding to his encouragements, she began to emerge from her seclusion; she appeared in London in semi-state, at hospitals and concerts; she opened Parliament; she reviewed troops and distributed medals at Aldershot.[32] But such public signs of favour were trivial in comparison with her private attentions. During his hours of audience, she could hardly restrain her excitement and delight. 'I can only describe my reception,' he wrote to a friend on one occasion, 'by telling you that I really thought she was going to embrace me. She was wreathed with smiles, and, as she tattled, glided about the room like a bird.'[33] In his absence, she talked of him perpetually, and there was a note of unusual vehemence in her solicitude for his health. 'John Manners,' Disraeli told Lady Bradford, 'who has just come from Osborne, says that the Faery only talked of one subject, and that was her Primo. According to him, it was her gracious opinion that the Government should make my health a Cabinet question. Dear John seemed quite surprised at what she said; but you are more used to these ebullitions.'[34] She often sent him presents; an illustrated album arrived for him regularly from Windsor on Christmas Day.[35] But her most valued gifts were {259} the bunches of spring flowers which, gathered by herself and her ladies in the woods at Osborne, marked in an especial manner the warmth and tenderness of her sentiments. Among these it was, he declared, the primroses that he loved the best. They were, he said, 'the ambassadors of Spring,' 'the gems and jewels of Nature.' He liked them, he assured her, 'so much better for their being wild; they seem an offering from the Fauns and Dryads of Osborne.' 'They show,' he told her, 'that your Majesty's sceptre has touched the enchanted Isle.' He sat at dinner with heaped-up bowls of them on every side, and told his guests that 'they were all sent to me this morning by the Queen from Osborne, as she knows it is my favourite flower.'[36] As time went on, and as it became clearer and clearer that the Faery's thraldom was complete, his protestations grew steadily more highly coloured and more unabashed. At last he ventured to import into his blandishments a strain of adoration that was almost avowedly romantic. In phrases of baroque convolution, he delivered the message of his heart. The pressure of business, he wrote, had 'so absorbed and exhausted him, that towards the hour of post he has not had clearness of mind, and vigour of pen, adequate to convey his thoughts and facts to the most loved and illustrious being, who deigns to consider them.'[37] She sent him some primroses, and he replied that he could 'truly say they are "more precious than rubies," coming, as they do, and at such a moment, from a Sovereign whom he adores.'[38] She sent him snowdrops, and his sentiment overflowed into poetry. 'Yesterday eve,' he wrote, 'there appeared, in Whitehall Gardens, a delicate-looking case, with a royal superscription, which, when {260} he opened, he thought, at first, that your Majesty had graciously bestowed upon him the stars of your Majesty's principal orders. And, indeed, he was so impressed with this graceful illusion, that, having a banquet, where there were many stars and ribbons, he could not resist the temptation, by placing some snowdrops on his heart, of showing that he, too, was decorated by a gracious Sovereign. 'Then, in the middle of the night, it occurred to him, that it might all be an enchantment, and that, perhaps, it was a Faery gift and came from another monarch: Queen Titania, gathering flowers, with her Court, in a soft and sea-girt isle, and sending magic blossoms, which, they say, turn the heads of those who receive them.'[39] A Faery gift! Did he smile as he wrote the words? Perhaps; and yet it would be rash to conclude that his perfervid declarations were altogether without sincerity. Actor and spectator both, the two characters were so intimately blended together in that odd composition that they formed an inseparable unity, and it was impossible to say that one of them was less genuine than the other. With one element, he could coldly appraise the Faery's intellectual capacity, note with some surprise that she could be on occasion 'most interesting and amusing,' and then continue his use of the trowel with an ironical solemnity; while, with the other, he could be overwhelmed by the immemorial panoply of royalty, and, thrilling with the sense of his own strange elevation, dream himself into a gorgeous phantasy of crowns and powers and chivalric love. When he told Victoria that 'during a somewhat romantic and imaginative life, nothing has ever occurred to him so interesting as this confidential correspondence with one so exalted and so {261} inspiring,'[40] was he not in earnest after all? When he wrote to a lady about the Court, 'I love the Queen--perhaps the only person in this world left to me that I do love,'[41] was he not creating for himself an enchanted palace out of the Arabian Nights, full of melancholy and spangles, in which he actually believed? Victoria's state of mind was far more simple; untroubled by imaginative yearnings, she never lost herself in that nebulous region of the spirit where feeling and fancy grow confused. Her emotions, with all their intensity and all their exaggeration, retained the plain prosaic texture of everyday life. And it was fitting that her expression of them should be equally commonplace. She was, she told her Prime Minister, at the end of an official letter, 'yours aff'ly V.R. and I.' In such a phrase the deep reality of her feeling is instantly manifest. The Faery's feet were on the solid earth; it was the _rusé_ cynic who was in the air. He had taught her, however, a lesson, which she had learnt with alarming rapidity. A second Gloriana, did he call her? Very well, then, she would show that she deserved the compliment. Disquieting symptoms followed fast. In May 1874, the Tsar, whose daughter had just been married to Victoria's second son, the Duke of Edinburgh, was in London, and, by an unfortunate error, it had been arranged that his departure should not take place until two days after the date on which his royal hostess had previously decided to go to Balmoral. Her Majesty refused to modify her plans. It was pointed out to her that the Tsar would certainly be offended, that the most serious consequences might follow; Lord Derby protested; Lord Salisbury, the Secretary of State for India, was much perturbed. But {262} the Faery was unconcerned; she had settled to go to Balmoral on the 18th, and on the 18th she would go. At last Disraeli, exercising all his influence, induced her to agree to stay in London for two days more. 'My head is still on my shoulders,' he told Lady Bradford. 'The great lady has absolutely postponed her departure! Everybody had failed, even the Prince of Wales; ... and I have no doubt I am not in favour. I can't help it. Salisbury says I have saved an Afghan War, and Derby compliments me on my unrivalled triumph.'[42] But before very long, on another issue, the triumph was the Faery's. Disraeli, who had suddenly veered towards a new Imperialism, had thrown out the suggestion that the Queen of England ought to become the Empress of India. Victoria seized upon the idea with avidity, and, in season and out of season, pressed upon her Prime Minister the desirability of putting his proposal into practice. He demurred; but she was not to be baulked; and in 1876, in spite of his own unwillingness and that of his entire Cabinet, he found himself obliged to add to the troubles of a stormy session by introducing a bill for the alteration of the Royal Title.[43] His compliance, however, finally conquered the Faery's heart. The measure was angrily attacked in both Houses, and Victoria was deeply touched by the untiring energy with which Disraeli defended it. She was, she said, much grieved by 'the worry and annoyance' to which he was subjected; she feared she was the cause of it; and she would never forget what she owed to 'her kind, good, and considerate friend.' At the same time, her wrath fell on the Opposition. Their conduct, she declared, was 'extraordinary, incomprehensible, and mistaken,' and, in an emphatic sentence which seemed to contradict {263} both itself and all her former proceedings, she protested that she 'would be glad if it were more generally known that it was _her_ wish, as people _will_ have it, that it has been _forced upon her!_'[44] When the affair was successfully over, the imperial triumph was celebrated in a suitable manner. On the day of the Delhi Proclamation, the new Earl of Beaconsfield went to Windsor to dine with the new Empress of India. That night the Faery, usually so homely in her attire, appeared in a glittering panoply of enormous uncut jewels, which had been presented to her by the reigning Princes of her Raj. At the end of the meal the Prime Minister, breaking through the rules of etiquette, arose, and in a flowery oration proposed the health of the Queen-Empress. His audacity was well received, and his speech was rewarded by a smiling curtsey.[45] These were significant episodes; but a still more serious manifestation of Victoria's temper occurred in the following year, during the crowning crisis of Beaconsfield's life. His growing imperialism, his desire to magnify the power and prestige of England, his insistence upon a 'spirited foreign policy,' had brought him into collision with Russia; the terrible Eastern Question loomed up; and, when war broke out between Russia and Turkey, the gravity of the situation became extreme. The Prime Minister's policy was fraught with difficulty and danger. Realising perfectly the appalling implications of an Anglo-Russian war, he was yet prepared to face even that eventuality if he could obtain his ends by no other method; but he believed that Russia in reality was still less desirous of a rupture, and that, if he played his game with sufficient boldness and {264} adroitness, she would yield, when it came to the point, all that he required without a blow. It was clear that the course he had marked out for himself was full of hazard, and demanded an extraordinary nerve; a single false step, and either himself, or England, might be plunged in disaster. But nerve he had never lacked; he began his diplomatic egg-dance with high assurance; and then he discovered that, besides the Russian Government, besides the Liberals and Mr. Gladstone, there were two additional sources of perilous embarrassment with which he would have to reckon. In the first place there was a strong party in the Cabinet, headed by Lord Derby, the Foreign Secretary, which was unwilling to take the risk of war; but his culminating anxiety was the Faery. From the first, her attitude was uncompromising. The old hatred of Russia, which had been engendered by the Crimean War, surged up again within her; she remembered Albert's prolonged animosity; she felt the prickings of her own greatness; and she flung herself into the turmoil with passionate heat. Her indignation with the Opposition--with anyone who ventured to sympathise with the Russians in their quarrel with the Turks--was unbounded. When anti-Turkish meetings were held in London, presided over by the Duke of Westminster and Lord Shaftesbury, and attended by Mr. Gladstone and other prominent Radicals, she considered that 'the Attorney-General ought to be set at these men'; 'it can't,' she exclaimed, 'be constitutional.'[46] Never in her life, not even in the crisis over the Ladies of the Bedchamber, did she show herself a more furious partisan. But her displeasure was not reserved for the Radicals; the {265} backsliding Conservatives equally felt its force. She was even discontented with Lord Beaconsfield himself. Failing entirely to appreciate the delicate complexity of his policy, she constantly assailed him with demands for vigorous action, interpreted each finesse as a sign of weakness, and was ready at every juncture to let slip the dogs of war. As the situation developed, her anxiety grew feverish. 'The Queen,' she wrote, 'is feeling terribly anxious lest delay should cause us to be too late and lose our prestige for ever! It worries her night and day.'[47] 'The Faery,' Beaconsfield told Lady Bradford, 'writes every day and telegraphs every hour; this is almost literally the case.'[48] She raged loudly against the Russians. 'And the language,' she cried, 'the insulting language--used by the Russians against us! It makes the Queen's blood boil!'[49] 'Oh,' she wrote a little later, 'if the Queen were a man, she would like to go and give those Russians, whose word one cannot believe, such a beating! We shall never be friends again till we have it out. This the Queen feels sure of.'[50] The unfortunate Prime Minister, urged on to violence by Victoria on one side, had to deal, on the other, with a Foreign Secretary who was fundamentally opposed to any policy of active interference at all. Between the Queen and Lord Derby he held a harassed course. He gained, indeed, some slight satisfaction in playing off the one against the other--in stimulating Lord Derby with the Queen's missives, and in appeasing the Queen by repudiating Lord Derby's opinions; on one occasion he actually went so far as to compose, at Victoria's request, a letter bitterly attacking his colleague, {266} which her Majesty forthwith signed, and sent, without alteration, to the Foreign Secretary.[51] But such devices gave only a temporary relief; and it soon became evident that Victoria's martial ardour was not to be side-tracked by hostilities against Lord Derby; hostilities against Russia were what she wanted, what she would, what she must, have. For now, casting aside the last relics of moderation, she began to attack her friend with a series of extraordinary threats. Not once, not twice, but many times she held over his head the formidable menace of her imminent abdication. 'If England,' she wrote to Beaconsfield, 'is to kiss Russia's feet, she will not be a party to the humiliation of England and would lay down her crown,' and she added that the Prime Minister might, if he thought fit, repeat her words to the Cabinet.[52] 'This delay,' she ejaculated, 'this uncertainty by which, abroad, we are losing our prestige and our position, while Russia is advancing and will be before Constantinople in no time! Then the Government will be fearfully blamed and the Queen so humiliated that she thinks she would abdicate at once. Be bold!'[53] 'She feels,' she reiterated, 'she cannot, as she before said, remain the Sovereign of a country that is letting itself down to kiss the feet of the great barbarians, the retarders of all liberty and civilisation that exists.'[54] When the Russians advanced to the outskirts of Constantinople she fired off three letters in a day demanding war; and when she learnt that the Cabinet had only decided to send the Fleet to Gallipoli she declared that 'her first impulse' was 'to lay down the thorny crown, which she feels little satisfaction in retaining if the position of this country is {267} to remain as it is now.'[55] It is easy to imagine the agitating effect of such a correspondence upon Beaconsfield. This was no longer the Faery; it was a genie whom he had rashly called out of her bottle, and who was now intent upon showing her supernal power. More than once, perplexed, dispirited, shattered by illness, he had thoughts of withdrawing altogether from the game. One thing alone, he told Lady Bradford, with a wry smile, prevented him. 'If I could only,' he wrote, 'face the scene which would occur at headquarters if I resigned, I would do so at once.'[56] He held on, however, to emerge victorious at last. The Queen was pacified; Lord Derby was replaced by Lord Salisbury; and at the Congress of Berlin _der alte Jude_ carried all before him. He returned to England in triumph, and assured the delighted Victoria that she would very soon be, if she was not already, the 'Dictatress of Europe.'[57] But soon there was an unexpected reverse. At the General Election of 1880 the country, mistrustful of the forward policy of the Conservatives, and carried away by Mr. Gladstone's oratory, returned the Liberals to power. Victoria was horrified, but within a year she was to be yet more nearly hit. The grand romance had come to its conclusion. Lord Beaconsfield, worn out with age and maladies, but moving still, an assiduous mummy, from dinner-party to dinner-party, suddenly moved no longer. When she knew that the end was inevitable, she seemed, by a pathetic instinct, to divest herself of her royalty, and to shrink, with hushed gentleness, beside him, a woman and nothing more. 'I send some Osborne primroses,' she wrote to him with touching simplicity, 'and I meant to pay you a little {268} visit this week but I thought it better you should be quite quiet and not speak. And I beg you will be very good and obey the doctors.' She would see him, she said, 'when we come back from Osborne, which won't be long.' 'Everyone is so distressed at your not being well,' she added; and she was, 'Ever yours very aff'ly, V.R.I.' When the royal letter was given him, the strange old comedian, stretched on his bed of death, poised it in his hand, appeared to consider deeply, and then whispered to those about him: 'This ought to be read to me by a Privy Councillor.'[58] [1] Adams, 135. [2] Clarendon, II, 342. [3] Buckle, IV, 385. [4] Buckle, IV, 382-95. [5] _Ibid._, IV, 592. [6] Clarendon, II, 346. [7] Buckle, V, 49. [8] _Ibid._, V, 48. [9] _Ibid._, V, 28. [10] Morley, II, 252, 256. [11] Martin, _Queen Victoria_, 50-1. [12] Tait, II, chap. i. [13] Childers, I, 175-7. [14] Morley, II, 360-5. [15] Morley, II, 423-8; Crawford, 356, 370-1. [16] Private information. [17] In 1889 it was officially stated that the Queen's total savings from the Civil List amounted to £824,025, but that out of this sum much had been spent on special entertainments to foreign visitors (Lee, 499). Taking into consideration the proceeds from the Duchy of Lancaster, which were more than £60,000 a year (Lee, 79), the savings of the Prince Consort, and Mr. Neild's legacy, it seems probable that, at the time of her death, Victoria's private fortune approached two million pounds. [18] Morley, II, 425-6; Lee, 410-2, 415-8; Jerrold, _Widowhood_, 153-7, 162-3, 169-71. [19] Martin, _Queen Victoria_, 41-2. [20] Buckle, VI, 463. [21] _Ibid._, VI, 226. [22] _Ibid._, VI, 445,7. [23] _Ibid._, VI, 254-5. [24] Buckle, VI, 430. [25] Buckle, V, 286. [26] _Ibid._, V, 321. [27] _Ibid._, V, 448-9. [28] _Ibid._, II, 246. [29] Morley, II, 574-5. [30] Buckle, V, 414. [31] _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 334. [32] Lee, 434-5. [33] Buckle, V, 339. [34] _Ibid_., V, 384. [35] _Ibid._, VI, 468. [36] Buckle, VI, 629. [37] _Ibid._, VI, 248. [38] _Ibid._, VI, 246-7. [39] Buckle, VI, 464-7. [40] Buckle, VI, 238. [41] _Ibid._, VI, 462. [42] Buckle, V, 414-5. [43] _Ibid._, V, 456-8; VI, 457-8. [44] Buckle, V, 468-9, 473. [45] Hamilton, 120; _Quarterly Review_, CXXXIX, 334. [46] Buckle, VI, 106-7. [47] Buckle, VI, 144. [48] _Ibid._, VI, 150. [49] _Ibid._, VI, 154. [50] _Ibid._, VI, 217. [51] Buckle, VI, 157-9. [52] _Ibid._, VI, 132. [53] _Ibid._, VI, 148. [54] _Ibid._, VI, 217. [55] Buckle, VI, 243-5. [56] _Ibid._. VI, 190. [57] Lee, 445-6. [58] Buckle, VI, 613-4. {269} CHAPTER IX OLD AGE I Meanwhile in Victoria's private life many changes and developments had taken place. With the marriages of her elder children her family circle widened; grandchildren appeared; and a multitude of new domestic interests sprang up. The death of King Leopold in 1865 had removed the predominant figure of the older generation, and the functions he had performed as the centre and adviser of a large group of relatives in Germany and in England devolved upon Victoria. These functions she discharged with unremitting industry, carrying on an enormous correspondence, and following with absorbed interest every detail in the lives of the ever-ramifying cousinhood. And she tasted to the full both the joys and the pains of family affection. She took a particular delight in her grandchildren, to whom she showed an indulgence which their parents had not always enjoyed, though, even to her grandchildren, she could be, when the occasion demanded it, severe. The eldest of them, the little Prince Wilhelm of Prussia, was a remarkably headstrong child; he dared to be impertinent even to his grandmother; and once, when she told him to bow to a visitor at Osborne, he disobeyed her outright. This would not do: the order was sternly repeated, and the naughty boy, noticing {270} that his kind grandmama had suddenly turned into a most terrifying lady, submitted his will to hers, and bowed very low indeed.[1] [Illustration: QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1897.] It would have been well if all the Queen's domestic troubles could have been got over as easily. Among her more serious distresses was the conduct of the Prince of Wales. The young man was now independent and married; he had shaken the parental yoke from his shoulders; he was positively beginning to do as he liked. Victoria was much perturbed, and her worst fears seemed to be justified when in 1870 he appeared as a witness in a society divorce case. It was clear that the heir to the throne had been mixing with people of whom she did not at all approve. What was to be done? She saw that it was not only her son that was to blame--that it was the whole system of society; and so she despatched a letter to Mr. Delane, the editor of _The Times_, asking him if he would 'frequently _write_ articles pointing out the _immense_ danger and evil of the wretched frivolity and levity of the views and lives of the Higher Classes.' And five years later Mr. Delane did write an article upon that very subject.[2] Yet it seemed to have very little effect. Ah! if only the Higher Classes would learn to live as she lived in the domestic sobriety of her sanctuary at Balmoral! For more and more did she find solace and refreshment in her Highland domain; and twice yearly, in the spring and in the autumn, with a sigh of relief, she set her face northwards, in spite of the humble protests of Ministers, who murmured vainly in the royal ears that to transact the affairs of State over an interval of six hundred miles added considerably to the cares of government. Her ladies, too, {271} felt occasionally a slight reluctance to set out, for, especially in the early days, the long pilgrimage was not without its drawbacks. For many years the Queen's conservatism forbade the continuation of the railway up Deeside, so that the last stages of the journey had to be accomplished in carriages. But, after all, carriages had their good points; they were easy, for instance, to get in and out of, which was an important consideration, for the royal train remained for long immune from modern conveniences, and when it drew up, on some border moorland, far from any platform, the high-bred dames were obliged to descend to earth by the perilous foot-board, the only pair of folding steps being reserved for her Majesty's saloon. In the days of crinolines such moments were sometimes awkward; and it was occasionally necessary to summon Mr. Johnstone, the short and sturdy Manager of the Caledonian Railway, who, more than once, in a high gale and drenching rain with great difficulty 'pushed up'--as he himself described it--some unlucky Lady Blanche or Lady Agatha into her compartment.[3] But Victoria cared for none of these things. She was only intent upon regaining, with the utmost swiftness, her enchanted Castle, where every spot was charged with memories, where every memory was sacred, and where life was passed in an incessant and delightful round of absolutely trivial events. And it was not only the place that she loved; she was equally attached to 'the simple mountaineers,' from whom, she said, 'she learnt many a lesson of resignation and faith.'[4] Smith and Grant and Ross and Thompson--she was devoted to them all; but, beyond the rest, she was devoted to John Brown. The {272} Prince's gillie had now become the Queen's personal attendant--a body servant from whom she was never parted, who accompanied her on her drives, waited on her during the day, and slept in a neighbouring chamber at night. She liked his strength, his solidity, the sense he gave her of physical security; she even liked his rugged manners and his rough unaccommodating speech. She allowed him to take liberties with her which would have been unthinkable from anybody else. To bully the Queen, to order her about, to reprimand her--who could dream of venturing upon such audacities? And yet, when she received such treatment from John Brown, she positively seemed to enjoy it. The eccentricity appeared to be extraordinary; but, after all, it is no uncommon thing for an autocratic dowager to allow some trusted indispensable servant to adopt towards her an attitude of authority which is jealously forbidden to relatives or friends: the power of a dependant still remains, by a psychological sleight-of-hand, one's own power, even when it is exercised over oneself. When Victoria meekly obeyed the abrupt commands of her henchman to get off her pony or put on her shawl, was she not displaying, and in the highest degree, the force of her volition? People might wonder; she could not help that; this was the manner in which it pleased her to act, and there was an end of it. To have submitted her judgment to a son or a Minister might have seemed wiser or more natural; but if she had done so, she instinctively felt, she would indeed have lost her independence. And yet upon somebody she longed to depend. Her days were heavy with the long process of domination. As she drove in silence over the moors she leaned back in the carriage, oppressed and weary; but what a relief!--John Brown was behind {273} on the rumble, and his strong arm would be there for her to lean upon when she got out. He had, too, in her mind, a special connection with Albert. In their expeditions the Prince had always trusted him more than anyone; the gruff, kind, hairy Scotsman was, she felt, in some mysterious way, a legacy from the dead. She came to believe at last--or so it appeared--that the spirit of Albert was nearer when Brown was near. Often, when seeking inspiration over some complicated question of political or domestic import, she would gaze with deep concentration at her late husband's bust. But it was also noticed that sometimes in such moments of doubt and hesitation Her Majesty's looks would fix themselves upon John Brown. Eventually, the 'simple mountaineer' became almost a state personage. The influence which he wielded was not to be overlooked. Lord Beaconsfield was careful, from time to time, to send courteous messages to 'Mr. Brown' in his letters to the Queen, and the French Government took particular pains to provide for his comfort during the visits of the English Sovereign to France. It was only natural that among the elder members of the royal family he should not have been popular, and that his failings--for failings he had, though Victoria would never notice his too acute appreciation of Scotch whisky--should have been the subject of acrimonious comment at Court. But he served his mistress faithfully, and to ignore him would be a sign of disrespect in her biographer. For the Queen, far from making a secret of her affectionate friendship, took care to publish it to the world. By her orders two gold medals were struck in his honour; on his death, in 1883, a long and eulogistic obituary notice {274} of him appeared in the _Court Circular_; and a Brown memorial brooch--of gold, with the late gillie's head on one side and the royal monogram on the other--was designed by her Majesty for presentation to her Highland servants and cottagers, to be worn by them on the anniversary of his death, with a mourning scarf and pins. In the second series of extracts from the Queen's Highland Journal, published in 1884, her 'devoted personal attendant and faithful friend' appears upon almost every page, and is in effect the hero of the book. With an absence of reticence remarkable in royal persons, Victoria seemed to demand, in this private and delicate matter, the sympathy of the whole nation; and yet--such is the world!--there were those who actually treated the relations between their Sovereign and her servant as a theme for ribald jests.[5] II The busy years hastened away; the traces of Time's unimaginable touch grew manifest; and old age, approaching, laid a gentle hold upon Victoria. The grey hair whitened; the mature features mellowed; the short firm figure amplified and moved more slowly, supported by a stick. And, simultaneously, in the whole tenour of the Queen's existence an extraordinary transformation came to pass. The nation's attitude towards her, critical and even hostile as it had been for so many years, altogether changed; while there was a corresponding alteration in the temper of Victoria's own mind. Many causes led to this result. Among them were the repeated strokes of personal misfortune which befell {275} the Queen during a cruelly short space of years. In 1878 the Princess Alice, who had married in 1862 the Prince Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt, died in tragic circumstances. In the following year the Prince Imperial, the only son of the Empress Eugénie, to whom Victoria, since the catastrophe of 1870, had become devotedly attached, was killed in the Zulu War. Two years later, in 1881, the Queen lost Lord Beaconsfield, and, in 1883, John Brown. In 1884 the Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany, who had been an invalid from birth, died prematurely, shortly after his marriage. Victoria's cup of sorrows was indeed overflowing: and the public, as it watched the widowed mother weeping for her children and her friends, displayed a constantly increasing sympathy. An event which occurred in 1882 revealed and accentuated the feelings of the nation. As the Queen, at Windsor, was walking from the train to her carriage, a youth named Roderick Maclean fired a pistol at her from a distance of a few yards. An Eton boy struck up Maclean's arm with an umbrella before the pistol went off; no damage was done, and the culprit was at once arrested. This was the last of a series of seven attempts upon the Queen--attempts which, taking place at sporadic intervals over a period of forty years, resembled one another in a curious manner. All, with a single exception, were perpetrated by adolescents, whose motives were apparently not murderous, since, save in the case of Maclean, none of their pistols was loaded. These unhappy youths, who, after buying their cheap weapons, stuffed them with gunpowder and paper, and then went off, with the certainty of immediate detection, to click them in the face of royalty, present a strange problem to the psychologist. But, though {276} in each case their actions and their purposes seemed to be so similar, their fates were remarkably varied. The first of them, Edward Oxford, who fired at Victoria within a few months of her marriage, was tried for high treason, declared to be insane, and sent to an asylum for life. It appears, however, that this sentence did not commend itself to Albert, for when, two years later, John Francis committed the same offence, and was tried upon the same charge, the Prince pronounced that there was no insanity in the matter. 'The wretched creature,' he told his father, was 'not out of his mind, but a thorough scamp.' 'I hope,' he added, 'his trial will be conducted with the greatest strictness.' Apparently it was; at any rate, the jury shared the view of the Prince, the plea of insanity was set aside, and Francis was found guilty of high treason and condemned to death; but, as there was no proof of an intent to kill or even to wound, this sentence, after a lengthened deliberation between the Home Secretary and the Judges, was commuted for one of transportation for life. As the law stood, these assaults, futile as they were, could be treated only as high treason; the discrepancy between the actual deed and the tremendous penalties involved was obviously grotesque; and it was, besides, clear that a jury, knowing that a verdict of guilty implied a sentence of death, would tend to the alternative course, and find the prisoner not guilty but insane--a conclusion which, on the face of it, would have appeared to be the more reasonable. In 1842, therefore, an Act was passed making any attempt to hurt the Queen a misdemeanour, punishable by transportation for seven years, or imprisonment, with or without hard labour, for a term not exceeding three years--the misdemeanant, at the discretion of the Court, {277} 'to be publicly or privately whipped, as often, and in such manner and form, as the Court shall direct, not exceeding thrice.'[6] The four subsequent attempts were all dealt with under this new law; William Bean, in 1842, was sentenced to eighteen months' imprisonment; William Hamilton, in 1849, was transported for seven years; and, in 1850, the same sentence was passed upon Lieutenant Robert Pate, who struck the Queen on the head with his cane in Piccadilly. Pate, alone among these delinquents, was of mature years; he had held a commission in the Army, dressed himself as a dandy, and was, the Prince declared, 'manifestly deranged.'[7] In 1872 Arthur O'Connor, a youth of seventeen, fired an unloaded pistol at the Queen outside Buckingham Palace; he was immediately seized by John Brown, and sentenced to one year's imprisonment and twenty strokes of the birch rod. It was for his bravery upon this occasion that Brown was presented with one of his gold medals. In all these cases the jury had refused to allow the plea of insanity; but Roderick Maclean's attempt in 1882 had a different issue. On this occasion the pistol was found to have been loaded, and the public indignation, emphasised as it was by Victoria's growing popularity, was particularly great. Either for this or for some other reason the procedure of the last forty years was abandoned, and Maclean was tried for high treason. The result was what might have been expected: the jury brought in a verdict of 'not guilty, but insane'; and the prisoner was sent to an asylum during Her Majesty's pleasure.[8] Their verdict, however, produced a remarkable consequence. Victoria, who doubtless carried in her mind {278} some memory of Albert's disapproval of a similar verdict in the case of Oxford, was very much annoyed. What did the jury mean, she asked, by saying that Maclean was not guilty? It was perfectly clear that he was guilty--she had seen him fire off the pistol herself. It was in vain that Her Majesty's constitutional advisers reminded her of the principle of English law which lays down that no man can be found guilty of a crime unless he be proved to have had a criminal intention. Victoria was quite unconvinced. 'If that is the law,' she said, 'the law must be altered': and altered it was. In 1883 an Act was passed changing the form of the verdict in cases of insanity, and the confusing anomaly remains upon the Statute Book to this day.[9] But it was not only through the feelings--commiserating or indignant--of personal sympathy that the Queen and her people were being drawn more nearly together; they were beginning, at last, to come to a close and permanent agreement upon the conduct of public affairs. Mr. Gladstone's second administration (1880-85) was a succession of failures, ending in disaster and disgrace; liberalism fell into discredit with the country, and Victoria perceived with joy that her distrust of her Ministers was shared by an ever-increasing number of her subjects. During the crisis in the Sudan, the popular temper was her own. She had been among the first to urge the necessity of an expedition to Khartoum, and, when the news came of the catastrophic death of General Gordon, her voice led the chorus of denunciation which raved against the Government. In her rage, she despatched a fulminating telegram to Mr. Gladstone, not in the usual cypher, but open;[10] and {279} her letter of condolence to Miss Gordon, in which she attacked her Ministers for breach of faith, was widely published. It was rumoured that she had sent for Lord Hartington, the Secretary of State for War, and vehemently upbraided him. 'She rated me,' he was reported to have told a friend, 'as if I'd been a footman.' 'Why didn't she send for the butler?' asked his friend. 'Oh,' was the reply, 'the butler generally manages to keep out of the way on such occasions.'[11] But the day came when it was impossible to keep out of the way any longer. Mr. Gladstone was defeated, and resigned. Victoria, at a final interview, received him with her usual amenity, but, besides the formalities demanded by the occasion, the only remark which she made to him of a personal nature was to the effect that she supposed Mr. Gladstone would now require some rest. He remembered with regret how, at a similar audience in 1874, she had expressed her trust in him as a supporter of the throne; but he noted the change without surprise. 'Her mind and opinions,' he wrote in his diary afterwards, 'have since that day been seriously warped.'[12] Such was Mr. Gladstone's view; but the majority of the nation by no means agreed with him; and, in the General Election of 1886, they showed decisively that Victoria's politics were identical with theirs by casting forth the contrivers of Home Rule--that abomination of desolation--into outer darkness, and placing Lord Salisbury in power. Victoria's satisfaction was profound. A flood of new unwonted hopefulness swept over her, stimulating her vital spirits with a surprising force. Her habit of life was suddenly altered; abandoning the long seclusion which Disraeli's persuasions {280} had only momentarily interrupted, she threw herself vigorously into a multitude of public activities. She appeared at drawing-rooms, at concerts, at reviews; she laid foundation-stones; she went to Liverpool to open an international exhibition, driving through the streets in her open carriage in heavy rain amid vast applauding crowds. Delighted by the welcome which met her everywhere, she warmed to her work. She visited Edinburgh, where the ovation of Liverpool was repeated and surpassed. In London, she opened in high state the Colonial and Indian Exhibition at South Kensington. On this occasion the ceremonial was particularly magnificent; a blare of trumpets announced the approach of Her Majesty; the 'National Anthem' followed; and the Queen, seated on a gorgeous throne of hammered gold, replied with her own lips to the address that was presented to her. Then she rose, and, advancing upon the platform with regal port, acknowledged the acclamations of the great assembly by a succession of curtseys, of elaborate and commanding grace.[13] Next year was the fiftieth of her reign, and in June the splendid anniversary was celebrated in solemn pomp. Victoria, surrounded by the highest dignitaries of her realm, escorted by a glittering galaxy of kings and princes, drove through the crowded enthusiasm of the capital to render thanks to God in Westminster Abbey. In that triumphant hour the last remaining traces of past antipathies and past disagreements were altogether swept away. The Queen was hailed at once as the mother of her people and as the embodied symbol of their imperial greatness; and she responded to the double sentiment with all the ardour of her spirit. {281} England and the people of England, she knew it, she felt it, were, in some wonderful and yet quite simple manner, _hers_. Exultation, affection, gratitude, a profound sense of obligation, an unbounded pride--such were her emotions; and, colouring and intensifying the rest, there was something else. At last, after so long, happiness--fragmentary, perhaps, and charged with gravity, but true and unmistakable none the less--had returned to her. The unaccustomed feeling filled and warmed her consciousness. When, at Buckingham Palace again, the long ceremony over, she was asked how she was, 'I am very tired, but very happy,' she said.[14] III And so, after the toils and tempests of the day, a long evening followed--mild, serene, and lighted with a golden glory. For an unexampled atmosphere of success and adoration invested the last period of Victoria's life. Her triumph was the summary, the crown, of a greater triumph--the culminating prosperity of a nation. The solid splendour of the decade between Victoria's two jubilees can hardly be paralleled in the annals of England. The sage counsels of Lord Salisbury seemed to bring with them not only wealth and power, but security; and the country settled down, with calm assurance, to the enjoyment of an established grandeur. And--it was only natural--Victoria settled down too. For she was a part of the establishment--an essential part as it seemed--a fixture--a magnificent, immovable sideboard in the huge saloon of state. Without her the heaped-up banquet of 1890 would have lost its distinctive quality--the comfortable order of the {282} substantial unambiguous dishes, with their background of weighty glamour, half out of sight. Her own existence came to harmonise more and more with what was around her. Gradually, imperceptibly, Albert receded. It was not that he was forgotten--that would have been impossible--but that the void created by his absence grew less agonising, and even, at last, less obvious. Eventually Victoria found it possible to regret the bad weather without immediately reflecting that her 'dear Albert always said we could not alter it, but must leave it as it was'; she could even enjoy a good breakfast without considering how 'dear Albert' would have liked the buttered eggs.[15] And, as that figure slowly faded, its place was taken, inevitably, by Victoria's own. Her being, revolving for so many years round an external object, now changed its motion and found its centre in itself. It had to be so: her domestic position, the pressure of her public work, her indomitable sense of duty, made anything else impossible. Her egotism proclaimed its rights. Her age increased still further the surrounding deference; and her force of character, emerging at length in all its plenitude, imposed itself absolutely upon its environment by the conscious effort of an imperious will. Little by little it was noticed that the outward vestiges of Albert's posthumous domination grew less complete. At Court the stringency of mourning was relaxed. As the Queen drove through the Park in her open carriage with her Highlanders behind her, nursery-maids canvassed eagerly the growing patch of violet velvet in the bonnet with its jet appurtenances on the small bowing head. {283} It was in her family that Victoria's ascendancy reached its highest point. All her offspring were married; the number of her descendants rapidly increased; there were many marriages in the third generation; and no fewer than thirty-seven of her great-grandchildren were living at the time of her death. A picture of the period displays the royal family collected together in one of the great rooms at Windsor--a crowded company of more than fifty persons, with the imperial matriarch in their midst. Over them all she ruled with a most potent sway. The small concerns of the youngest aroused her passionate interest; and the oldest she treated as if they were children still. The Prince of Wales, in particular, stood in tremendous awe of his mother. She had steadily refused to allow him the slightest participation in the business of government; and he had occupied himself in other ways. Nor could it be denied that he enjoyed himself--out of her sight; but, in that redoubtable presence, his abounding manhood suffered a miserable eclipse. Once, at Osborne, when, owing to no fault of his, he was too late for a dinner party, he was observed standing behind a pillar and, wiping the sweat from his forehead, trying to nerve himself to go up to the Queen. When at last he did so, she gave him a stiff nod, whereupon he vanished immediately behind another pillar, and remained there until the party broke up. At the time of this incident the Prince of Wales was over fifty years of age.[16] It was inevitable that the Queen's domestic activities should occasionally trench upon the domain of high diplomacy; and this was especially the case when the interests of her eldest daughter, the Crown Princess of Prussia, were at stake. The Crown Prince held {284} liberal opinions; he was much influenced by his wife; and both were detested by Bismarck, who declared with scurrilous emphasis that the Englishwoman and her mother were a menace to the Prussian State. The feud was still further intensified when, on the death of the old Emperor (1888), the Crown Prince succeeded to the throne. A family entanglement brought on a violent crisis. One of the daughters of the new Empress had become betrothed to Prince Alexander of Battenberg, who had lately been ejected from the throne of Bulgaria owing to the hostility of the Tsar. Victoria, as well as the Empress, highly approved of the match. Of the two brothers of Prince Alexander, the elder had married another of her grand-daughters, and the younger was the husband of her daughter, the Princess Beatrice; she was devoted to the handsome young men; and she was delighted by the prospect of the third brother--on the whole the handsomest, she thought, of the three--also becoming a member of her family. Unfortunately, however, Bismarck was opposed to the scheme. He perceived that the marriage would endanger the friendship between Germany and Russia, which was vital to his foreign policy, and he announced that it must not take place. A fierce struggle between the Empress and the Chancellor followed. Victoria, whose hatred of her daughter's enemy was unbounded, came over to Charlottenburg to join in the fray. Bismarck, over his pipe and his lager, snorted out his alarm. The Queen of England's object, he said, was clearly political--she wished to estrange Germany and Russia--and very likely she would have her way. 'In family matters,' he added, 'she is not used to contradiction'; she would 'bring the parson with her in her travelling-bag and the bridegroom in her trunk, and the marriage would {285} come off on the spot.' But the man of blood and iron was not to be thwarted so easily, and he asked for a private interview with the Queen. The details of their conversation are unknown; but it is certain that in the course of it Victoria was forced to realise the meaning of resistance to that formidable personage, and that she promised to use all her influence to prevent the marriage. The engagement was broken off; and in the following year Prince Alexander of Battenberg united himself to Fräulein Loisinger, an actress at the court theatre of Darmstadt.[17] But such painful incidents were rare. Victoria was growing very old; with no Albert to guide her, with no Beaconsfield to enflame her, she was willing enough to abandon the dangerous questions of diplomacy to the wisdom of Lord Salisbury, and to concentrate her energies upon objects which touched her more nearly and over which she could exercise an undisputed control. Her home--her court--the monuments at Balmoral--the livestock at Windsor--the organisation of her engagements--the supervision of the multitudinous details of her daily routine--such matters played now an even greater part in her existence than before. Her life passed in an extraordinary exactitude. Every moment of her day was mapped out beforehand; the succession of her engagements was immutably fixed; the dates of her journeys--to Osborne, to Balmoral, to the South of France, to Windsor, to London--were hardly altered from year to year. She demanded from those who surrounded her a rigid precision in details, and she was preternaturally quick in detecting the slightest deviation from the rules which she had laid down. Such was the irresistible potency of her {286} personality, that anything but the most implicit obedience to her wishes was felt to be impossible; but sometimes somebody was unpunctual; and unpunctuality was one of the most heinous of sins. Then her displeasure--her dreadful displeasure--became all too visible. At such moments there seemed nothing surprising in her having been the daughter of a martinet.[18] But these storms, unnerving as they were while they lasted, were quickly over, and they grew more and more exceptional. With the return of happiness a gentle benignity flowed from the aged Queen. Her smile, once so rare a visitant to those saddened features, flitted over them with an easy alacrity; the blue eyes beamed; the whole face, starting suddenly from its pendulous expressionlessness, brightened and softened and cast over those who watched it an unforgettable charm. For in her last years there was a fascination in Victoria's amiability which had been lacking even from the vivid impulse of her youth. Over all who approached her--or very nearly all--she threw a peculiar spell. Her grandchildren adored her; her ladies waited upon her with a reverential love. The honour of serving her obliterated a thousand inconveniences--the monotony of a court existence, the fatigue of standing, the necessity for a superhuman attentiveness to the minutiae of time and space. As one did one's wonderful duty one could forget that one's legs were aching from the infinitude of the passages at Windsor, or that one's bare arms were turning blue in the Balmoral cold. What, above all, seemed to make such service delightful was the detailed interest which the Queen took in the circumstances of those around her. Her absorbing passion for the comfortable commonplaces, {287} the small crises, the recurrent sentimentalities, of domestic life constantly demanded wider fields for its activity; the sphere of her own family, vast as it was, was not enough; she became the eager confidante of the household affairs of her ladies; her sympathies reached out to the palace domestics; even the housemaids and scullions--so it appeared--were the objects of her searching inquiries, and of her heartfelt solicitude when their lovers were ordered to a foreign station, or their aunts suffered from an attack of rheumatism which was more than usually acute.[19] Nevertheless the due distinctions of rank were immaculately preserved. The Queen's mere presence was enough to ensure that; but, in addition, the dominion of court etiquette was paramount. For that elaborate code, which had kept Lord Melbourne stiff upon the sofa and ranged the other guests in silence about the round table according to the order of precedence, was as punctiliously enforced as ever. Every evening after dinner, the hearth-rug, sacred to royalty, loomed before the profane in inaccessible glory, or, on one or two terrific occasions, actually lured them magnetically forward to the very edge of the abyss. The Queen, at the fitting moment, moved towards her guests; one after the other they were led up to her; and, while duologue followed duologue in constraint and embarrassment, the rest of the assembly stood still, without a word.[20] Only in one particular was the severity of the etiquette allowed to lapse. Throughout the greater part of the reign the rule that ministers must stand {288} during their audiences with the Queen had been absolute. When Lord Derby, the Prime Minister, had an audience of Her Majesty after a serious illness, he mentioned it afterwards, as a proof of the royal favour, that the Queen had remarked 'How sorry she was she could not ask him to be seated.' Subsequently, Disraeli, after an attack of gout and in a moment of extreme expansion on the part of Victoria, had been offered a chair; but he had thought it wise humbly to decline the privilege. In her later years, however, the Queen invariably asked Mr. Gladstone and Lord Salisbury to sit down.[21] Sometimes the solemnity of the evening was diversified by a concert, an opera, or even a play. One of the most marked indications of Victoria's enfranchisement from the thraldom of widowhood had been her resumption--after an interval of thirty years--of the custom of commanding dramatic companies from London to perform before the Court at Windsor. On such occasions her spirits rose high. She loved acting; she loved a good plot; above all, she loved a farce. Engrossed by everything that passed upon the stage, she would follow, with childlike innocence, the unwinding of the story; or she would assume an air of knowing superiority and exclaim in triumph, 'There! You didn't expect _that_, did you?' when the _dénouement_ came. Her sense of humour was of a vigorous though primitive kind. She had been one of the very few persons who had always been able to appreciate the Prince Consort's jokes; and, when those were cracked no more, she could still roar with laughter, in the privacy of her household, over some small piece of fun--some oddity of an ambassador, or some ignorant {289} Minister's _faux pas_. When the jest grew subtle she was less pleased; but, if it approached the confines of the indecorous, the danger was serious. To take a liberty called down at once Her Majesty's most crushing disapprobation; and to say something improper was to take the greatest liberty of all. Then the royal lips sank down at the corners, the royal eyes stared in astonished protrusion, and in fact the royal countenance became inauspicious in the highest degree, The transgressor shuddered into silence, while the awful 'We are not amused' annihilated the dinner table. Afterwards, in her private entourage, the Queen would observe that the person in question was, she very much feared, 'not discreet'; it was a verdict from which there was no appeal.[22] In general, her æsthetic tastes had remained unchanged since the days of Mendelssohn, Landseer, and Lablache. She still delighted in the roulades of Italian opera; she still demanded a high standard in the execution of a pianoforte duet. Her views on painting were decided; Sir Edwin, she declared, was perfect; she was much impressed by Lord Leighton's manners; and she profoundly distrusted Mr. Watts. From time to time she ordered engraved portraits to be taken of members of the royal family; on these occasions she would have the first proofs submitted to her, and, having inspected them with minute particularity, she would point out their mistakes to the artists, indicating at the same time how they might be corrected. The artists invariably discovered that Her Majesty's suggestions were of the highest value. In literature her interests were more restricted. She was devoted to Lord {290} Tennyson; and, as the Prince Consort had admired George Eliot, she perused 'Middlemarch': she was disappointed. There is reason to believe, however, that the romances of another female writer, whose popularity among the humbler classes of Her Majesty's subjects was at one time enormous, secured, no less, the approval of Her Majesty. Otherwise she did not read very much.[23] Once, however, the Queen's attention was drawn to a publication which it was impossible for her to ignore. 'The Greville Memoirs,' filled with a mass of historical information of extraordinary importance, but filled also with descriptions, which were by no means flattering, of George IV, William IV, and other royal persons, was brought out by Mr. Reeve. Victoria read the book, and was appalled. It was, she declared, a 'dreadful and really scandalous book,' and she could not say 'how _horrified_ and _indignant_' she was at Greville's 'indiscretion, indelicacy, ingratitude towards friends, betrayal of confidence and shameful disloyalty towards his Sovereign.' She wrote to Disraeli to tell him that in her opinion it was '_very important_ that the book should be severely censured and discredited.' 'The tone in which he speaks of royalty,' she added, 'is unlike anything one sees in history even, and is most reprehensible.' Her anger was directed with almost equal vehemence against Mr. Reeve for his having published 'such an abominable book,' and she charged Sir Arthur Helps to convey to him her deep displeasure. Mr. Reeve, however, was impenitent. When Sir Arthur told him that, in the Queen's opinion, 'the book degraded royalty,' he replied: 'Not at all; it elevates it by the contrast it offers {291} between the present and the defunct state of affairs.' But this adroit defence failed to make any impression upon Victoria; and Mr. Reeve, when he retired from the public service, did not receive the knighthood which custom entitled him to expect.[24] Perhaps if the Queen had known how many caustic comments upon herself Mr. Reeve had quietly suppressed in the published Memoirs, she would have been almost grateful to him; but, in that case, what would she have said of Greville? Imagination boggles at the thought. As for more modern essays upon the same topic, Her Majesty, it is to be feared, would have characterised them as 'not discreet.' But as a rule the leisure hours of that active life were occupied with recreations of a less intangible quality than the study of literature or the appreciation of art. Victoria was a woman not only of vast property but of innumerable possessions. She had inherited an immense quantity of furniture, of ornaments, of china, of plate, of valuable objects of every kind; her purchases, throughout a long life, made a formidable addition to these stores; and there flowed in upon her, besides, from every quarter of the globe, a constant stream of gifts. Over this enormous mass she exercised an unceasing and minute supervision, and the arrangement and the contemplation of it, in all its details, filled her with an intimate satisfaction. The collecting instinct has its roots in the very depths of human nature; and, in the case of Victoria, it seemed to owe its force to two of her dominating impulses--the intense sense, which had always been hers, of her own personality, and the craving which, growing with the years, had become in her old age almost an obsession, for fixity, for solidity, for {292} the setting up of palpable barriers against the outrages of change and time. When she considered the multitudinous objects which belonged to her, or, better still, when, choosing out some section of them as the fancy took her, she actually savoured the vivid richness of their individual qualities, she saw herself deliciously reflected from a million facets, felt herself magnified miraculously over a boundless area, and was well pleased. That was just as it should be; but then came the dismaying thought--everything slips away, crumbles, vanishes; Sèvres dinner-services get broken; even golden basins go unaccountably astray; even one's self, with all the recollections and experiences that make up one's being, fluctuates, perishes, dissolves ... But no! It could not, should not be so! There should be no changes and no losses! Nothing should ever move--neither the past nor the present--and she herself least of all! And so the tenacious woman, hoarding her valuables, decreed their immortality with all the resolution of her soul. She would not lose one memory or one pin. She gave orders that nothing should be thrown away--and nothing was. There, in drawer after drawer, in wardrobe after wardrobe, reposed the dresses of seventy years. But not only the dresses--the furs and the mantles and subsidiary frills and the muffs and the parasols and the bonnets--all were ranged in chronological order, dated and complete. A great cupboard was devoted to the dolls; in the china-room at Windsor a special table held the mugs of her childhood, and her children's mugs as well. Mementoes of the past surrounded her in serried accumulations. In every room the tables were powdered thick with the photographs of relatives; their portraits, revealing {293} them at all ages, covered the walls; their figures, in solid marble, rose up from pedestals, or gleamed from brackets in the form of gold and silver statuettes. The dead, in every shape--in miniatures, in porcelain, in enormous life-size oil-paintings--were perpetually about her. John Brown stood upon her writing-table in solid gold. Her favourite horses and dogs, endowed with a new durability, crowded round her footsteps. Sharp, in silver-gilt, dominated the dinner-table; Boy and Boz lay together among unfading flowers, in bronze. And it was not enough that each particle of the past should be given the stability of metal or of marble: the whole collection, in its arrangement, no less than its entity, should be immutably fixed. There might be additions, but there might never be alterations. No chintz might change, no carpet, no curtain, be replaced by another; or, if long use at last made it necessary, the stuffs and the patterns must be so identically reproduced that the keenest eye might not detect the difference. No new picture could be hung upon the walls at Windsor, for those already there had been put in their places by Albert, whose decisions were eternal. So, indeed, were Victoria's. To ensure that they should be the aid of the camera was called in. Every single article in the Queen's possession was photographed from several points of view. These photographs were submitted to Her Majesty, and when, after careful inspection, she had approved of them, they were placed in a series of albums, richly bound. Then, opposite each photograph, an entry was made, indicating the number of the article, the number of the room in which it was kept, its exact position in the room and all its principal characteristics. The fate of every object which had undergone this process was henceforth {294} irrevocably sealed. The whole multitude, once and for all, took up its steadfast station. And Victoria, with a gigantic volume or two of the endless catalogue always beside her, to look through, to ponder upon, to expatiate over, could feel, with a double contentment, that the transitoriness of this world had been arrested by the amplitude of her might.[25] Thus the collection, ever multiplying, ever encroaching upon new fields of consciousness, ever rooting itself more firmly in the depths of instinct, became one of the dominating influences of that strange existence. It was a collection not merely of things and of thoughts, but of states of mind and ways of living as well. The celebration of anniversaries grew to be an important branch of it--of birthdays and marriage days and death days, each of which demanded its appropriate feeling, which, in its turn, must be itself expressed in an appropriate outward form. And the form, of course--the ceremony of rejoicing or lamentation--was stereotyped with the rest: it was part of the collection. On a certain day, for instance, flowers must be strewn on John Brown's monument at Balmoral; and the date of the yearly departure for Scotland was fixed by that fact. Inevitably it was around the central circumstance of death--death, the final witness to human mutability--that these commemorative cravings clustered most thickly. Might not even death itself be humbled, if one could recall enough?--if one asserted, with a sufficiently passionate and reiterated emphasis, the eternity of love? Accordingly, every bed in which Victoria slept had attached to it, at the back, on the right-hand side, above the pillow, a photograph of the head and shoulders of Albert {295} as he lay dead, surmounted by a wreath of immortelles.[26] At Balmoral, where memories came crowding so closely, the solid signs of memory appeared in surprising profusion. Obelisks, pyramids, tombs, statues, cairns, and seats of inscribed granite, proclaimed Victoria's dedication to the dead. There, twice a year, on the days that followed her arrival, a solemn pilgrimage of inspection and meditation was performed. There, on August 26--Albert's birthday--at the foot of the bronze statue of him in Highland dress, the Queen, her family, her Court, her servants, and her tenantry, met together and in silence drank to the memory of the dead. In England the tokens of remembrance pullulated hardly less. Not a day passed without some addition to the multifold assemblage--a gold statuette of Ross, the piper--a life-sized marble group of Victoria and Albert, in medieval costume, inscribed upon the base with the words: 'Allured to brighter worlds and led the way'--a granite slab in the shrubbery at Osborne, informing the visitor of 'Waldmann: the very favourite little dachshund of Queen Victoria; who brought him from Baden, April 1872; died, July 11, 1881.'[27] At Frogmore, the great mausoleum, perpetually enriched, was visited almost daily by the Queen when the Court was at Windsor.[28] But there was another, a more secret and a hardly less holy shrine. The suite of rooms which Albert had occupied in the Castle was kept for ever shut away from the eyes of any save the most privileged. Within those precincts everything remained as it had been at the Prince's death; but the mysterious preoccupation of Victoria had commanded that her husband's clothing should be laid afresh, each {296} evening, upon the bed, and that, each evening, the water should be set ready in the basin, as if he were still alive; and this incredible rite was performed with scrupulous regularity for nearly forty years.[29] Such was the inner worship; and still the flesh obeyed the spirit; still the daily hours of labour proclaimed Victoria's consecration to duty and to the ideal of the dead. Yet, with the years, the sense of self-sacrifice had faded; the natural energies of that ardent being discharged themselves with satisfaction into the channel of public work; the love of business which, from her girlhood, had been strong within her, reasserted itself in all its vigour, and, in her old age, to have been cut off from her papers and her boxes would have been, not a relief, but an agony to Victoria. Thus, though toiling Ministers might sigh and suffer, the whole process of government continued, till the very end, to pass before her. Nor was that all; ancient precedent had made the validity of an enormous number of official transactions dependent upon the application of the royal sign-manual; and a great proportion of the Queen's working hours was spent in this mechanical task. Nor did she show any desire to diminish it. On the contrary, she voluntarily resumed the duty of signing commissions in the Army, from which she had been set free by Act of Parliament, and from which, during the years of middle life, she had abstained. In no case would she countenance the proposal that she should use a stamp. But, at last, when the increasing pressure of business made the delays of the antiquated system intolerable, she consented that, for certain classes of documents, her oral sanction should be sufficient. Each paper was read aloud to her, and she said at the end 'Approved.' {297} Often, for hours at a time, she would sit, with Albert's bust in front of her, while the word 'Approved' issued at intervals from her lips. The word came forth with a majestic sonority; for her voice now--how changed from the silvery treble of her girlhood!--was a contralto, full and strong.[30] IV The final years were years of apotheosis. In the dazzled imagination of her subjects Victoria soared aloft towards the regions of divinity through a nimbus of purest glory. Criticism fell dumb; deficiencies which, twenty years earlier, would have been universally admitted, were now as universally ignored. That the nation's idol was a very incomplete representative of the nation was a circumstance that was hardly noticed, and yet it was conspicuously true. For the vast changes which, out of the England of 1837, had produced the England of 1897, seemed scarcely to have touched the Queen. The immense industrial development of the period, the significance of which had been so thoroughly understood by Albert, meant little indeed to Victoria. The amazing scientific movement, which Albert had appreciated no less, left Victoria perfectly cold. Her conception of the universe, and of man's place in it, and of the stupendous problems of nature and philosophy remained, throughout her life, entirely unchanged. Her religion was the religion which she had learnt from the Baroness Lehzen and the Duchess of Kent. Here, too, it might be supposed that Albert's views would have influenced her. For Albert, in matters of religion, {298} was advanced. Disbelieving altogether in evil spirits, he had had his doubts about the miracle of the Gadarene Swine.[31] Stockmar, even, had thrown out, in a remarkable memorandum on the education of the Prince of Wales, the suggestion that while the child 'must unquestionably be brought up in the creed of the Church of England,' it might nevertheless be in accordance with the spirit of the times to exclude from his religious training the inculcation of a belief in 'the supernatural doctrines of Christianity.'[32] This, however, would have been going too far; and all the royal children were brought up in complete orthodoxy. Anything else would have grieved Victoria, though her own conceptions of the orthodox were not very precise. But her nature, in which imagination and subtlety held so small a place, made her instinctively recoil from the intricate ecstasies of High Anglicanism; and she seemed to feel most at home in the simple faith of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland.[33] This was what might have been expected; for Lehzen was the daughter of a Lutheran pastor, and the Lutherans and the Presbyterians have much in common. For many years Dr. Norman Macleod, an innocent Scotch minister, was her principal spiritual adviser; and, when he was taken from her, she drew much comfort from quiet chats about life and death with the cottagers at Balmoral.[34] Her piety, absolutely genuine, found what it wanted in the sober exhortations of old John Grant and the devout saws of Mrs. P. Farquharson. They possessed the qualities, which, as a child of fourteen, she had so sincerely admired in the Bishop of Chester's 'Exposition of the Gospel of St. Matthew'; they were 'just plain and comprehensible {299} and full of truth and good feeling.' The Queen, who gave her name to the Age of Mill and of Darwin, never got any further than that. From the social movements of her time Victoria was equally remote. Towards the smallest no less than towards the greatest changes she remained inflexible. During her youth and middle-age smoking had been forbidden in polite society, and so long as she lived she would not withdraw her anathema against it. Kings might protest; bishops and ambassadors, invited to Windsor, might be reduced, in the privacy of their bedrooms, to lie full-length upon the floor and smoke up the chimney--the interdict continued.[35] It might have been supposed that a female sovereign would have lent her countenance to one of the most vital of all the reforms to which her epoch gave birth--the emancipation of women--but, on the contrary, the mere mention of such a proposal sent the blood rushing to her head. In 1870, her eye having fallen upon the report of a meeting in favour of Women's Suffrage, she wrote to Mr. Martin in royal rage--'The Queen is most anxious to enlist everyone who can speak or write to join in checking this mad, wicked folly of "Woman's Rights," with all its attendant horrors, on which her poor feeble sex is bent, forgetting every sense of womanly feeling and propriety. Lady ---- ought to get a _good whipping_. It is a subject which makes the Queen so furious that she cannot contain herself. God created men and women different--then let them remain each in their own position. Tennyson has some beautiful lines on the difference of men and women in "The Princess." Woman would become the most hateful, heartless, and disgusting of human beings were she allowed to {300} unsex herself; and where would be the protection which man was intended to give the weaker sex? The Queen is sure that Mrs. Martin agrees with her.'[36] The argument was irrefutable; Mrs. Martin agreed; and yet the canker spread. In another direction Victoria's comprehension of the spirit of her age has been constantly asserted. It was for long the custom for courtly historians and polite politicians to compliment the Queen upon the correctness of her attitude towards the Constitution. But such praises seem hardly to be justified by the facts. In her later years Victoria more than once alluded with regret to her conduct during the Bedchamber crisis, and let it be understood that she had grown wiser since.[37] Yet in truth it is difficult to trace any fundamental change either in her theory or her practice in constitutional matters throughout her life. The same despotic and personal spirit which led her to break off the negotiations with Peel is equally visible in her animosity towards Palmerston, in her threats of abdication to Disraeli, and in her desire to prosecute the Duke of Westminster for attending a meeting upon Bulgarian atrocities. The complex and delicate principles of the Constitution cannot be said to have come within the compass of her mental faculties; and in the actual developments which it underwent during her reign she played a passive part. From 1840 to 1861 the power of the Crown steadily increased in England; from 1861 to 1901 it steadily declined. The first process was due to the influence of the Prince Consort, the second to that of a series of great Ministers. During the first Victoria was in effect a mere accessory; during the second the threads of power, which Albert had so laboriously collected, inevitably fell {301} from her hands into the vigorous grasp of Mr. Gladstone, Lord Beaconsfield, and Lord Salisbury. Perhaps, absorbed as she was in routine, and difficult as she found it to distinguish at all clearly between the trivial and the essential, she was only dimly aware of what was happening. Yet, at the end of her reign, the Crown was weaker than at any other time in English history. Paradoxically enough, Victoria received the highest eulogiums for assenting to a political evolution which, had she completely realised its import, would have filled her with supreme displeasure. Nevertheless it must not be supposed that she was a second George III. Her desire to impose her will, vehement as it was, and unlimited by any principle, was yet checked by a certain shrewdness. She might oppose her Ministers with extraordinary violence; she might remain utterly impervious to arguments and supplications; the pertinacity of her resolution might seem to be unconquerable; but, at the very last moment of all, her obstinacy would give way. Her innate respect and capacity for business, and perhaps, too, the memory of Albert's scrupulous avoidance of extreme courses, prevented her from ever entering an _impasse_. By instinct she understood when the facts were too much for her, and to them she invariably yielded. After all, what else could she do? But if, in all these ways, the Queen and her epoch were profoundly separated, the points of contact between them also were not few. Victoria understood very well the meaning and the attractions of power and property, and in such learning the English nation, too, had grown to be more and more proficient. During the last fifteen years of the reign--for the short Liberal Administration of 1892 was a mere {302} interlude--imperialism was the dominant creed of the country. It was Victoria's as well. In this direction, if in no other, she had allowed her mind to develop. Under Disraeli's tutelage the British Dominions over the seas had come to mean much more to her than ever before, and, in particular, she had grown enamoured of the East. The thought of India fascinated her; she set to, and learnt a little Hindustani; she engaged some Indian servants, who became her inseparable attendants, and one of whom, Munshi Abdul Karim, eventually almost succeeded to the position which had once been John Brown's.[38] At the same time, the imperialist temper of the nation invested her office with a new significance exactly harmonising with her own inmost proclivities. The English polity was in the main a common-sense structure; but there was always a corner in it where common-sense could not enter--where, somehow or other, the ordinary measurements were not applicable and the ordinary rules did not apply. So our ancestors had laid it down, giving scope, in their wisdom, to that mystical element which, as it seems, can never quite be eradicated from the affairs of men. Naturally it was in the Crown that the mysticism of the English polity was concentrated--the Crown, with its venerable antiquity, its sacred associations, its imposing spectacular array. But, for nearly two centuries, common-sense had been predominant in the great building, and the little, unexplored, inexplicable corner had attracted small attention. Then, with the rise of imperialism, there was a change. For imperialism is a faith as well as a business; as it grew, the mysticism in English public life grew with it; and simultaneously a new importance began to attach to the Crown. The {303} need for a symbol--a symbol of England's might, of England's worth, of England's extraordinary and mysterious destiny--became felt more urgently than ever before. The Crown was that symbol: and the Crown rested upon the head of Victoria. Thus it happened that while by the end of the reign the power of the sovereign had appreciably diminished, the prestige of the sovereign had enormously grown. Yet this prestige was not merely the outcome of public changes; it was an intensely personal matter, too. Victoria was the Queen of England, the Empress of India, the quintessential pivot round which the whole magnificent machine was revolving--but how much more besides! For one thing, she was of a great age--an almost indispensable qualification for popularity in England. She had given proof of one of the most admired characteristics of the race--persistent vitality. She had reigned for sixty years, and she was not out. And then, she was a character. The outlines of her nature were firmly drawn, and, even through the mists which envelop royalty, clearly visible. In the popular imagination her familiar figure filled, with satisfying ease, a distinct and memorable place. It was, besides, the kind of figure which naturally called forth the admiring sympathy of the great majority of the nation. Goodness they prized above every other human quality; and Victoria, who, at the age of twelve, had said that she would be good, had kept her word. Duty, conscience, morality--yes! in the light of those high beacons the Queen had always lived. She had passed her days in work and not in pleasure--in public responsibilities and family cares. The standard of solid virtue which had been set up so long ago amid the domestic happiness of Osborne had never been lowered for an instant. For {304} more than half a century no divorced lady had approached the precincts of the Court. Victoria, indeed, in her enthusiasm for wifely fidelity, had laid down a still stricter ordinance: she frowned severely upon any widow who married again.[39] Considering that she herself was the offspring of a widow's second marriage, this prohibition might be regarded as an eccentricity; but, no doubt, it was an eccentricity on the right side. The middle classes, firm in the triple brass of their respectability, rejoiced with a special joy over the most respectable of Queens. They almost claimed her, indeed, as one of themselves; but this would have been an exaggeration. For, though many of her characteristics were most often found among the middle classes, in other respects--in her manners, for instance--Victoria was decidedly aristocratic. And, in one important particular, she was neither aristocratic nor middle-class: her attitude toward herself was simply regal. Such qualities were obvious and important; but, in the impact of a personality, it is something deeper, something fundamental and common to all its qualities, that really tells. In Victoria, it is easy to discern the nature of this underlying element: it was a peculiar sincerity. Her truthfulness, her single-mindedness, the vividness of her emotions and her unrestrained expression of them, were the varied forms which this central characteristic assumed. It was her sincerity which gave her at once her impressiveness, her charm, and her absurdity. She moved through life with the imposing certitude of one to whom concealment was impossible--either towards her surroundings or towards herself. There she was, all of her--the Queen of England, complete and obvious; the world might take her or {305} leave her; she had nothing more to show, or to explain, or to modify; and, with her peerless carriage, she swept along her path. And not only was concealment out of the question; reticence, reserve, even dignity itself, as it sometimes seemed, might be very well dispensed with. As Lady Lyttelton said: 'There is a transparency in her truth that is very striking--not a shade of exaggeration in describing feelings or facts; like very few other people I ever knew. Many may be as true, but I think it goes often along with some reserve. She talks all out; just as it is, no more and no less.'[40] She talked all out; and she wrote all out, too. Her letters, in the surprising jet of their expression, remind one of a turned-on tap. What is within pours forth in an immediate, spontaneous rush. Her utterly unliterary style has at least the merit of being a vehicle exactly suited to her thoughts and feelings; and even the platitude of her phraseology carries with it a curiously personal flavour. Undoubtedly it was through her writings that she touched the heart of the public. Not only in her 'Highland Journals,' where the mild chronicle of her private proceedings was laid bare without a trace either of affectation or of embarrassment, but also in those remarkable messages to the nation which, from time to time, she published in the newspapers, her people found her very close to them indeed. They felt instinctively Victoria's irresistible sincerity, and they responded. And in truth it was an endearing trait. The personality and the position, too--the wonderful combination of them--that, perhaps, was what was finally fascinating in the case. The little old lady, with her white hair and her plain mourning clothes, in her wheeled chair or her donkey-carriage--one saw her so; {306} and then--close behind--with their immediate suggestion of singularity, of mystery, and of power--the Indian servants. That was the familiar vision, and it was admirable; but, at chosen moments, it was right that the widow of Windsor should step forth apparent Queen. The last and the most glorious of such occasions was the Jubilee of 1897. Then, as the splendid procession passed along, escorting Victoria through the thronged re-echoing streets of London on her progress of thanksgiving to St. Paul's Cathedral, the greatness of her realm and the adoration of her subjects blazed out together. The tears welled to her eyes, and, while the multitude roared round her, 'How kind they are to me! How kind they are!' she repeated over and over again.[41] That night her message flew over the Empire: 'From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless them!' The long journey was nearly done. But the traveller, who had come so far, and through such strange experiences, moved on with the old unfaltering step. The girl, the wife, the aged woman, were the same: vitality, conscientiousness, pride, and simplicity were hers to the latest hour. [1] Hallé, 296. [2] _Notes and Queries_, May 20, 1920. [3] Neele, 476-8, 487. [4] _More Leaves_, _v_. [5] _More Leaves_, passim; Crawford, 326-31; private information. [6] Martin, I, 88, 137-43. [7] _Ibid._, II, 285. [8] _The Times_, April 20, 1882. [9] Letter from Sir Herbert Stephen to _The Times_, December 15,1920. [10] Morley, III, 167. [11] Private information. [12] Morley, III, 347-8. [13] Jerrold, _Widowhood_, 344; private information. [14] Lee, 487. [15] _More Leaves_, 23, 29. [16] Eckardstein, I, 184-7. [17] Grant Robertson, 458-9; Busch, III, 174-188; Lee, 490-2. [18] _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 305-6, 308-10. [19] _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 315-6; Miss Ethel Smyth, _London Mercury_, Nov. 1920; private information. [20] _Ibid._, CXCIII, 325; Miss Ethel Smyth, _London Mercury_, Nov. 1920. [21] Buckle, V, 339; Morley, III, 347, 514. [22] Quarterly Review, CXCIII, 315, 316-7, 324-5, 326; _Spinster Lady_, 268-9; Lee, 504-5. [23] _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 322-4; Martin, _Queen Victoria_, 46-9; private information. [24] Buckle, V, 349-51; Laughton, II, 226. [25] _Private Life_, 13, 66, 69, 70-1, 151, 182. [26] _Private Life_, 19. [27] _Ibid._, 212, 207. [28] _Ibid._, 233. [29] Private information. [30] Lee, 514-15; Crawford, 362-3. [31] Wilberforce, Samuel, II, 275. [32] Martin, II, 185-7. [33] _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 319-20. [34] Crawford, 349. [35] Eckardstein, I, 177. [36] Martin, Queen Victoria, 69-70. [37] _Girlhood_, II, 142. [38] Lee, 485; private information. [39] Lee, 555. [40] Lyttelton, 331 [41] _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 310. {307} CHAPTER X THE END The evening had been golden; but, after all, the day was to close in cloud and tempest. Imperial needs, imperial ambitions, involved the country in the South African War. There were checks, reverses, bloody disasters; for a moment the nation was shaken, and the public distresses were felt with intimate solicitude by the Queen. But her spirit was high, and neither her courage nor her confidence wavered for a moment. Throwing herself heart and soul into the struggle, she laboured with redoubled vigour, interested herself in every detail of the hostilities, and sought by every means in her power to render service to the national cause. In April 1900, when she was in her eighty-first year, she made the extraordinary decision to abandon her annual visit to the South of France, and to go instead to Ireland, which had provided a particularly large number of recruits to the armies in the field. She stayed for three weeks in Dublin, driving through the streets, in spite of the warnings of her advisers, without an armed escort; and the visit was a complete success. But, in the course of it, she began, for the first time, to show signs of the fatigue of age.[1] For the long strain and the unceasing anxiety, brought by the war, made themselves felt at last. {308} Endowed by nature with a robust constitution, Victoria, though in periods of depression she had sometimes supposed herself an invalid, had in reality throughout her life enjoyed remarkably good health. In her old age, she had suffered from a rheumatic stiffness of the joints, which had necessitated the use of a stick, and, eventually, a wheeled chair; but no other ailments attacked her, until, in 1898, her eyesight began to be affected by incipient cataract. After that, she found reading more and more difficult, though she could still sign her name, and even, with some difficulty, write letters. In the summer of 1900, however, more serious symptoms appeared. Her memory, in whose strength and precision she had so long prided herself, now sometimes deserted her; there was a tendency towards aphasia; and, while no specific disease declared itself, by the autumn there were unmistakable signs of a general physical decay. Yet, even in these last months, the vein of iron held firm. The daily work continued; nay, it actually increased; for the Queen, with an astonishing pertinacity, insisted upon communicating personally with an ever-growing multitude of men and women who had suffered through the war.[2] By the end of the year the last remains of her ebbing strength had almost deserted her; and through the early days of the opening century it was clear that her dwindling forces were kept together only by an effort of will. On January 11, she had at Osborne an hour's interview with Lord Roberts, who had returned victorious from South Africa a few days before. She inquired with acute anxiety into all the details of the war; she appeared to sustain the exertion successfully; but, when the audience was over, there was a collapse. On the {309} following day her medical attendants recognised that her state was hopeless; and yet, for two days more, the indomitable spirit fought on; for two days more she discharged the duties of a Queen of England. But after that there was an end of working; and then, and not till then, did the last optimism of those about her break down. The brain was failing, and life was gently slipping away. Her family gathered round her; for a little more she lingered, speechless and apparently insensible; and, on January 22, 1901, she died.[3] When, two days previously, the news of the approaching end had been made public, astonished grief had swept over the country. It appeared as if some monstrous reversal of the course of nature was about to take place. The vast majority of her subjects had never known a time when Queen Victoria had not been reigning over them. She had become an indissoluble part of their whole scheme of things, and that they were about to lose her appeared a scarcely possible thought. She herself, as she lay blind and silent, seemed to those who watched her to be divested of all thinking--to have glided already, unawares, into oblivion. Yet, perhaps, in the secret chambers of consciousness, she had her thoughts, too. Perhaps her fading mind called up once more the shadows of the past to float before it, and retraced, for the last time, the vanished visions of that long history--passing back and back, through the cloud of years, to older and ever older memories--to the spring woods at Osborne, so full of primroses for Lord Beaconsfield--to Lord Palmerston's queer clothes and high demeanour, and Albert's face under the green lamp, and Albert's first stag at Balmoral, and Albert in his blue and silver uniform, and the Baron coming in through {310} a doorway, and Lord M. dreaming at Windsor with the rooks cawing in the elm-trees, and the Archbishop of Canterbury on his knees in the dawn, and the old King's turkey-cock ejaculations, and Uncle Leopold's soft voice at Claremont, and Lehzen with the globes, and her mother's feathers sweeping down towards her, and a great old repeater-watch of her father's in its tortoise-shell case, and a yellow rug, and some friendly flounces of sprigged muslin, and the trees and the grass at Kensington. [1] _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 318, 336-7. [2] Lee, 536-7; private information. [3] Lee, 537-9; _Quarterly Review_, CXCIII, 309. {311} BIBLIOGRAPHY AND LIST OF REFERENCES IN THE NOTES, ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY ADAMS. _The Education of Henry Adams: an autobiography_. London, 1919. ASHLEY. _The Life and Correspondence of H. J. Temple, Viscount Palmerston_. By A. E. M. Ashley. 2 vols. 1879. BLOOMFIELD. _Reminiscences of Court and Diplomatic Life_. By Georgiana, Lady Bloomfield. 2 vols. 1883. BROUGHTON. _Recollections of a Long Life_. By Lord Broughton. Edited by Lady Dorchester. 6 vols. 1909-11. BUCKLE. _The Life of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield_. By W. F. Monypenny and G. E. Buckle. 6 vols. 1910-20. BÜLOW. _Gabriele von Bülow_, 1791-1887. Berlin. 1893. BUNSEN. _A Memoir of Baron Bunsen_. By his widow, Frances, Baroness Bunsen. 2 vols. 1868. BUSCH. _Bismarck: some secret pages of his history_. By Dr. Moritz Busch. (English translation.) 3 vols. 1898. CHILDERS. _The Life and Correspondence of the Rt. Hon. Hugh C. E. Childers_. 2 vols. 1901. CLARENDON. _The Life and Letters of the Fourth Earl of Clarendon_. By Sir Herbert Maxwell. 2 vols. 1913. _Cornhill Magazine_, vol. 75. CRAWFORD. _Victoria, Queen and Ruler_. By Emily Crawford. 1903. CREEVEY. _The Creevey Papers_. Edited by Sir Herbert Maxwell. 2 vols. 1904. CROKER. _The Croker Papers_. Edited by L. J. Jennings. 3 vols. 1884. DAFFORNE. _The Albert Memorial: its history and description_. By J. Dafforne. 1877. DALLING. _The Life of H. J. Temple, Viscount Palmerston_. By Lord Dalling. 3 vols. 1871-84. _Dictionary of National Biography_. DISRAELI. _Lord George Bentinck: a political biography_. By B. Disraeli. 1852. {312} ECKARDSTEIN. _Lebens-Erinnerungen u. Politische Denkwürdigkeitten_. Von Freiherrn v. Eckardstein. 2 vols. Leipzig. 1919. ERNEST. _Memoirs of Ernest II, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha_. 4 vols. 1888. (English translation.) FITZMAURICE. _The Life of Earl Granville_. By Lord Fitzmaurice. 2 vols. 1905. GASKELL. _The Life of Charlotte Brontë_. By Mrs. Gaskell. 2 vols. 1857. GIRLHOOD. _The Girlhood of Queen Victoria_. Edited by Viscount Esher. 2 vols. 1912. GOSSART. _Adolphe Quetelet et le Prince Albert de Saxe-Cobourg_. Académie Royale de Belgique, Bruxelles. 1919. GRANVILLE. _Letters of Harriet, Countess Granville_. 2 vols. 1894. GREVILLE. _The Greville Memoirs_. 8 vols. (Silver Library Edition.) 1896. GREY. _Early Years of the Prince Consort_. By General Charles Grey. 1867. HALLÉ. _Life and Letters of Sir Charles Hallé_. Edited by his Son. 1896. HAMILTON. _Parliamentary Reminiscences and Reflections_. By Lord George Hamilton. 1917. HARE. _The Story of My Life_. By Augustus J. C. Hare. 6 vols. 1896-1900. HAYDON. _Autobiography of Benjamin Robert Haydon_. 3 vols. 1853. HAYWARD. _Sketches of Eminent Statesmen and Writers_. By A. Hayward. 2 vols. 1880. HUISH. _The History of the Life and Reign of William the Fourth_. By Robert Huish. 1837. HUNT. _The Old Court Suburb: or Memorials of Kensington, regal, critical, and anecdotal_. 2 vols. 1855. JERROLD, EARLY COURT. _The Early Court of Queen Victoria_. By Clare Jerrold. 1912. JERROLD, MARRIED LIFE. _The Married Life of Queen Victoria_. By Clare Jerrold. 1913. JERROLD, WIDOWHOOD. _The Widowhood of Queen Victoria_. By Clare Jerrold. 1916. KINGLAKE. _The Invasion of the Crimea_. By A. W. Kinglake. 9 vols. (Cabinet Edition.) 1877-88. KNIGHT. _The Autobiography of Miss Cornelia Knight_. 2 vols. 1861. LAUGHTON. _Memoirs of the Life and Correspondence of Henry Reeve_. By Sir John Laughton. 2 vols. 1898. LEAVES. _Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands, from 1848 to 1861_. By Queen Victoria. Edited by A. Helps. 1868. {313} LEE. _Queen Victoria: a biography_. By Sidney Lee. 1902. LESLIE. _Autobiographical Recollections by the late Charles Robert Leslie, R.A._ Edited by Tom Taylor. 2 vols. 1860. LETTERS. _The Letters of Queen Victoria_. 3 vols. 1908. LIEVEN. _Letters of Dorothea, Princess Lieven, during her residence in London, 1812-1834_. Edited by Lionel G. Robinson. 1902. _The London Mercury_. _Lovely Albert!_ A Broadside. LYTTELTON. _Correspondence of Sarah Spencer, Lady Lyttelton, 1787-1870_. Edited by Mrs. Hugh Wyndham. 1912. MARTIN. _The Life of His Royal Highness the Prince Consort_. By Theodore Martin. 5 vols. 1875-80. MARTIN, QUEEN VICTORIA. _Queen Victoria as I knew her_. By Sir Theodore Martin. 1908. MARTINEAU. _The Autobiography of Harriet Martineau_. 3 vols. MAXWELL. _The Hon. Sir Charles Murray, K.C.B.: a memoir_. By Sir Herbert Maxwell. 1898. MORE LEAVES. _More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the Highlands, from 1862 to 1882_. By Queen Victoria. 1884. MORLEY. _The Life of William Ewart Gladstone_. By John Morley. 3 vols. 1903. MURRAY. _Recollections from 1803 to 1837_. By the Hon. Amelia Murray. 1868. NATIONAL MEMORIAL. _The National Memorial to H.R.H. the Prince Consort_. 1873. NEELE. _Railway Reminiscences_. By George P. Neele. 1904. OWEN. _The Life of Robert Owen_, written by himself. 1857. OWEN, JOURNAL. _Owen's Rational Quarterly Review and Journal_. PANAM. _A German Prince and his Victim_. Taken from the Memoirs of Madame Pauline Panam. 1915. PRIVATE LIFE. _The Private Life of the Queen_. By One of Her Majesty's Servants. 1897. _The Quarterly Review_, vols. 193 and 213. ROBERTSON. _Bismarck_. By C. Grant Robertson. 1918. SCOTT. _Personal and Professional Recollections_. By Sir George Gilbert Scott. 1879. SMITH. _Life of Her Majesty Queen Victoria_. Compiled from all available sources. By G. Barnett Smith. 1887. SPINSTER LADY. _The Notebooks of a Spinster Lady_. 1919. STEIN. _Denkschriften über Deutsche Verfassungen_. Herausgegeben von G. H. Pertz. 6 vols. 1848. {314} STOCKMAR. _Denkwürdigkeiten aus den Papieren des Freiherrn Christian Friedrich v. Stockmar_, zusammengestellt von Ernst Freiherr v. Stockmar. Braunschweilg. 1872. TAIT. _The Life of Archibald Campbell Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury_. 2 vols. 1891. _The Times_. _The Times_ LIFE. _The Life of Queen Victoria_, reproduced from _The Times_. 1901. TORRENS. _Memoirs of William Lamb, second Viscount Melbourne_. By W. M. Torrens. (Minerva Library Edition.) 1890. VITZTHUM. _St. Petersburg und London in den Jahren 1852-1864_. Carl Friedrich Graf Vitzthum von Eckstadt. Stuttgart. 1886. WALPOLE. _The Life of Lord John Russell_. By Sir Spencer Walpole. 2 vols. 1889. WILBERFORCE, SAMUEL. _Life of Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford_. By his son, R. G. Wilberforce. 3 vols. 1881. WILBERFORCE, WILLIAM. _The Life of William Wilberforce_. 5 vols. 1838. WYNN. _Diaries of a Lady of Quality_. By Miss Frances Williams Wynn. 1864. Printed by SPOTTISWOODE, BALLANTYNE & CO. LTD. Colchester, London & Eton, England _SOME OPINIONS ON 'EMINENT VICTORIANS'_ _NOW IN ITS NINTH EDITION_ 'Mr. Lytton Strachey's "Eminent Victorians" has had, I suppose, the most instant success that any book of account has won in this generation. Some of Mr. Strachey's incidental portraits are of astonishing brilliancy--notably that of Mr. Gladstone, and the book is sure of long life. This it will owe to its felicity of style and its finish and delicacy of moulding, no less than to its cynical wit and its perfectly serious and critical intention.'--_The Nation_. 'A brilliant and extraordinarily witty book. Mr. Strachey's method of presenting his characters is both masterly and subtle. His purpose is to penetrate into the most hidden depths of his sitters' characters. There is something almost uncanny in the author's detachment.'--_The Times_. 'An unusually interesting volume in a department of literature which, in England, has fallen to a grievously low level.'--_Manchester Guardian_. 'Four short biographies which are certainly equal to anything of the kind which has been produced for a hundred years. He elucidates with consummate dexterity--the book is a masterpiece of its kind.'--Mr. J. C. Squire, in _Land and Water_. 'A brilliant book has recently appeared which illustrates in very vigorous and striking fashion the interval which seems to divide the twentieth century from the nineteenth. Mr. Lytton Strachey's book has attained a celebrity quite remarkable for literary work produced in times of war. There is no doubt as to its literary merits.'--Leading Article in _The Daily Telegraph_. 'This book is brilliant and witty and iconoclastic enough, but it has also something in it which gives it greatness. Regarded as an example of the manner in which biography can be written, it is almost unparalleled in English; and many readers will be rejoiced if Mr. Strachey can be induced to become a Plutarch of the modern world.'--_Westminster Gazette_. 'It is impossible here even to outline the precise, vivid, and witty essays which Mr. Strachey has devoted to his four characters. But he has certainly done something to redeem English biography from the reproach under which it suffers when compared with the art as practised in France; and he comes close to the standard which he sets himself when he speaks of the "Fontenelles and Condorcets."'--_New Statesman_. 'Mr. Strachey's subtle and suggestive art.'--_Mr. Asquith's Romanes Lecture at Oxford_. LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS 43428 ---- [The words between equals signs (=) appear in Old English type in the original. A few typographical errors have been made; a list follows the etext. (note of etext transcriber.)] =Kensington Palace: the Birthplace of the Queen.= =Illustrated.= [Illustration: THIS MINIATURE REPRESENTS THE QUEEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT] 1819 MAY 24TH 1899 [Illustration: H.R.H. THE PRINCESS VICTORIA AT THE AGE OF FOUR. (From a Painting by Denning.)] =Kensington Palace= THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE QUEEN _ILLUSTRATED_ BEING AN HISTORICAL GUIDE TO THE STATE ROOMS, PICTURES, AND GARDENS BY =Ernest Law, B.A.= BARRISTER-AT-LAW _Author of "The History of Hampton Court Palace;" "The Royal Gallery of Hampton Court;" "Vandyck's Pictures at Windsor Castle," etc._ [Illustration: colophon] _Notice._--This Catalogue and Guide are copyright, and immediate proceedings in Chancery will be taken against any infringers thereof. LONDON GEORGE BELL AND SONS 1899 [Illustration: Decoration] =Notice to Visitors.= The State Rooms of Kensington Palace, and likewise Queen Anne's Orangery, will be open to the public every day in the week throughout the year, except Wednesdays, unless notice be, at any time, given to the contrary. The hours of opening will be 10 o'clock in the morning on week days, and 2 o'clock in the afternoon on Sundays. The hours of closing will be 6 o'clock in the evening from the 1st of April to the 30th of September, both days inclusive, and 4 o'clock during the winter months. They will be closed on Christmas Day and Good Friday. [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: KENSINGTON PALACE AND GARDENS IN THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.] [Illustration: Decoration] =Contents.= PAGE FRONTISPIECE. H.R.H. THE PRINCESS VICTORIA AT THE AGE OF FOUR 4 NOTICE TO VISITORS 6 _Plate_--KENSINGTON PALACE AND GARDENS IN THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE 8 PREFACE 14 =Historical Sketch.= EARLY HISTORY OF KENSINGTON 17 BUILDING OF THE PALACE 18 DEATHS OF QUEEN MARY AND KING WILLIAM 19 QUEEN ANNE AT KENSINGTON PALACE 20 DEATH OF PRINCE GEORGE OF DENMARK 22 DEATH OF QUEEN ANNE 22 GEORGE I. AT KENSINGTON PALACE 23 GEORGE II. AT KENSINGTON PALACE 24 KENSINGTON IN GEORGE III.'S REIGN 25 BIRTH OF QUEEN VICTORIA 26 _Plate_--THE DUCHESS OF KENT WITH PRINCESS VICTORIA (AGED TWO YEARS) 27 QUEEN VICTORIA'S EARLY YEARS AT KENSINGTON 29 THE QUEEN'S CHILDHOOD AT KENSINGTON PALACE 30 _Plate_--THE PRINCESS VICTORIA IN 1825 31 PRINCESS VICTORIA BECOMES HEIRESS TO THE THRONE 34 QUEEN VICTORIA'S ACCESSION 36 QUEEN VICTORIA'S FIRST COUNCIL 37 KENSINGTON PALACE IN RECENT YEARS 40 RESTORATION OF THE STATE ROOMS 41 METHODS OF RESTORATION 42 ARRANGEMENT OF THE PICTURES 44 ASSOCIATIONS WITH QUEEN VICTORIA 45 =Descriptive and Historical Guide.= OLD KENSINGTON PALACE GARDENS 47 QUEEN ANNE'S GARDENS 49 QUEEN ANNE'S ORANGERY 51 TERRACE OF QUEEN ANNE'S ORANGERY 53 EXTERIOR OF QUEEN ANNE'S ORANGERY 54 INTERIOR OF QUEEN ANNE'S ORANGERY 55 THE ALCOVES OF QUEEN ANNE'S ORANGERY 56 RESTORATION OF QUEEN ANNE'S ORANGERY 56 KENSINGTON GARDENS 58 QUEEN CAROLINE'S IMPROVEMENTS IN KENSINGTON GARDENS 58 KENSINGTON GARDENS IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 59 _Plate_--SOUTH FRONT OF KENSINGTON PALACE IN 1819--AFTER WESTALL 61 SOUTH FRONT OF THE PALACE 63 WREN'S DOMESTIC STYLE 63 EAST FRONT OF THE PALACE 64 _Plate_--PLAN OF THE STATE ROOMS 66 PUBLIC ENTRANCE TO THE PALACE 67 QUEEN'S STAIRCASE 68 OLD OAK WAINSCOTING OF THE STAIRCASE 69 WINDOW SASHES OF THE STAIRCASE 69 QUEEN MARY'S GALLERY 70 WAINSCOTING AND CARVINGS OF QUEEN MARY'S GALLERY 71 PICTURES IN QUEEN MARY'S GALLERY. PORTRAITS OF THE TIME OF WILLIAM AND MARY TO GEORGE II 73 QUEEN'S CLOSET 77 PICTURES OF "OLD LONDON" 77 QUEEN ANNE'S PRIVATE DINING ROOM 80 PICTURES IN QUEEN ANNE'S PRIVATE DINING ROOM 81 QUEEN MARY'S PRIVY CHAMBER 83 PICTURES IN QUEEN MARY'S PRIVY CHAMBER 83 QUEEN CAROLINE'S DRAWING ROOM 87 PAINTED CEILING OF THE QUEEN'S DRAWING ROOM 88 CONTEMPORARY FRENCH AND GERMAN PORTRAITS 88 THE CUPOLA OR CUBE ROOM 93 THE PAINTED CEILING OF THE CUBE ROOM 94 _Plate_--THE CUPOLA OR CUBE ROOM AS IT WAS WHEN THE QUEEN WAS BAPTIZED IN IT 95 PAINTED WALLS OF THE CUBE ROOM 96 GENERAL APPEARANCE OF THE CUPOLA ROOM 98 KING'S DRAWING ROOM 99 PAINTED CEILING OF THE KING'S DRAWING ROOM 99 WILLIAM KENT, THE ROYAL AND FASHIONABLE DECORATOR 100 _Plate_--KING'S DRAWING ROOM 101 KENT THE FATHER OF MODERN GARDENING 103 WEST'S PICTURES IN THE KING'S DRAWING ROOM 104 KING'S PRIVY CHAMBER 108 PORTRAITS OF GEORGE III.'S TIME 108 THE NURSERY 113 Pictures and Prints illustrative of the Queen's Life and Reign 113 ANTE-ROOM 114 PRINTS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE LIFE AND REIGN OF THE QUEEN 114 QUEEN VICTORIA'S BEDROOM 115 PRINTS OF THE LIFE AND REIGN OF THE QUEEN 116 MEMENTOES AND RELICS OF THE QUEEN'S CHILDHOOD COLLECTED IN "QUEEN VICTORIA'S BEDROOM" 116 KING'S GALLERY 117 DECORATIVE CARVINGS IN THE "KING'S GALLERY" 117 CHIMNEY-PIECE, MAP AND DIAL 118 _Plate_--THE KING'S GALLERY 119 PAINTING OF THE CEILING AND WAINSCOT OF THE KING'S GALLERY 121 NAVAL PICTURES IN THE KING'S GALLERY 122 KING'S GRAND STAIRCASE 129 KENT'S ALTERATIONS IN THE KING'S GRAND STAIRCASE 130 _Plate_--THE KING'S GRAND STAIRCASE 131 PAINTED WALLS OF THE KING'S GRAND STAIRCASE 133 PAINTED CEILING OF THE KING'S GRAND STAIRCASE 135 PRESENCE CHAMBER 137 PAINTED CEILING OF THE PRESENCE CHAMBER 138 CEREMONIAL PICTURES OF QUEEN VICTORIA'S REIGN 139 [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] =Preface.= The following pages, compiled under the sanction of the Lord Chamberlain of Her Majesty's Household and the First Commissioner of Her Majesty's Works and Buildings, are intended to meet the requirements of visitors to the State Rooms of Kensington Palace, now open by command of the Queen to the inspection of the public during Her Majesty's pleasure. This little book, therefore, is to be understood as aiming only at a descriptive and historical account of the particular parts of the building on view--not, in any sense, as attempting a general history of the Palace. Nevertheless, the author may, perhaps, be permitted to say that, as far as his object extends, he has endeavoured to render the information here given as accurate and complete as possible, by devoting the same amount of time and labour to research and verification, as though he had been writing a book of a critical nature for a restricted circle of readers, instead of a mere handbook for ordinary sightseers. In this way, the writer conceives, can he best promote the object which, it may be assumed, the Queen and Her Majesty's Government have had in view in restoring and opening these State Rooms to the public--namely, that they should serve as an object-lesson in history and art, and a refining influence of popular culture and education. In pursuance of this design the author has had recourse not only to such well-known standard authorities on his subject as Pyne's "History of Royal Residences," 1819; Faulkner's "History of Kensington," 1820; Leigh Hunt's "Old Court Suburb," 1853; and Mr. Loftie's "Kensington--Picturesque and Historical," 1887; but also to a large number of earlier and less known historical and topographical works, which have served to illustrate many things connected with the history of this interesting old building. His main sources of information, however, have been the old manuscripts, parchment rolls, and state papers, preserved in the British Museum and Record Office--especially the "Declared Accounts" and "Treasury Papers," containing the original estimates, accounts and reports of Sir Christopher Wren and his successors, relating to the works and buildings at Kensington. None of these have ever before been examined or published; and they throw much light on the art and decoration of this palace, while also, for the first time, setting at rest many hitherto debatable points. The author must here once again--as in works of a similar nature elsewhere--express his obligations for the kind assistance he has received from all those who have charge of the Queen's palaces--the Hon. Sir Spencer Ponsonby Fane, G.C.B., Comptroller of Her Majesty's Household; the Hon. Reginald Brett, C.B., Secretary of Her Majesty's Board of Works and Buildings; Sir John Taylor, K.C.B., Consulting Architect and Surveyor to the Board; and Mr. Philip, Clerk of the Works at Kensington Palace. At the same time he wishes to make it clear that for the information contained herein, and for the opinions and views expressed, he himself is alone responsible. Here also the author must make his acknowledgments to the editor of "The Gentlewoman," who has kindly lent him the blocks for the portraits of the Queen. It may be as well to take this opportunity of emphasizing what is more fully insisted on in subsequent pages, that Kensington Palace, as a public resort, is not to be considered in the light of an Art Gallery, but as a Palace with historical pictures in it. The clear understanding of this may prevent misapprehension as to the scheme followed in restoring the state rooms to their original state, where the pictures--and their frames--are arranged on the walls as a part only of their furniture and decoration. Finally, it may be observed that though the outline of the history of the Palace, prefixed to the description of the State Rooms, has necessarily been brief, the Queen's early life, and the interesting events that took place here in June 1837, seemed to require a fuller treatment. These, therefore, have been described in detail, mainly in the words of eye-witnesses, which, though they have often been printed before, may, being repeated here, acquire--the compiler has thought--a new vividness and interest, when read on the very spot where they were enacted; and thus insure for these famous scenes an even wider popularity than before. [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] HISTORICAL SKETCH. =Early History of Kensington.= Kensington Palace, built by William and Mary, occupied by Queen Anne as one of her favourite residences, enlarged by George I. and greatly appreciated by George II. and his queen, Caroline, has received a greater renown and more interesting associations from having been the birthplace and early home of Queen Victoria. In celebration of the eightieth anniversary of that ever-memorable and auspicious event, Her Majesty decided on opening the State Apartments free to the public on the 24th of May, 1899, during Her Majesty's pleasure. Before recapitulating the events of the Queen's early life here, we must give a brief outline of the history of the Palace since it became a royal residence. The original building, of which it is probable that a good deal still stands, was erected mainly by Sir Heneage Finch, Lord Chancellor and Earl of Nottingham, who acquired the estate, including some hundred and fifty acres of meadow and park--now Kensington Gardens--from his brother Sir John Finch. Hence it was known as Nottingham House; and under that title it was bought from Daniel Finch, the second earl, for the sum of 18,000 guineas, in the summer or autumn of 1689, by King William III., who was anxious to have a convenient residence near enough to Whitehall for the transaction of business, and yet sufficiently far to be out of the smoky atmosphere, in which he found it impossible to breathe. The King, assisted by his Queen, at once set about enlarging and embellishing the mansion, and laying out new gardens. =Building of the Palace.= The works seem to have been begun on or very soon after the 1st of October, 1689. We learn this from the enrolled account of "Thomas Lloyd, Paymaster of Their Majesties Workes and Buildinges," made up from "paybookes subscribed with the handes of Sir Christopher Wren, Knight Surveyor of the workes; William Talman, Comptroller; John Oliver, Master Mason; and Matthew Bankes, Master Carpenter, and with the hand of Nicolas Hawkesmore, clerke of the said workes, according to the ancient usual and due course of the office of their Majesties workes." In the second week of November a news-letter informs us that the new apartment, then being built, "suddenly fell flat to the ground, killing seven or eight workmen and labourers. The Queen had been in that apartment but a little while before." By February 25th, 1690, they were sufficiently advanced for Evelyn to record in his diary: "I went to Kensington, which King William has bought of Lord Nottingham, and altered, but was yet a patched building, but with the garden, it is a very sweete villa, having to it the Park, and a straight new way through this Park." The making of this new road cost just about £8,000. Building operations were continued during the King's absence in Ireland; and the day before the news of the battle of the Boyne reached Queen Mary she spent a few quiet hours in the gardens here, writing the same evening, July 5th, to William: "The place made me think how happy I was there when I had your dear company." Until his return she continued to overlook the building, and on August 6th following, writes again as to the progress of the building: "The outside of the house is fiddling work, which takes up more time than can be imagined; and while the _schafolds_ are up, the windows must be boarded up, but as soon as that is done, your own apartment may be furnished." And a week after: "I have been this day to Kensington, which looks really very well, at least to a poor body like me, who have been so long condemned to this place (Whitehall) and see nothing but water and wall." The work of improving Kensington House continued for another year or more, costing during this period £60,000. It was, however, far from finished, when, in November, 1691, a serious fire occurred, necessitating re-building at a cost of upwards of £6,000. From the year 1691 to 1696 another £35,000 was spent in further "altering the old house," and in additional works of decoration in the galleries and other rooms--details as to which will be given in our description of those apartments. Extensive alterations and improvements were also in progress at the same time in the gardens, which at this period were confined to the ground east and south of the Palace, as to which we shall refer again. =Deaths of Queen Mary and King William.= Ere the work, however, was completed, Queen Mary was taken ill at Kensington with small pox in December, 1694. On learning the nature of her illness she locked herself in her closet, burned some papers, and calmly awaited her fate, which quickly came a few days after, the 28th of December. Evelyn visited Kensington again in 1696, and speaks of it then as "noble but not greate," commending especially the King's Gallery, which was then filled with the finest pictures in the royal collection, "a greate collection of Porcelain, and a pretty private library. The gardens about it very delicious." Peter the Great's visit to William III. in this same gallery is referred to in our description of it below. The next event of moment is William III.'s own death at Kensington Palace, after his accident in Hampton Court Park. "Je tirs vers ma fin," said he to Albemarle, who had hurried from Holland to his master's bedside; and to his physician: "I know that you have done all that skill and learning could do for me; but the case is beyond your art, I must submit." "Can this," he said soon after, "last long?" He was told that the end was approaching. He swallowed a cordial, and asked for Bentinck. Those were his last articulate words. "Bentinck instantly came to the bedside, bent down, and placed his ear close to the King's mouth. The lips of the dying man moved, but nothing could be heard. The King took the hand of his earliest friend and pressed it tenderly to his heart. In that moment, no doubt, all that had cast a slight passing cloud over their long pure friendship was forgotten. It was now between seven and eight in the morning. He closed his eyes, and gasped for breath. The bishops knelt down and read the commendatory prayer. When it ended William was no more. When his remains were laid out, it was found that he wore next to his skin a small piece of black silk ribbon. The lords in waiting ordered it to be taken off. It contained a gold ring and a lock of the hair of Mary." =Queen Anne at Kensington Palace.= Fond as William and Mary had been of Kensington, Queen Anne was even more attached to it still;--and it became her usual residence whenever it was necessary for her to be near the great offices of state. She seems to have remained satisfied with the palace as it had been finished by her predecessors, except for the addition of one or two small rooms "in the little court behind the gallery," perhaps because King William bequeathed to her a debt of upwards of £4,000 for his buildings at Kensington. She devoted, however, a great deal of care and expense to the improving and enlarging of the Palace gardens--as to which we shall have more to say when we come to describe them. Queen Anne, indeed, was, in this respect, thoroughly English. She loved her plants and flowers, and would spend hours pottering about her gardens at Kensington. The appearance of her gardens will best be seen from our reduced facsimile of Kip's large engraving, published about 1714 in his "Britannia Illustrata." In the right distance is seen that most beautiful building called the "Orangery" or green-house, erected by her orders--which we shall fully describe on a subsequent page. Besides enlarging the gardens round about the Palace, Queen Anne greatly extended the area of the park-like enclosed grounds attached to Kensington Palace. Mr. Loftie has declared that "neither Queen Anne nor Queen Caroline took an acre from Hyde Park." But this we have found not to be the fact. In an old report on the "State of the Royal Gardens and Plantations at Ladyday, 1713," among the Treasury Papers in the Record Office, there is a distinct reference to "The Paddock joyning to the Gardens, _taken from Hyde Park in 1705_, and stocked with fine deer and antelopes;" and again in another document, dated May 26th in the same year, being a memorial to the Lord High Treasurer from Henry Portman, Ranger of Hyde Park, it is stated that "near 100 acres had been enclosed from the park of Kensington, whereby the profits he had by herbage were much reduced." Later on, in George II.'s reign, in 1729, we find a grant of £200 made to William, Earl of Essex, Ranger of Hyde Park, "in consideration of loss of herbage of that part of the said park which is laid into his Majesty's gardens at Kensington." =Death of Prince George of Denmark.= It was at Kensington Palace that Anne's husband, Prince George of Denmark, at length succumbed, in 1708, to a prolonged illness of gout and asthma. During his last sickness and death, Anne had the "consolation" of the Duchess of Marlborough's "sympathy." Her Grace's deportment, according to an eye-witness, "while the Prince was actually dying, was of such a nature that the Queen, then in the height of her grief, was not able to bear it." She actually forced her way, as Mistress of the Robes, to the poor Prince's deathbed, and only drew into the background when peremptorily ordered by the heart-broken wife to leave the room. After Prince George had breathed his last, she stepped forward again, and when all the others had left, insisted on remaining with poor Anne, who was "weeping and _clapping_ her hands together, and swaying herself backwards and forwards" in an agony of grief. The Queen was at length induced to accede to the Duchess's advice to leave "_that dismal body_" and remove to St. James's. Two years later, in these very same state rooms of Kensington Palace took place the famous final interview between the Queen and her whilom favourite, also subsequently noticed in our description of "Queen Anne's Private Dining Room." =Death of Queen Anne.= In the summer of the year 1714 Queen Anne was seized, at Kensington Palace, with apoplexy, brought on by political worries. She had been failing in health for some time; and on July 27th had an attack of blood to the head, while presiding at her Cabinet Council, and was carried in a dead faint to her bed. Four days after, Charles Ford, an official of the government and a correspondent of Swift, wrote: "I am just come from Kensington, where I have spent these two days. At present the Queen is alive, and better than could have been expected; her disorder began about eight or nine yesterday morning. The doctors ordered her head to be shaved; while it was being done, the Queen fell into convulsions, or, as they say, a fit of apoplexy, which lasted two hours, during which she showed but little sign of life." At six in the evening of the same day, another anxious watcher within the palace walls, says Miss Strickland, wrote to Swift: "At the time I am writing, the breath is _said_ to be in the Queen's nostrils, but that is all. No hopes of her recovery,"--and in effect she breathed her last the following day, in the fiftieth year of her age. "Her life would have lasted longer," wrote Roger Coke, in his "Detection," "if she had not eaten so much.... She supped too much chocolate, and died monstrously fat; insomuch that the coffin wherein her remains were deposited was almost square, and was bigger than that of the Prince, her husband, who was known to be a fat, bulky man." =George I. at Kensington Palace.= The day after the death of Queen Anne, King George was proclaimed her successor; and soon after his accession he entered into possession of Kensington Palace. Taking, on his part, also, a fancy to the place, he decided, about the year 1721, to erect a new and additional suite of state rooms, the building of which was intrusted to William Kent, as we shall fully explain in our description of the new state rooms constructed by him. Otherwise, we hear scarcely anything of George I. in connection with Kensington. He lived here, indeed, in the greatest seclusion with his German favourites, and was scarcely ever seen, even in the gardens, which in his reign first became the fashionable promenade, where, in the words of Tickell, who wrote a poem on the subject, in imitation of Pope's "Rape of the Lock"-- "The dames of Britain oft in crowds repair To groves and lawns, and unpolluted air, Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies, They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies." =George II. at Kensington Palace.= In the reign of George II. Kensington became more than ever the favourite residence of the court, and much insight into life within the walls of the Palace at this time is afforded us by such books as Lady Suffolk's "Memoirs," Lady Sundon's "Letters," Walpole's "Reminiscences," and, above all, of course, by Lord Hervey's "Memoirs." Here is a malignant little sketch drawn by that treacherous, satiric hand: "His Majesty stayed about five minutes in the gallery; snubbed the Queen, who was drinking chocolate, for being always 'stuffing;' the Princess Emily for not hearing him; the Princess Caroline for being grown fat; the Duke of Cumberland for standing awkwardly; Lord Hervey for not knowing what relation the Prince of Sultzbach was to the Elector Palatine; and then carried the Queen to walk, and be re-snubbed, in the garden." It was the Princess Emily just mentioned who played a practical joke one evening at Kensington on Lady Deloraine, by drawing her chair from under her just as she was going to sit down to cards, thus sending her sprawling on the floor. The King burst out laughing, and, to revenge herself, Lady Deloraine played his august Majesty the same trick soon after, which not unnaturally led to her being forbidden the court for some time. Although Queen Caroline had to put up with a good deal of snubbing, she managed, at the same time, usually to get her own way. She was very fond of art; and it was she who discovered, stowed away in a drawer at Kensington Palace, the famous series of Holbein's drawings. These she had brought out, and she arranged all the pictures in the State Rooms according to her liking. Her substituting good pictures for bad in the great Drawing-Room during one of the King's absences in Hanover, led to the famous and oft-quoted scene between Lord Hervey and his Majesty, who, nevertheless, did not interfere with the Queen's alterations. Caroline was also devoted to the then fashionable craze of gardening, and was continually planning and altering at Kensington. It was at her instance--as we shall see presently in greater detail--that the large extent of land, formerly the park of old Nottingham House, and also a portion of Hyde Park, was laid out, planted, and improved into what we now know as "Kensington Gardens." Queen Caroline died in 1737, while George II. survived her twenty-three years, expiring at Kensington Palace on the morning of the 25th of October, 1760, at the age of seventy-eight. His end was extremely sudden. He appeared to be in his usual health, when a heavy fall was heard in his dressing-room after breakfast. The attendants hurried in, to find the King lying on the floor, with his head cut open by falling against a bureau. The right ventricle of his heart had burst. =Kensington in George III.'s Reign.= George II. was the last sovereign to occupy Kensington Palace, which thenceforth, during the long reign of George III., was left almost entirely neglected and deserted. Several members of the royal family, however, occupied, at various periods, suites of apartments in the Palace. Among others, Caroline of Brunswick, when Princess of Wales, lived for a short time here with her mother. Her behaviour greatly scandalized the sober-minded inhabitants of the old court suburb. "She kept a sort of open house, receiving visitors in a dressing-gown, and sitting and talking about herself with strangers, on the benches in the garden, at the risk of being discovered." Another but more worthy occupant of the Palace in George III.'s reign was our present Queen's uncle, the Duke of Sussex, who collected a magnificent library here of nearly fifty thousand volumes, which he spent the last years of his life in arranging and cataloguing. Destined, however, to invest Kensington Palace with associations and memories far transcending any that have gone before, was the advent here of the Duke and Duchess of Kent, seven months after their marriage. They occupied most of the old state rooms on the first and second floors of the easternmost portion of the Palace. Three lives then stood between the duke and the throne, and little could the newly-married pair have imagined that from their union would spring the future Queen and Empress of such a vast and mighty empire as now owns the sway of their first and only child. =Birth of Queen Victoria.= The Queen was born on the 24th of May, 1819, at a quarter past four in the morning. "Some doubt," says Mr. Loftie, "has been thrown on the identification of the room in which the future Queen was born; but the late lamented Dr. Merriman, whose father attended the Duchess, had no doubt that a spacious chamber, which has been marked with a brass plate, was that in which the happy event took place." This room, which is on the first floor, exactly under the "King's Privy Chamber"--the State Rooms being on the second floor--has a low ceiling, and three windows, facing east, looking into the "Private Gardens." It has been identified by the Queen as the one Her Majesty was always told she was born in. The brass plate, put up at the time of the first Jubilee, in 1887, states: _In this room Queen Victoria was born, May 24th, 1819_. [Illustration: THE DUCHESS OF KENT WITH PRINCESS VICTORIA (AGED TWO YEARS). (After a picture by Sir William Beechey.)] Faulkner, writing the year after the event, confirms this identification, insomuch that he says: "_The lower apartments_ in the south-east part of the Palace, beneath the King's Gallery, have been for some years occupied by His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent, whose premature decease--eight months after the birth of his daughter--this nation has so recently and deeply lamented; and they are still the residence of Her Royal Highness the Duchess." This is how the event was noticed in the "Memoirs" of Baron Stockmar: "A pretty little Princess, plump as a partridge, was born. The Duke of Kent was delighted with his child, and liked to show her constantly to his companions and intimate friends with the words: 'Take care of her, for she will be Queen of England.'" An interesting letter of the Duke of Kent's, written a few weeks after to his chaplain, Dr. Thomas Prince, who had addressed a letter of congratulation to him while, at the same time, somewhat condoling with him that a daughter and not a son had been born to him, was published in the "Times" at the time of the Jubilee of 1897. In it the duke remarked: "As to the circumstance of that child not proving to be a son instead of a daughter, I feel it due to myself to declare that such sentiments are not in unison with my own; for I am decidedly of opinion that the decrees of Providence are at all times wisest and best." =Queen Victoria's Early Years at Kensington.= The next reference we have found to the future Queen, is in a letter, written on 21st of July, 1820, when, consequently, Her Majesty was a little more than a year old, by Mr. Wilberforce, who mentions being received at Kensington Palace by the Duchess of Kent that morning. "She received me with her fine animated child on the floor, by her side, with its playthings, of which I soon became one." Most of the future Queen's early years were passed at Kensington Palace in great privacy and retirement. She was often seen, however, in Kensington Gardens, her constant companion in her walks being Miss, afterwards Baroness Lehzen. Leigh Hunt, referring to this period, mentions in his "Old Court Suburb," having seen her "coming up a cross path from the Bayswater Gate, with a girl of her own age by her side"--probably the Princess Feodore, her beloved half-sister and constant companion of her girlhood--"whose hand she was holding, as if she loved her.... A magnificent footman in scarlet came behind her." The youthful Princess was sometimes driven in a goat or donkey carriage in the park and gardens, and, as she grew older, in a small phæton, drawn by two diminutive ponies. The following gives a little glimpse of our Queen at this early period of her life: "A party consisting of several ladies, a young child, and two men servants, having in charge a donkey gaily caparisoned with blue ribbons, and accoutered for the use of the infant ... who skipped along between her mother and sister, the Princess Feodore, holding a hand of each." =The Queen's Childhood at Kensington Palace.= In further illustration of the Queen's life as a little girl with her mother at Kensington Palace, we cannot do better than quote what Mr. Holmes, writing with authority as the Queen's Librarian at Windsor Castle, tells us in his interesting work, "Queen Victoria," which, as he remarks, presents for the first time an accurate account of the childhood of the Queen. "During these early years, and before a regular course of studies had been attempted, the family life at the Palace was simple and regular. Breakfast was served in summer at eight o'clock, the Princess Victoria having her bread and milk and fruit on a little table by her mother's side. After breakfast the Princess Feodore studied with her governess, Miss Lehzen, and the Princess Victoria went out for a walk or drive. It has been repeatedly said that at this time she was instructed by her mother; but this is not the case, as the Duchess never gave her daughter any lessons. At two there was a plain dinner, when the Duchess had her luncheon. In the afternoon was the usual walk or drive. At the time of her mother's dinner the Princess had her supper laid at her side. At nine she was accustomed to retire to her bed, which was placed close to her mother's...." [Illustration: THE PRINCESS VICTORIA IN 1825. (After a picture by G. Fowler.)] "It was not till the Princess had entered her fifth year that she began to receive any regular instruction.... In this determination not to force her daughter's mind, the Duchess of Kent acted on the counsel of her mother, who had advised her 'not to tease her little puss with learning while she was so young.' The advice was justified by results, for the Princess made rapid progress." The Earl of Albemarle, who was in attendance on the Duke of Sussex at Kensington, thus describes in his "Recollections" the appearance of the Princess when seven years old: "One of my occupations on a morning, while waiting for the Duke, was to watch from the window the movements of a bright, pretty little girl, seven years of age. She was in the habit of watering the plants immediately under the window. It was amusing to see how impartially she divided the contents of the watering pot between the flowers and her own little feet. Her simple but becoming dress contrasted favourably with the gorgeous apparel now worn by the little damsels of the rising generation--a large straw hat and a suit of white cotton; a coloured _fichu_ round the neck was the only ornament she wore." Her education was now conducted on a regular system. Writing, arithmetic, singing lessons, dancing lessons by Madam Bourdin, "to whose teaching may be due in some measure the grace of gesture and dignity of bearing which have always distinguished Her Majesty," drawing, and the French language. "German was not allowed to be spoken; English was always insisted upon, though a knowledge of the German language was imparted by M. Barez. The lessons, however, which were most enjoyed were those in riding, which has always been since one of the Queen's greatest pleasures." =Princess Victoria becomes Heiress to the Throne.= The death of the Duke of York, and the remote probability of the Duke and Duchess of Clarence having any offspring, drew increasing attention to the movements of the Duchess of Kent and her daughter. "Many stories are current," continues Mr. Holmes, "of the behaviour and appearance of the young Princess. The simplicity of her tastes was particularly noticed and admired. It was this simplicity of living and careful training in home life, which endeared not only the Princess, but her mother also, to the hearts of the whole nation." Charles Knight, as well as Leigh Hunt, whom we have already quoted, has recorded the pleasing impression made upon him by the young Princess. In his "Passages of a Working Life" he says: "I delighted to walk in Kensington Gardens. As I passed along the broad central walk, I saw a group on the lawn before the Palace.... The Duchess of Kent and her daughter, whose years then numbered nine, were breakfasting in the open air.... What a beautiful characteristic, it seemed to me, of the training of this royal girl, that she should not have been taught to shrink from the public eye; that she should not have been burdened with a premature conception of her probable high destiny; that she should enjoy the freedom and simplicity of a child's nature; that she should not be restrained when she starts up from the breakfast table and runs to gather a flower in the adjoining pasture; that her merry laugh should be fearless as the notes of the thrush in the groves around her. I passed on and blessed her; and I thank God that I have lived to see the golden fruits of such a training." The Queen was just on the eve of her ninth birthday when, on May 19th, 1828, Sir Walter Scott dined at Kensington Palace with the Duchess of Kent. He records in his diary: "I was very kindly received by Prince Leopold, and presented to the little Princess Victoria, the heir-apparent to the Crown, as things stand.... This little lady is educated with much care, and watched so closely, that no busy maid has a moment to whisper, 'You are heir of England.' I suspect, if we could dissect the little heart, we should find some pigeon or other bird of the air had carried the matter." Sir Walter's surmise, Mr. Holmes informs us, was not altogether without foundation; and two years later, when, by the death of her uncle, George IV., only the life of William IV. stood between her and the throne, she was formally made acquainted with her position. "The early part of the year 1833 was passed at Kensington. There the course of study was kept up as before, but the Princess now went out more into society and was seen more in public.... The Princess's amusements were her pets, and her walks and drives, and during the spring and summer she much enjoyed riding." It was at Kensington, in the summer of 1836, that the Queen first saw her future husband. The Prince in his diary recorded that his aunt, the Duchess of Kent, "gave a brilliant ball here at Kensington Palace, at which the gentlemen appeared in uniform and the ladies in so-called fancy dresses. We remained until four o'clock.... Dear Aunt is very kind to us, and does everything she can to please us, and our cousin also is very amiable." The Princess Victoria was at Kensington when she attained her majority, on the 24th of May, 1837. She was awakened by a serenade; she received many presents, and the day was kept as a general holiday at Kensington. =Queen Victoria's Accession.= Less than a month after, King William IV. died at Windsor at twelve minutes past two on the morning of June 20th. As soon as possible the Archbishop of Canterbury, with Lord Conyngham (the Lord Chamberlain), started to convey the news to Kensington, where they arrived at five o'clock in the morning. "They knocked, they rang, they thumped," says "The Diary of a Lady of Quality," "for a considerable time before they could rouse the porter at the gate; they were again kept waiting in the courtyard; they hurried into one of the lower rooms, where they seemed forgotten by everybody. They rang the bell, desired that the attendant of the Princess Victoria might be sent to inform Her Royal Highness that they requested an audience on business of importance. After another delay, and another ringing to inquire the cause, the attendant was summoned, who stated that the Princess was in such a sweet sleep, she could not venture to disturb her. Then they said, 'We are come to the _Queen_ on business of State, and her sleep must give way to that.'" "In a few minutes she came into the room," says Mr. Holmes, "a shawl thrown over her dressing-gown, her feet in slippers, and her hair falling down her back. She had been awakened by the Duchess of Kent, who told Her Majesty she must get up; she went alone into the room where Lord Conyngham and the archbishop were waiting. The Lord Chamberlain then knelt down, and presented a paper, announcing the death of her uncle, to the Queen; and the archbishop said he had come by desire of Queen Adelaide, who thought the Queen would like to hear in what a peaceful state the King had been at the last." =Queen Victoria's First Council.= At nine o'clock the Prime Minister was received in audience alone; and soon afterwards an informal gathering of Privy Councillors, including the Queen's uncle, the Duke of Sussex, the Duke of Wellington, and a dozen or so of ministers, prelates, and officials, was held in the anteroom to the Council Chamber, when an address of fealty and homage was read aloud and signed by those present. After this the doors were opened, "disclosing"--to quote the words of Mr. Barrett Lennard, now the sole survivor of the scene, except the Queen herself--"a large State Saloon, close to whose threshold there stood unattended a small, slight, fair-complexioned young lady, apparently fifteen years of age. She was attired in a close-fitting dress of black silk, her light hair parted and drawn from her forehead; she wore no ornament whatever on her dress or person. The Duke of Sussex advanced, embraced and kissed her--his niece the Queen. Lord Melbourne and others kissed hands in the usual form, and the Usher taking the address, closed the doors, and the Queen disappeared from our gaze. No word was uttered by Her Majesty or by any present, and no sound broke the silence, which seemed to me to add to the impressive solemnity of the scene." The room where this took place is low and rather dark and gloomy, with pillars in it, supporting the floor of the "Cube Room" above. The subsequent meeting of the Queen's first Council, which took place at eleven o'clock, is familiar to everyone from Wilkie's well-known picture--"though, at the expense of truth he has emphasized the principal figure by painting her in a white dress instead of the black which was actually worn." Her Majesty was introduced to the Council Chamber by her uncles, the Dukes of Cumberland and Sussex, and at once took her seat on a chair at the head of the table. In describing this famous scene, it is useless to attempt anything beyond quoting once more--often as it has been quoted--the admirable account given by Charles Greville, Clerk of the Council: "Never was anything like the first impression she produced, or the chorus of praise and admiration which is raised about her manner and behaviour, and certainly not without justice. It was very extraordinary, and something far beyond what was looked for. Her extreme youth and inexperience, and the ignorance of the world concerning her, naturally excited intense curiosity to see how she would act on this trying occasion, and there was a considerable assemblage at the Palace, notwithstanding the short notice which was given.... She bowed to the Lords, took her seat, and then read her speech in a clear, distinct and audible voice, and without any appearance of fear or embarrassment. She was quite plainly dressed and in mourning. "After she had read her speech, and taken and signed the oath for the security of the Church of Scotland, the Privy Councillors were sworn, the two Royal Dukes (of Cumberland and Sussex) first, by themselves; and as these two old men, her uncles, knelt before her, swearing allegiance and kissing her hand, I saw her blush up to the eyes, as if she felt the contrast between their civil and their natural relations, and this was the only sign of emotion she evinced. Her manner to them was very graceful and engaging: she kissed them both, and rose from her chair and moved towards the Duke of Sussex, who was farthest from her and too infirm to reach her. She seemed rather bewildered at the multitude of men who were sworn, and who came one after the other to kiss her hand, but she did not speak to anybody, nor did she make the slightest difference in her manner, or show any in her countenance, to any individual of any rank, station or party. I particularly watched her when Melbourne and the Ministers and the Duke of Wellington and Peel approached her. She went through the whole ceremony--occasionally looking at Melbourne for instruction when she had any doubt what to do, which hardly ever occurred--with perfect calmness and self-possession, but at the same time with a graceful modesty and propriety particularly interesting and ingratiating. When the business was done she retired as she had entered. "Peel said how amazed he was at her manner and behaviour, at her apparent deep sense of her situation, her modesty, and at the same time her firmness. She appeared, in fact, to be awed, but not daunted, and afterwards the Duke of Wellington told me the same thing, and added that if she had been his own daughter he could not have desired to see her perform her part better." This description of Charles Greville's, whose pen was given to anything but flattery, is confirmed by the testimony of many others present. Earl Grey wrote to Princess Lieven: "When called upon for the first time to appear before the Privy Council, and to take upon herself the awful duties with which at so early an age she has been so suddenly charged, there was in her appearance and demeanour a composure, a propriety, an _aplomb_, which were quite extraordinary. She never was in the least degree confused, embarrassed or hurried; read the declaration beautifully; went through the forms of business as if she had been accustomed to them all her life." Lord Palmerston says in a letter to Lord Granville: "The Queen went through her task with great dignity and self-possession; one saw she felt much inward emotion, but it was fully controlled. Her articulation was particularly good, her voice remarkably pleasing." Next day, the 21st of June, at ten o'clock in the morning, Her Majesty was formally proclaimed Queen of Great Britain and Ireland at St. James's Palace, when a salute was fired in the Park, and she appeared at the window of the Presence Chamber, returning afterwards to Kensington Palace. On the 13th of July the Queen, accompanied by her mother, the Duchess of Kent, took her final departure from the place of her birth and the home of her childhood. =Kensington Palace in recent Years.= Since the accession of the Queen, Kensington Palace has had a quiet and uneventful history--though Her Majesty has frequently, in the course of her reign, privately revisited her old home, where the Duchess of Kent retained her rooms until her death in 1861; and where, soon after that date, Princess Mary and the Duke of Teck also came to reside for a period. Here their daughter, Princess May, now the Duchess of York, was born in the State Room called "the Nursery," in 1867. In the meanwhile, the apartments in the south-west corner of the Palace, occupied by the Duke of Sussex until his death in 1843, were afterwards tenanted by his widow, the Duchess of Inverness, who died in 1873, when they were granted by the Queen to Princess Louise and the Marquis of Lorne, who still reside in them. During all these sixty years the Palace had been suffered gradually more and more to fall into a deplorable state of disrepair. The walls were bulging in many places, and merely remained standing by being shored up; the rafters of the roof were beginning to rot away, tiles and slates were broken and slipping off, so that it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the rain and wind at bay. The floors, also, were everywhere deteriorating, the old panelled walls and painted ceilings of the grand reception rooms slowly, but surely, crumbling to decay. "More than once," said a leading article in "The Times" of January 12th, 1898, "it has been seriously proposed to pull the whole building down, and to deal otherwise with the land, and Her Majesty's subjects ought to be grateful to her for having strenuously resisted such an act of Vandalism, and for having declared that, while she lived, the palace in which she was born should not be destroyed." =Restoration of the State Rooms.= The Queen, it is believed, had long desired that her people's wish to be admitted to inspect the Palace of her ancestors, and her own birthplace and early home, should be gratified; and it seemed a fitting memorial of the Diamond Jubilee that this should be done. An obdurate Treasury, which, as we have hinted, had looked forward rather to demolition than restoration, was at length induced to recommend the expenditure necessary to prepare the State Rooms for the admission of the public, and thus, on the 11th of January, 1898, it was possible to make the following gratifying announcement in the press: "Her Majesty, in her desire to gratify the wishes of Her people, has directed that the State Rooms at Kensington Palace, in the central part of the building, which have been closed and unoccupied since 1760, together with Sir Christopher Wren's Banqueting Room, attached to the Palace, shall after careful restoration be opened to the public, during her pleasure; and the Government will forthwith submit to Parliament an estimate of the cost of restoration." Accordingly the Board of Works proceeded to prepare estimates and on March 4th following, the First Commissioner, Mr. Akers Douglas, M.P., submitted a vote of £23,000 for the purpose. By a unanimous vote of the House of Commons on April 1st, the amount required was at once agreed to, and great gratification was on all sides expressed that so happy solution had at length been arrived at. Forthwith, the restorations were put in hand--the most pressing repairs having, indeed, been begun in anticipation, previous to the passing of the vote--and for many months they consisted entirely in solid structural works, which scarcely seemed to affect the appearance of the building at all. It was found necessary to rebuild and underpin walls, to reslate practically the whole of the roof over the State Apartments and renew the timbers that carried it; and also almost all the floors. After these heavy works, and those consequent on the installation of the hot-water warming apparatus, were completed, the more interesting, but much more difficult, business involved in the restoration of the old decorative ironwork, woodwork, and paintings of the State Rooms was taken in hand. The more substantial but less salient work having been carried out, the decorative works were next proceeded with, under the constant supervision of Sir John Taylor, K.C.B., Consulting Architect and Surveyor to H.M.'s Board of Works, and the continual and immediate control of Mr. Philip, temporary Clerk of the Works for Kensington Palace. Moreover, the Hon. Reginald Brett, C.B., Secretary of the Board, to whose initiative the whole scheme of the restoration, we may say, has been mainly due, has given a constant close personal attention to everything that has been done. Nor has any trouble, labour, or research been spared to render everything as historically and archæologically correct as possible. =Methods of Restoration.= The principles on which the restorations have been carried out will more fully appear, in the description we give in our subsequent pages, in regard to every detail of the work. Here we need only say that the most studied care has been taken never to renew any decoration where it was possible to preserve it--least of all ever to attempt to "improve" old work into new. On the contrary, repairing, patching, mending, piecing, cleaning, have been the main occupations of the decorators, to an extent that would render some impatient, slapdash builders and surveyors frantic. Yet it has been all this minute--though no doubt sometimes costly--attention to details, this laborious piecing together of old fragments, this reverential saving of original material and work, this almost-sentimental imitation of the old style and taste where patching in by modern hands was inevitable, which has produced a result and effect likely, we think, to arouse the admiration of all who relish the inimitable charm of antique time-mellowed work. Never before, we may safely say, has the restoration of any historic public building been carried out with quite the same amount of loving care as has been lavished on Kensington Palace. The spirit has been rather that of a private owner reverentially restoring his ancestral home, than that of an ordinary public official, with an energy callous to all sentiment, sweeping away the old to replace it with a spick-and-span new building. This method of treatment has nowhere been applied more scrupulously, and we venture to think with greater success, than in the treatment of the old oak panelling and the beautiful carving, all of which had been covered over with numerous coats of paint, so long ago--we have discovered from the old accounts in the Record Office--as 1724. In the cleaning off of these dirty incrustations, various processes have been resorted to, as they suited the nature of the work, and so thoroughly has this been done that the closest inspection would give us no inkling that any part, either of the flat surface or of the most delicate carving, had ever been painted at all. Equal pains were taken in finishing the surface with oil and wax polish--no stain whatever being used on the panelling, doors or cornices--so that the real true colour of the wood is seen, varying only with its natural variation, and exhibiting all its richness of tone, and its fullness of grain. It makes one almost glad it should have suffered so many years of long neglect--that when at last it has been taken in hand, it should have been done when the historical significance and the technical and artistic value of such things are more truly appreciated than formerly. There can be little doubt that if an early nineteenth century upholsterer had got hold of this Palace, most of the beautiful old work would have been cleared out to make way for vulgar plaster-work of white and gold. Substantially the same principles have been followed in the cleaning and restoration of the painted walls and ceilings, which work has been executed with the utmost sympathy for the old work, and the most careful efforts to preserve it. There has not been a touch of paint applied except to make good portions absolutely destroyed, so that these ceilings--whatever their merits or demerits--remain exactly as they were when first completed, save for the more subdued and modulated tone they have taken on from the softening hand of Time. =Arrangement of the Pictures.= A word should now be said about the pictures, which have been brought from various Royal residences to furnish these State Apartments, and to illustrate the history of this Palace. The bulk of them have come from Hampton Court, and a large number are pieces which were removed when the State Rooms were dismantled by George IV. and William IV., from the very walls where they now once again hang. Their return here from Hampton Court, in the overcrowded galleries of which it has been impossible ever properly to display them, has been a most auspicious thing for that Palace, and has rendered feasible many long-desired rearrangements and improvements. In selecting the pictures which seemed most suitable for hanging at Kensington, the principle has been followed of restricting them almost entirely to portraits and historical compositions belonging to the epoch with which the Palace is connected--the reigns of William and Mary, Queen Anne, and the Georges, and, finally, of course that of Queen Victoria. In the carrying out of this plan an endeavour has been made to group the pictures together in the various apartments as far as possible according to the periods to which they belong--making separate collections, at the same time, of the curious topographical subjects relating to "Old London," in the Queen's Closet; of the interesting series of Georgian sea-pieces, sea-fights, and dockyards, in the King's Gallery--where for the first time they may now at last be really seen and examined--and the ceremonial and other pictures, relating to the Queen's reign, in the "Presence Chamber" and the actual rooms originally occupied by Her Majesty in her youth. Having given these general indications as to the arrangements, it will not be necessary to do more than refer to our subsequent pages for the details of the scheme. Nor need we dwell on what will at once be only too obvious to the connoisseur, that anyone who expects to behold in this Palace a fine collection of choice works of art will certainly be disappointed. Kneller and Zeeman, Paton and Pocock, Huggins and Serres, West and Beechey, are not exactly names to conjure with--nor even, indeed, Scott, Monamy, Drouais, or Hoppner, in their somewhat second-rate productions here. Moreover, it is to be clearly understood, that it is not as an Art Gallery that these rooms are opened to the inspection of the public, but as a Royal Palace, with pictures hung in it illustrative of its history and associations, and as furniture to its walls. Nevertheless, it is not high art only, nor great imaginative works, which can interest and instruct; and, historically, these bewigged, ponderous, puffy personages of the unromantic eighteenth century, whose portraits decorate these walls, are more in accord with their setting, than would be the finer, simpler, and nobler creations of the great epochs of art. =Associations with Queen Victoria.= On the other hand, the Victorian pictures, and the apartments in which they are arranged, stand apart on a different footing of their own. It is to the three small, plain and simple rooms, with their contents, in the south-eastern corner of the building, that all visitors to the Palace will turn with the liveliest interest, and with the keenest, the most thrilling emotion. Romance, and all the thoughts and feelings of tender, natural affection, which appear to have been smothered in the preceding century and a half of powder and gold-lace, seem to awaken and revive once more with the child born in this Palace eighty years ago, in the little girl playing about in these rooms and in these gardens, in the youthful Queen, who stepped forth from her simple chamber here to take possession of the greatest throne in the world! It is as the scene of such memorable events that Kensington Palace possesses, and will hereafter ever possess, abiding interests and engrossing charms altogether its own; and that it will ever inspire, among those who come to visit it, thoughts and memories moving and deep. And not to us only in these islands; not to us only of this age; but to thousands and thousands likewise across the seas; to countless millions yet unborn, will this ancient structure become, now and in the ages yet to be, a revered place of loving pilgrimage as the birthplace and early home of Queen Victoria. [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] DESCRIPTIVE AND HISTORICAL GUIDE. =Old Kensington Palace Gardens.= Before making our way to the public entrance to the state rooms of the Palace, let us take a glance at the history of the gardens lying round it, and the exterior of the building; and first as to the gardens on the east and south of the building. The whole ground here down to the highway was laid out quite early in the reign of William and Mary; but its present uninteresting appearance gives us but little idea of how it looked at that time. We find from the old accounts that large sums, amounting to several thousands of pounds, were expended on garden works--for levelling, gravelling, and planting, all in the formal Dutch style, with figured beds and clipped trees--and also much ornamental work, such as urns, stone vases, statues, and seats. There are, for instance, many items such as these: "To Edward Pearce for carving a chaire for the garden with a canopy of drapery, £43 16_s._; more for carving 4 chairs and 2 seats with Dolphins, scollop shells, etc., and other works done about the said gardens, £43 2_s._ 4_d._--in both £86 18_s._ 4_d._" We have also a contemporary account of the gardens as formed by William and Mary, in a "View of the Gardens near London," dated December, 1691: "Kensington Gardens are not great, nor abounding with fine plants. The orange, lemon, myrtle, and what other trees they had there in summer, were all removed to Mr. London's and Mr. Wise's greenhouse at Brompton Park, a little mile from them. But the walks and grass laid very fine; and they were digging up a flat of four or five acres to enlarge the garden." The northern boundary of King William's gardens is marked by two piers of excellent red brickwork, evidently erected by Wren at that time. They are surmounted by very fine vases of carved Portland stone; and are perhaps two of the "Four great fflower-pots of Portland stone, richly carved," for which, we find from the old bills, the statuary Gabriel Cibber, the father of Colley Cibber, was paid £187 5_s._ Between these piers, which stand 39 feet apart, there was probably, in old days, a screen and gates of fine wrought iron. They stand at the south end of what was called "Brazen Face Walk," and between them the visitor passes to the public entrance to the Palace. The fencing in of this part of the gardens is perhaps referred to in the following entry belonging to the years 1692-95: "William Wheatley for makeing and setting up Pallizadoes and gates in and about the said Palace--£152 5_s._ 10_d._" To the north of these piers lies the north-west corner of the now so-called "Kensington Gardens," where were formerly situated that part of the old gardens appurtenant to the Palace, laid out by Queen Anne. The present bare uninteresting appearance of the ground round about is now entirely different from what it then was. [Illustration: Decoration] =Queen Anne's Gardens.= Bowack, in his "Antiquities of Middlesex," writing in the reign of Queen Anne, in 1705, tells us of her improvements: "There is a noble collection of foreign plants and fine neat greens, which makes it pleasant all the year, and the contrivance, variety, and disposition of the whole is extremely pleasing, and so frugal have they been of the room they had, that there was not an inch but what is well improved, the whole with the house not being above twenty-six acres. Her Majesty has been pleased lately to plant near thirty acres more towards the north, separated from the rest by a stately green-house, not yet finished; upon this spot is near one hundred men daily at work, and so great is the progress they have made, that in less than nine months the whole is levelled, laid out, and planted, and when finished will be very fine. Her Majesty's gardener had the management of this." Of Queen Anne's "stately green-house" we shall speak in a moment. Addison, also, in No. 477 of the "Spectator," expatiated on the beauties of the gardens: "Wise and London are our heroick poets; and if, as a critic, I may single out any passage of their works to commend, I shall take notice of that part in the upper garden, at Kensington, which was at first nothing but a gravel pit. It must have been a fine genius for gardening, that could have thought of forming such an unsightly hollow into so beautiful an area, and to have hit the eye with so uncommon and agreeable a scene as that which it is now wrought into." The cost of these improvements amounted to several thousands of pounds--in levelling, planting, turfing, gravelling. The appearance of the east and south gardens in the reign of Queen Anne will, as we have already said, best be conveyed by Kip's plate; the general plan of the new enclosed garden to the north, north-east, and north-west, by Rocque's engraving, published in 1736. From this we see that Queen Caroline, who embarked in so many gardening enterprises, left Queen Anne's new gardens substantially intact; though she made a clean sweep of all the old fantastic figured flower beds and formal walks of William III.'s _parterres_ to the south and east of the Palace; substituting therefor bare and blank expanses of lawn and wide gravel paths. During the reigns of George III. and George IV. all the gardens were allowed to become more and more uncared for; and at last those to the north of the Palace were destroyed altogether. The "old Wilderness" and "old Gravel Pit" of Queen Anne and the early Georges now exist no longer--converted by an insane utilitarianism partly into park land, the rest into meadow. The old gardens to the east, already flattened out and spoilt by Queen Caroline, now exist but in part; the small portion, which has not been covered with hideous forcing houses and frames, is, however, to a certain extent nicely shrubbed, and closed in by trees and hedges. The site of the old south gardens, curtailed now to a small enclosure, which retains little of the old English picturesque air, might with advantage, we think, be less stiff and bare. There is here little more than a clump or two of trees and shrubs, a wide gravel path, and two large vacant lawns, separated from the public walk by a wire fence, and between this and High Street mere expanses of grass. Fortunately, the devastating notions of the "landscape gardener" whose one idea was so to arrange the ground surrounding a house as to look as if it stood plump in the middle of a park--for all the world like a lunatic asylum--are not quite so much in favour as they were. The blankness and barrenness of all the ground between the south front and the street was even more painfully apparent in Leigh Hunt's time, who in his "Old Court Suburb" drew attention to this salient defect nearly fifty years ago. "The house," he remarked, "nominally possesses 'gardens' that are miles in circumference.... There is room enough for very pleasant bowers in the spaces to the east and south, that are now grassed and railed in from the public path; nor would the look of the Palace be injured with the spectator, but rescued from its insipidity." His suggestion has been acted on to a certain extent in recent times, but too partially in our view. =Queen Anne's Orangery.= Queen Anne is the sovereign to whom we owe the erection of this exceedingly fine specimen of garden architecture--one of the most beautiful examples of the art of the Renaissance in London, if not in England. If we could say with truth that there ever was a "Queen Anne style," this would, indeed, be a representative and unrivalled example of it--as it certainly is of Sir Christopher Wren's, which, developing in the reign of Charles II., was definitely formed and fixed in that of William and Mary. To an artist like Wren to beautify the ordinary and useful was to give expression to one of the highest functions of architecture; and therefore in this mere store-house for the Queen's treasured plants and flowers, probably also a place where Queen Anne liked to sit and have tea, we have a building--unimportant though its object may be considered--which attains the very acme of his art, exhibiting all his well-balanced judgment of proportion, all the richness of his imagination in design. The building of this greenhouse was begun in the summer of the year 1704. A plan, prepared by Sir Christopher at Queen Anne's express orders, was submitted to and approved by her, and the original estimate, which is still in the Record Office, dated June 10th, 1704--probably drawn up by Richard Stacey, master bricklayer, and entitled: "For building a Greenhouse at Kensington" at a cost of £2,599 5_s._ 1_d._--was accordingly laid before the officers of Her Majesty's Works, Sir Christopher Wren, John Vanbrugh, Benjamin Jackson, and Matthew Bankes, for a report thereon. Their opinion, after "considering the measures and prices," was that "it may be finished soe as not to exceed the sum therein expressed, viz., £2,599;" and the Lord Treasurer was accordingly prayed "to pay £2,000 into the Office of Works that it may be covered in before winter, according to Her Majesties expectation." The work was consequently put in hand forthwith, but there is some reason to suspect that Wren's original intentions were departed from, and that the estimate approved by the Board of Works was afterwards cut down by the Treasury by a thousand pounds or so. This appears probable from the fact that Richard Stacey, the bricklayer who contracted for the work, and who, in a petition dated September 13th, was clamouring for payment of £800, on account of money then already disbursed by him, referred to that sum as part of a total of £1,560, "lately altered from the first estimate." Whether this is so or not, the details of the original estimate are interesting. The bricklayer's charges came to £697; mason's, to £102; "Glass windows, doors, and the window shutters, £340; Glazier for Crowne Glass, £74; Carpenter, £363," etc.; added to which was: "More to be laid out the next year: The mason to pave it with stone fine-sanded, £246; more for stone steps to go up into it, £72; more for wainscoting and painting the Inside up to the top, £264." The last item is especially noteworthy, proving, as it does, that the woodwork was originally painted. The beauty of Wren's masterpiece of garden architecture seems to have been thoroughly appreciated in the time immediately succeeding its erection; but with the steady decline in taste during the Georgian epoch, it fell more and more into disregard, until, when the court deserted Kensington in 1760, it was abandoned to complete neglect. Britton and Brayley, writing in 1810 in their "Beauties of England," refer to it regretfully: "The whole is now sinking into a state of unheeded decay." Soon after this, however, it seems to have undergone some sort of repair, so, at least, wrote Faulkner, ten years after, who added: "It is now filled with a collection of His Majesty's exotic plants." He called it a "superb building," and clearly regarded it with a much more appreciative eye than did its official guardians, who probably about this time perpetrated the barbarism of cutting windows in the north wall, right through the fine panelling and cornice! Faulkner, nevertheless, was of course quite wrong in declaring, as he did, that "it was originally built by Queen Anne for a Banqueting House, and frequently used by Her Majesty as such." There is absolutely no foundation whatever for either part of this statement, though it has often been repeated and was improved upon by Leigh Hunt, who asserted that "balls and suppers certainly took place in it." Funny "balls" they must have been on the old brick floor! Hunt has nothing more to say of it than rather scornfully to call it "a long kind of out-house, never designed for anything else but what it is, a greenhouse." In so great contempt, indeed, does it appear to have been held about this time, that it is said the idea was once seriously entertained by some official wiseacre of pulling it down and carting it away as rubbish! And this while the State was annually devoting hundreds of thousands of pounds to art education, art schools, art teachers, and art collections, leaving one of our most precious monuments to perish from decay! "Out-house" and "greenhouse" though it be, we would rather see it preserved than half the buildings of recent times. =Terrace of Queen Anne's Orangery.= Before examining the orangery in detail, let us stand a moment in front of it, on the terrace, platform, or _estrade_--by whichever name we may call it--of Portland stone, with steps going down from it in front and at both ends. Here formerly stood, in the summer, some of Queen Anne's choicest exotics; and here Her Majesty doubtless often sat to have tea, gossiping with the Duchess of Marlborough or Abigail Hill. In front the steps led down into a formal parterre. Now, however, the most prominent objects to the eye here, are the glass-houses, and the tops of the forcing frames, in which the whole stock for the bedding out in the park and gardens has been reared for the last thirty or forty years. It is truly an amazing thing that a piece of ground, situated as this is, close under the windows of the Palace, and opposite this orangery, should have been appropriated to so grossly disfiguring a use. This particular spot is the very last, one would have supposed, which would have been pitched on for the purpose. It will not be long, we trust, before the whole ground will be cleared, and devoted once more to an old-fashioned sunk formal garden, with such quaint devices as clipped shrubs, trimmed box, figured beds, sundials, leaden vases--such as still survive in many an old country house. Nor do we see why such restorations should stop here, nor why much of the ground around the Palace should not be laid out in the old English style, with some, at any rate, of the many embellishments for which Evelyn pleaded as suitable for a royal garden: "Knots, trayle work, parterres, compartments, borders, banks, embossments, labyrinths, dædals, cabinets, cradles, close walks, galleries, pavilions, porticoes, lanthorns, and other _relievos_ of topiary and horticulan architecture, fountaines, jettes, cascades, pisceries, rocks, grottoes, cryptæ, mounts, precipices, and ventiducts; gazon theatres, artificial echoes, automate and hydraulic music!" Barring the last half dozen items, something in the antique formal style would, indeed, be a relief from the tedious monotony of modern "landscape" gardening. =Exterior of Queen Anne's Orangery.= As a specimen of an unaffectedly ornamented exterior of brick, this elevation to the south, aiming rather at simplicity and plain dignity than magnificence or grandeur, is to our view admirable. In the centre is a compartment, more decoratively treated than the rest, with four rusticated piers or pillars of brick, supporting an entablature of the Doric order, mainly in stone. The cornice, though probably modelled on the original, must be modern, for it is in Roman cement, a material which did not come into use in England until about a hundred years ago; and it so happens that the date, 1805, has been found on part of the woodwork adjoining. Above the cornice, over the central window, or rather doorway, is a semi-circular window, apparently to give light into the roof. On each side of the central compartment are four high windows, with sashes filled with small panes; and at each end are slightly projecting wings, or bays, with window-doors, extra high, and reaching to the floor level, to admit tall-grown oranges and other plants. These are flanked by plain rusticated piers of bright red brick; beyond which are plain brick niches, with small brackets above them. A very similar arrangement of windows and niches is repeated at the east and west return ends of the building; where, however, the large window is surmounted by a small semi-circular recess or panel, and the whole overhung by the deep, wide eave of the gable of the roof. The total exterior length of the building is 171 feet, the width 32 feet. =Interior of Queen Anne's Orangery.= It is not, however, the exterior of this building, but the interior, which will arouse in those who behold it the greatest admiration, for it is here that we can appreciate Wren's imaginative and constructive genius at its very best. The longer we know and contemplate it, the more supremely beautiful does it strike us, both in the mass and in its details. We will not describe it with any minuteness; but content ourselves with recording that the central portion of each wall, is treated more elaborately than the rest, being ornamented with Corinthian columns, supporting a richly carved entablature. The rest of the walls, both between the windows on the south side, and on the unbroken surface of the opposite north side, are panelled in deal wood, with beautiful carved cornices above. At each end, both east and west, there is an arch, flanked with panelled niches, and surmounted by festoons of Gibbons' carving. These, we may observe in passing, proved, after being cleaned, to be so worm-eaten, as to necessitate their being repainted--mere staining not being sufficient to prevent their falling to pieces. They are now in fact, held together by the coatings of new paint. The dimensions of this main portion of the interior are: 112 feet long and 24 feet wide between the brick walls, three inches less each way between the woodwork. The height to the ceiling is 24 feet 6 inches, and to the top of the cornice 22 feet 9 inches. =The Alcoves of Queen Anne's Orangery.= Fine, however, as is the main and central portion of this interior, the alcoves, into which we pass through the arches at each end of it, impress us still more with their admirable proportions, their supreme grace of design, the exquisite beauty of their decorative detail. Their shape is circular, with fluted Corinthian columns, supporting highly-carved architraves and cornices, and flanking the entrances, the windows opposite these and on the south, and the panelled spaces on the north wall. There are also intervening niches with semicircular heads, springing from richly carved imposts. The ceilings, which are circular, rising in coves from behind the cornices, are "saucer-domed." The dimensions of these alcoves are: east one, diameter, 24 feet, west one, 24 feet 4-1/2 inches; height to the centre of the dome, 24 feet 2 inches, to the top of the cornice 20 feet. =Restoration of Queen Anne's Orangery.= The whole of this beautiful interior, however, now presents a very different appearance from what it did when taken in hand about a year ago. This is how it was described in an interesting article in "The Times" on the 28th of January, 1898: "The exquisite interior has been the victim not merely of neglect, but of chronic outrage. For, as the little garden between this and the Palace has been found a convenient place on which to put up the glasshouses, frames and potting-sheds necessary for the park gardeners, what more natural, to the official eye, than that the Orangery close by should be pressed into the same service? Accordingly, at some time or other, which cannot have been very many years ago, more than half the beautiful high panelling of this building was torn down and has disappeared, the gardeners' stands have been let into the walls, and there the daily work has proceeded with no thought that it was daily desecration." The work of restoring all these beautiful carvings, which has been in progress during the last fifteen months, has now put an entirely different aspect on this interior, and not in vain has every piece of old carving been treasured up, cleaned, repaired, and patched in, with scrupulous care. When this work was completed, the question arose, whether the woodwork was to be all painted over white, as it doubtless originally was, or merely lightly stained. White painting would, perhaps, have been artistically, as well as archæologically, the preferable course. But it was thought that white paint, in the smoky, foggy atmosphere of modern Kensington, and with the clouds of dust particles from the tread of numberless visitors, would soon take on the dirty tinge of London mud; and thus have required such frequent renewal as eventually to choke up again all the sharpness of the delicate chiselling of the foliated capitals, architraves and cornices. The decision eventually come to, therefore, was to stain it, with a tone of colour like oak, which gives full prominence and clearness to the carved surfaces. This staining alone, apart from the previous cleaning, has involved no less than eight distinct processes: (1) washing down; (2) vinegaring over to take out lime stains; (3) the same repeated; (4) sizing to keep the stain from penetrating the wood; (5) the same repeated; (6) staining; (7) varnishing; (8) flat-varnishing. [Illustration: Decoration] =Kensington Gardens.= The modern so-called "Kensington Gardens" are, as we have already explained, identical with the original domain of old Nottingham House, increased by the addition of some hundred acres or more taken from Hyde Park. When William III. first acquired the Nottingham estate he appointed his favourite, Bentinck, Earl of Portland, "Superintendent of Their Majesties' Gardens and Plantations within the boundary lines of Their Majesties' said house at Kensington"--an office distinct from that of Ranger of Hyde Park--and some planting and other improvements seem to have been carried out at that time in these "plantations." Queen Anne's inclosure of a hundred acres from Hyde Park to form a paddock for deer we have already noted. Faulkner's exaggerated statement that nearly three hundred acres were taken in and added to Kensington Gardens by Queen Caroline has been confuted by Mr. Loftie; but he has gone to the other extreme in declaring that no alteration whatever was, at any time, made in the boundary between the park and the gardens. Nevertheless, it is still doubtful whether Queen Caroline is to be held responsible for any "rectification" of these frontiers. The reference already quoted, in the Treasury Papers of the year 1729, for an allowance of £200 to the ranger "in consideration of loss of herbage of that part of the said park, which is laid into His Majesty's gardens at Kensington," may of course refer to the portion previously taken in by Queen Anne. =Queen Caroline's Improvements in Kensington Gardens.= To Queen Caroline, however, is certainly due the main credit of the creation of Kensington Gardens, as we now know them; for it was her reforming and transforming zeal which made the great "Basin" or "Round Pond;" turned a string of small ponds, in the course of the "West Bourne," into the Serpentine; laid out the "Broad Walk," and designed the diverging and converging vistas and avenues of trees intersecting the grounds in all directions. In all these extensive works of improvement Charles Bridgeman, the King's gardener, was employed; and we find from the old Treasury Minute Book that in 1729 no less a sum than £5,000 was due to him "for works in the paddock and gardens at Kensington." About the same date, Queen Caroline, during one of George II.'s absences in Hanover, issued an order that: "The King's ministers being very much incommoded by the dustiness of the road leading through Hyde Park, now they are obliged to attend Her Majesty at Kensington, it was her pleasure that the whole of the said road be kept constantly watered, instead of the ring in the Park; and that no coaches other than those of the nobility and gentry be suffered to go into or pass through the Park." Kensington Gardens in the Nineteenth Century. At that period the gardens were opened to the public only on Saturdays, when the company appeared in full dress. This was the time of the great fashionable promenade. During the reign of George III. they were opened every day in the week, summer and winter, under certain regulations, "and the number of the gatekeepers," says Faulkner, writing in 1819, "have lately been increased, who are uniformly clothed in green." He adds: "The great South Walk, leading to the Palace, is crowded on Sunday mornings in the spring and summer with a display of all the beauty and fashion of the great metropolis, and affords a most gratifying spectacle, not to be equalled in Europe." In the middle of this century the tide of fashion set back towards Rotten Row and Hyde Park Corner; and Kensington Gardens have, for the last sixty or eighty years, been very little frequented by the "world." Their attractions, however, have not suffered on this account in the view of the poet, the artist, and the lover of nature. "Here in Kensington," wrote Haydon the painter, "are some of the most poetical bits of trees and stump, and sunny brown and green glens and tawny earth." But it is not within the scope of these pages, confined as they are to topics directly connected with Kensington Palace as a new public resort, to describe these two hundred and fifty acres of delightful verdant lawns, sylvan glades, and grassy slopes. We must resist the temptation, therefore, to wander away into the attractive prospect, which unfolds itself beneath our gaze when looking out from the windows of the state rooms, or into which we can saunter when we quit the Palace. Moreover, their charms, as they were and are, have been drawn by too many master hands--by Tickell, Leigh Hunt, Thackeray, Disraeli--to encourage any attempt at their description here. In our own day they have still been the favourite resort of many a jaded Londoner, in which to snatch a few hours of quiet and repose, out of the whirl of the great city around. Matthew Arnold's charming poem, "Lines written in Kensington Gardens," will occur to many, especially that stanza: "In this lone open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; And at its end to stay the eye, Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine trees stand." [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: SOUTH FRONT OF KENSINGTON PALACE IN 1819. (After Westall.)] =South Front of the Palace.= We may look upon this façade as architecturally the most interesting portion of the existent Palace of Kensington, for it shows us the exterior almost exactly as finished by Wren for William and Mary, about the year 1691. While unpretentious and plain, it is well and solidly built, and altogether appropriate to the purpose which it was intended to serve, namely, that of a comfortable, homely, suburban residence for the King and Queen and the court. The long lower building of two main storeys, in deep purple-red brick, to the left, forms the south range of the chief courtyard; and there is every reason to believe that it is a part of the original Nottingham House, altered and improved by Wren. The loftier building, to the right, of three storeys, in bright red brick, is unquestionably entirely Wren's, and in the old accounts is referred to as "the new Gallery Building." All the windows on the top or second floor here, except the two on the extreme right, are those of the "King's Gallery" (described on page 117). The floor beneath consisted, and consists, of the sovereign's private apartments. The four fine carved vases of Portland stone, surmounting the four pilasters of the same, are probably those mentioned in the old accounts as carved by Gabriel Cibber for _£_787 5_s._ Wren's Domestic Style. Those who are at all acquainted with Wren's style and inclinations will not be surprised at the marked plainness of his work here--so little accordant with ordinary pompous preconceived notions of what befits a regal dwelling-house. In planning habitable buildings we find he always mainly considered use and convenience--adapting his external architectural effects to the exigencies of his interiors. Ever ready, indeed, to devote the full range of his great constructive genius to the commonest works, rendering whatever he designed a model for the use to which it was to be put, he was, in these respects, essentially a "builder" before all; not only a designer of elevations and a drawer of plans, but a practical worker, thinking nothing useful beneath his notice. There was, in fact, nothing of the lofty, hoity-toity architect about him; on the contrary, absorbed with questions of adaptability and convenience; searching into details of material and workmanship; we find him in his seat at the head of the Board of Works rigorously testing, sifting and discussing estimates, values, specifications and "quantities." It is due to this side of his mind that so much of his work has endured intact to this day; while we owe it to his positive intuitive genius for rendering his creations well-proportioned and dignified, as well as convenient and comfortable; to his wonderful skill in arranging positions, sizes, and shapes to meet the exigencies of light and air, that his houses still remain so habitable, and are distinguished by so homelike an air. =East Front of the Palace.= This aspect of Kensington Palace, which we almost hesitate to dignify with the name of "Front" consists mainly of two distinct portions: first, the "return" or end of Wren's "Gallery Building," on the left, distinguished by its fine red brickwork and its deep cornice, similar to the same on the south side; and on the right, the building tacked on to it, built for George I. by Kent, as already mentioned on page 23, and further referred to on pages 86, 93, and 99. We must frankly say--and few are likely to differ from us--that Kent's building here is about as ugly and inartistic as anything of the sort could be. It is not alone the common, dirty, yellow, stock brick with which it is built, but the whole shape and design, with its pretentious pediment, ponderous and hideous, the prototype of acres upon acres of ghastly modern London structures in the solid "workhouse" style. It is amazing that Kent, with so excellent a model of plainness and simplicity in Wren's buildings on each side, should have stuck in this ill-formed, abortive block between them. Fortunately, his taste as a decorator was greatly superior to his powers as an architect, so that the interior portions of this building of his, which consists of additional state-rooms, are not entirely deficient in merit, as we shall see. The three central windows are those of the "King's Drawing Room," (see page 99). [Illustration: PLAN OF THE STATE ROOMS KENSINGTON PALACE.] To the north-west of the structure comprising Kent's state apartments lies another of the older parts of the Palace, a low building of two storeys, in deep russet brick, of uniform appearance, with fifteen windows in a row on the first floor. This range, built, or, at any rate, altered and improved by Wren, and forming the east side of Princess's Court, comprises the state and habitable rooms of Queen Mary and Queen Anne. At its extreme north end is the "Queen's Staircase," now the public entrance to the state rooms. =Public Entrance to the Palace.= Access to the state rooms open to the public being by way of the "Queen's" or "Denmark Staircase," situated in the northernmost angle of the building, visitors approach it from the north-west corner of "Kensington Gardens," where, as we have already explained, were formerly situated those parts of the old formal gardens attached to the Palace, which were laid out by Queen Anne, called the "Old Gravel Pit," the "Wilderness," etc. The path here, leading straight up to the present public entrance, was then known as "Brazen-face Walk." Going along it southwards, we pass between a pair of fine gate-posts of red brick, surmounted by richly-carved vases of Portland stone, evidently designed by Wren, already referred to in our account of "Old Kensington Palace Gardens" on page 48; and then between a privet hedge and a wire fence up to the public doorway into the "Queen's Staircase." This doorway, on the north wall, is very commonplace; with a porch in the later Georgian style, consisting of a couple of pillars of Portland stone, glazed between, and supporting a hood above. Round the corner, however, on the east wall, is a very different doorway, both interesting and picturesque. It is the one which originally gave access to the staircase, and was designed and built by Sir Christopher Wren, probably in the year 1691. The space within the hood or circular pediment above the door is filled with beautiful stone carving, in the centre of which is a shield or panel bearing the initials W. M. R. Above this is a brick niche with a bracket, on which stands an old urn or flower-pot. Something very similar probably stood here formerly, and was thus charged for in the old parchment accounts for the years 1689-91: "Henry Long for a large vase of earth (terra-cotta) wrought with handles and festoons painted with gilt £6 10_s._" =Queen's Staircase.= This forms the entrance by which the public are admitted into the State Rooms. Built by Sir Christopher Wren for Queen Mary on the "Queen's Side" of the Palace, it was called the "Queen's Staircase," while being situated in that part of the Palace which was at one time occupied by Queen Anne and her husband, Prince George of Denmark, it has also been occasionally known as the "Denmark Staircase," as this portion of the building itself has been called the "Denmark Wing." * * * * * In the view of the ordinary Londoner, with eye too much dazzled and demoralized by the tawdry vulgarities of the over-gilded, over-looking-glassed, blazing, modern "Restaurant" style of decoration, this beautiful staircase, in its just proportions and its subdued simplicity, may appear plain, if not mean. Yet as an example of the genuine, unaffected old English treatment of oak wainscoting, as a cover and ornament to large wall spaces, nothing could be more pleasing and more appropriate. The deep rich, almost ruddy, tone of colour of the wood, the admirable proportion and balance of the stiles and rails to the sizes of the panels, their adjustment to the rise of the stairs, and their fitment to the various spaces on the walls, produce an effect of soundness and comfort, most admirable and nowhere to be matched. Old Oak Wainscoting of the Staircase. When the work of cleaning down this woodwork was taken in hand last autumn, it was, as the phrase is, "as black as your hat;" and it was then supposed to have been smeared over, at some time or other, with a black stain. It proved, however, to be only ingrained with dirt and dust, which had been coated over with red-lead and boiled oil, and which quickly yielded to cleansing. Nevertheless, the oak is not English, but probably Norwegian, which seems to be richer in the grain than our own native tree. It is clear that the wood must have been carefully cut in such a way as to show as much "figure" as possible--the cuttings being, with this distinct object, as nearly as possible radiating from the centre of the trunk of the tree--the "medullary rays" of the wood being, in fact, sliced through, instead of intersected transversely. This has the effect of displaying the largest amount of the grain. Window Sashes of the Staircase. The visitor should notice the difference in the sashes of the two windows on the left-hand side of the stairs as you go up, as compared with the other two on the landing at the top. The first two windows have had large panes of glass--2 feet 1 inch high by 1 foot 2-1/2 inches wide--and thin bars, substituted for the original smaller panes--12-1/2 inches high by 9-1/2 inches wide--and the thick moulded bars, which still remain in the landing windows. This side by side comparison enables us to estimate how deplorable and stupid was the want of taste, which led to the destruction here, as elsewhere in this Palace, of the picturesque, well-proportioned spacings of the window panes, to insert instead ill-proportioned panes and thin bars. Not until the time of George II. did this foolish, inartistic fancy come into vogue. Wren, of course, knew what he was about when he selected the sizes of the spaces and bars. He determined them on definite principles of scale and proportion, according to the sashes they were intended to fill, and according, also, to the dimensions of the room, and the plan and shape of the surrounding wainscot. He had, in fact, eight or ten different types of sashes--the mouldings, as well as the widths and sizes of the bars varying, and the shapes of the panes--square or upright--varying also; not like your ingenious modern builder, who runs out "mouldings" at so much a foot, mitres them up into equal spaces, and, regardless of scale and proportion, sticks in the same sized sashes, panes, and bars everywhere, in large lofty rooms or small low ones--all alike. The dimensions of this staircase are 24 feet 3 inches long by 22 feet 10 inches wide, and 25 feet high. =Queen Mary's Gallery.= Queen Mary and Queen Anne are the sovereigns with whom this gallery is mainly associated; and indeed, it is now--since the restorations of the last twelve months, which have mainly consisted in repairing the panelling, and removing the paint with which it was all smeared over in the reign of George I.--to be seen for the first time for a hundred and seventy-four years, exactly as it appeared in their time. It remains, indeed, more intact than any other room in the Palace; and with its beautiful deep-toned oak panelling, its richly-carved cornice, its low-coved ceiling, and its closely-spaced, thick-barred window-sashes, it has a most comfortable, old-fashioned air. There is no storey above this gallery, but only a span roof; and it was originally--we do not know exactly when--a true "gallery" in the old English meaning of the word, that is, a long chamber with windows on both sides. The window spaces or recesses, on the right or west side, still remain behind the panelling, and are exactly opposite the existent windows on the left or east side. We may observe, also, that the room seems at one time to have terminated just beyond the sixth window, reckoning from the entrance, the line of the wall behind the wainscot on the right, setting back at this point about a foot; while on the left side, both inside and out, there is a straight joint in the brickwork, and a break in the line of the wall. Wainscoting and Carvings of Queen Mary's Gallery. The wainscoting, as we have already indicated, was fixed here in the early years of the reign of Queen Mary. The panels, which are very thin and of unusual breadth, nevertheless have remained but little twisted or buckled to this day, owing to Wren's particular and invariable insistence that only the best seasoned wood should be used in all the work under his charge. In the course of the restorations, it has, however, been necessary to take it all to pieces in order to repair the injuries of nearly two centuries of misusage and neglect. Here, as in the staircase, are to be noticed the extreme richness in grain of the old oak, and its deep warm tone of colour. From the old enrolled parchment accounts of the years 1689-1691, we find that Henry Hobb and Alexander Forst were the joiners who made the wainscoting, as well as the "shashes," shutters, window-boards, chimney-pieces, picture frames, shelves, etc.; while Nicolas Alcocke, William Emet, and Grinling Gibbons carved "1,405 feet Ionick medallion and hollow cornish; 942 feet of picture frame over the doors and chimneys, and 89 feet of astragall moulding, about the glasses in the chimneys." Another item of payment in the same accounts, also relating to the work here, is the following: "To Gerard Johnson, Cabinet maker, for severall pannells of wainscot, covered with looking-glass for chimney pieces in the King's dining-roome, the gallerie, and over the doors, and for putting them up--£100." Among others here referred to were doubtless =the looking-glasses= over the two chimney-pieces in this gallery. These are particularly fine and worthy of notice. When the restorations were begun last summer, they were literally dropping to pieces, falling in shreds, we might say. The greatest care has been taken to piece the bits together; and to replace the missing portions. Only such patched and added parts have been regilt; the old gilding still remaining almost as bright and untarnished as when these glasses were first put up, two hundred years ago, by Gerard Johnson, cabinet maker, and Robert Streeter, serjeant painter. Honour to their names, as two good old English handicraftsmen, whose honest work thus survives to this day! Over each of the four doors are long richly-carved brackets of oak, similar to those on which rest the looking-glasses over the chimney-pieces. We know from Pyne's drawing in 1818, that these brackets over the doors then still supported looking-glasses, with richly carved frames. Unfortunately, all trace of them has now disappeared. =The chimney-piece= of the first fire-place on the right as you enter the gallery is the original one of Wren's design, of marble streaked and veined blue-grey. The second, of white marble streaked with red, technically known as "Breche-violett-antico," is new--copied from the first. This fire-place was, until last summer, filled with a common cooking range, inserted many years ago for the use of the soldiers, when this gallery was used as a barrack! =The window-sashes= in this gallery are of the charming old-fashioned type, divided by thick, deeply moulded bars, into small rectangular spaces. Through these windows we have a pleasant view eastward of the private gardens of the Palace, and of Kensington Gardens beyond. The dimensions of this gallery are: 88 feet 4 inches long by 22 feet broad by 13 feet 3-1/2 inches high to the top of the cornice, and 17 feet 13 inches high to the highest part of the ceiling. =Pictures in Queen Mary's Gallery. Portraits of the Time of William and Mary to George II.= 1 Queen Mary . . . . . KNELLER. Full-length, standing, in royal robes; her left hand lifting her ermine cloak; her right holding the orb on the table by her side, on which also is the crown on a cushion. In the right distance is seen the parapet of the roof of Wren's building at Hampton Court. This and its companion piece of King William, at the other end of this gallery, were painted by Kneller about 1692, in which year he was knighted. 2 George II. (_718_) . . . . . _By Shackleton, after_ KNELLER. Seated, in robes of the Garter, facing to the left. 3 _Unassigned._ 4 Frederick, Prince of Wales (_619_) . . . . . VANLOO. Full-length, face turned to the right. His right hand is extended, his left holds back his crimson and ermine cloak. His dress is blue with rich gold lace. He has a short wig. On canvas, 7 ft. 9 in. high, by 4 ft. 9 in. wide. Vanloo came to England in 1737, and this portrait was probably painted about two years after. He became a very popular artist, and made a great deal of money, for, as his French biographer observes:--"L'Angleterre est le pays où il se fait le plus de portraits et où ils sont mieux payés." Engraved by Baron. This picture, therefore, dates from the time when the Prince was about thirty-one years of age, and had been expelled from St. James's Palace, and was in declared enmity with his father. His insignificant character, which excited contempt rather than dislike, is very happily satirized in the famous epitaph: "Here lies Fred, Who was alive and is dead; Had it been his father, I had much rather; Had it been his brother, Still better than another; Had it been his sister, No one would have missed her; Had it been the whole generation, Still better for the nation; But since 'tis only Fred, Who was alive and is dead, There's no more to be said." 5 _Unassigned._ 6 Caroline, Queen of George II. (_784_) . . . . . ZEEMAN? Full-length, standing, figure to the left, face a little to the right. Her left hand holds up her cloak, her right is on a table, on which is a crown and sceptre. She wears a blue velvet dress trimmed with broad gold braid, and a white satin skirt, richly worked with gold and jewels. Her hair is short and powdered. On canvas, 7 ft. 9 in. high, by 4 ft. 9 in. wide. This was formerly attributed to Kneller, but it cannot be by him, as she is represented as queen, while Kneller died four years before her accession. Caroline was forty-five when her husband became king. "Her levées," says Coxes, "were a strange picture of the motley character and manners of a queen and a learned woman. She received company while she was at her toilette; prayers and sometimes a sermon were read; learned men and divines were intermixed with courtiers and ladies of the household; the conversation turned on metaphysical subjects, blended with repartees, sallies of mirth, and the tittle-tattle of a drawing-room." 7 _Unassigned._ 8 Portrait of George I. (_782_) . . . . . KNELLER. Seated, facing in front. He is in the robes of the Order of the Garter. His left hand on the arm of the chair, his right on a table, whereon are a crown and a plumed helmet. On canvas, 7 ft. 9 in. high, by 4 ft. 9 in. wide. George I. was the tenth sovereign who sat to Kneller, and for this portrait, which was painted soon after his accession, the king made him baronet. Addison refers to it in his "Lines to Sir Godfrey Kneller on his picture of the King," beginning: "Kneller, with silence and surprise We see Britannia's monarch rise, A godlike form, by thee displayed In all the force of light and shade; And, awed by thy delusive hand, As in the Presence Chamber stand." 9 William III. when Prince of Orange (_864_) . . . . . KNELLER. Half-length, facing to the right, with his right hand extended. 10 George II. in his Old Age (_598_) . . . . . _By Shackleton, after_ PINE. Full-length; in a rich dress, with the Order of the Garter, his left hand on his sword, his right in his bosom. His eyes are cast upwards. 11 Peter the Great, Czar of Russia (_60_) . . . . . KNELLER. Full-length, in armour, with a truncheon in his left hand, and his right hand on his hip. From his shoulders hangs a mantle lined with ermine and embroidered with the double eagle. To the left is a table, on which is the crown imperial. The background, which shows some ships, is said to be signed by _W. Vandevelde_, but no trace of this exists. On canvas, 7 ft. 9 in. high, by 4 ft. 9 in. wide. There is also an inscription, of which I can only make out the words: "_Petrus Alexander Magnus Domimus Cæsar & Magnus Dux Moscouiæ ... Eques. Pinxit 1698_." Engraved by Smith. This picture was painted for William III. during Peter the Great's visit to England, in the early part of 1698, and probably in the house in Norfolk Street, where he took up his residence and lived in close seclusion. It is considered one of the best portraits of the Czar extant, and well portrays "his stately form, his intellectual forehead, his piercing black eyes, and his Tartar nose and mouth." His age was then twenty-six years. He naturally excited the greatest curiosity, and became the principal topic of conversation. Every one was full of stories of him; "of the immense quantities of meat which he devoured, the pints of brandy which he drank, the fool who jabbered at his feet, the monkey which grinned at the back of his chair," and last, but not least, of his filthy habits. When he went to stay at Evelyn's house, Sayes Court, at Deptford, in order to more conveniently indulge in his favourite pursuit of shipbuilding, Evelyn's servant writes to him:--"There is a house full of people, and right nasty. The Czar lies next your Library, and dines in the parlour next your study. He dines at ten o'clock and six at night, is very seldom home a whole day, very often in the King's Yard or by water, dressed in several dresses." Evelyn himself afterwards remarked "how miserably the Czar had left his house, after three months making it his Court." Peter visited King William in Kensington Palace, as we have noted in our "Historical Sketch," and as we shall notice again in our account of the King's Gallery. 12 King William III . . . . . KNELLER. Full-length, in royal garter robes; his left hand by his sword, his right on his hip. The crown and orb are on a table on his left; pillars and a curtain behind. This is a companion piece to the portrait of Queen Mary at the other end of this gallery. 13 Portrait of Mrs. Elliott . . . . . JOHN RILEY. Half-length, seated; turned to the left, but facing in front. She is dressed in black; her right hand rests on the arm of the chair; she holds a handkerchief on her lap in her left. This was in Queen Anne's catalogue, No. 331:--"Mrs. Elliott at half-length." It is a good specimen of a portrait-painter who flourished in the time of Charles II. and James II., and whose talents have hardly had justice done them. Mrs. Elliott was the wife of Mr. Elliott, Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Charles II., and sister to Secretary Craggs. 14 Two Daughters of George II . . . . . MAINGAUD. The eldest is to the left, standing, her right arm clasping a stem of tree, round which twines a vine; her left hand giving a rose to her younger sister; she is dressed in white. Her sister is kneeling to the right, facing in front, and takes the rose with her left hand; her right rests on a lictor's fasces. On canvas, 4 ft. 6 in. high, by 3 ft. 7 in. wide. [Illustration: Decoration] =Queen's Closet.= This small room, which is but 23 feet 3 inches long by 12 feet wide, and 12 feet 9 inches high, is called in Pyne's drawing, published in 1817, "The Queen's Closet,"--and this most probably is its correct designation, though in Faulkner's "History of Kensington," published but three years after, it is described as the "Queen's Dressing Room." Its walls were at that time still entirely panelled with the oak wainscot with which Wren had covered them. Afterwards all this was removed and the walls plastered and distempered, the room being used as a kitchen. The existent oak chair-rail and cornice, inserted during the last few months, are copied from old models in this palace. * * * * * Across the angle, where was originally the fire-place, is temporarily fixed a very beautiful =stone chimney-piece=, formerly in Westminster Palace, in one of the rooms on the north side of Westminster Hall. When the old law-courts on that side were removed, this chimney-piece was preserved by the Office of Works. It is one of the finest specimens extant of a late Tudor domestic chimney-piece work, bearing the initial and crown of Queen Elizabeth. Pictures of Old London. In this chamber are collected various pictures of Old London, moved from Hampton Court and other royal palaces. Few of them, excepting one or two attributed to Scott, have much artistic merit, but they are interesting as representations of the topography of London, and especially of the banks of the Thames. 20 View of the Horse Guards from St. James's Park (_1022_) . . . . . JAMES. The buildings of the Horse Guards are seen on the right, and in the centre distance, Westminster. 21 View on the Thames--Old London Bridge and Fishmongers' Hall (_1044_) . . . . . JAMES. The view is taken eastward; and right across the picture is the old bridge, with the houses built on it. On the left are Fishmongers' Hall and the column on Fish Street Hill. These are two of a series of views of Old London from the Thames, by William James, an imitator and probably a pupil of Canaletti's, though he resembles him in little except his mechanical precision. His works, however, are interesting to the antiquarian, as they are almost photographic in their accuracy. 22 View on the Thames--Old Somerset House and Temple Gardens (_1023_) . . . . . JAMES. The north bank of the Thames is seen, looking eastward, from about the position of the middle of the present Waterloo bridge. On the extreme left is old Somerset House, with its landing-stairs, next comes the Temple, and in the distance St. Paul's. Behind are seen the spires of St. Mary-le-Strand, St. Clement Danes, St. Bride's, Fleet Street, etc. On canvas, 2 ft. high, by 3 ft. 8 in. wide. 23 View on the Thames--The Savoy, the Temple, &c. (_1031_) . . . . . JAMES. On the left is the old Savoy Palace with its curious chequered brickwork; more in the middle old Somerset House, the Temple, etc. On the right is seen a portion of the south bank of the Thames. 24 View on the Thames--Old Fleet Ditch (_1043_) . . . . . JAMES. The mouth of the Fleet Ditch is in the centre of the picture, crossed by a stone foot-bridge of a single arch. On both sides of it are large buildings. 25 View on the Thames--The Adelphi, Whitehall, and Westminster (_1032_) . . . . . JAMES. The view is of the north bank looking westward, and shows, on the right, Inigo Jones' water-gate; next the octagonal tower of the waterworks, then Whitehall, and beyond, Westminster Abbey and the old bridge. 26 View on the Thames--Greenwich Hospital (_1079_) . . . . . JAMES. The view is taken eastward, and shows Greenwich Hospital on the left, and the church to the right. 27 View on the Thames--Old Savoy Palace (_1045_) . . . . . SCOTT? The view is the same as No. 23. In an old inventory there is an entry relating to it:--"Rec^{d}. 23^{rd} March 1819. View of the Savoy, with old Somerset House, on the banks of the Thames, painted by Scott, the English Canaletti. Bought of Colnaghi, £265." Samuel Scott, the marine painter, is the artist referred to. He was a companion of Hogarth's, and a jovial one too--but he was also much more, being an admirable painter of marine and topographical subjects. There are three characteristic views of London by him in the National Gallery, where is also his own portrait by Hudson. 28 The Thames from the Hill above Greenwich (_1016_) . . . . . DANCKERS. To the left is the Observatory rising high up. Below is Greenwich and the Hospital, and the river winding round the "Isle of Dogs," and London seen in the distance. Though hitherto unnamed, this is doubtless:--"The Landscape of Greenwich, the prospect to London; by Danckers," in James II.'s catalogue, No. 195. (_Royal Catalogue._) [Illustration: Decoration] =Queen Anne's Private Dining Room.= This picturesque little room remains almost exactly in the same state as it was when finished about 1690 for Queen Mary, who, perhaps, as well as Queen Anne, used it as a private dining room. It is, indeed, a very characteristic example of one of Wren's comfortable and eminently habitable rooms. The protruding doorway in the right-hand corner, the picturesque recess on the left-hand side of the fireplace, and the porch-like treatment of the similar recess on the other side--where is the doorway into the Queen's Closet--all show how the accidents of construction and convenience may be so judiciously laid hold of, as to render what would otherwise have been a mere uninteresting commonplace room, a charmingly homelike and picturesque one. Such an example as this of Wren's artistic adaptability should be a most valuable "object-lesson" to modern builders, who, when not planning exactly rectangular rooms, go to the other extreme of straining after a designed and artificial "quaintness." The coved ceiling, rising from behind the oak cornice, adds greatly to the apparent height of the room. The dimensions are: 17 feet 9 inches long by 14 feet wide. It was in this and the similar adjoining rooms that took place those many curious intimate conversations between Queen Anne and the Duchess of Marlborough, both when "Mrs. Morley" and her "dear Mrs. Freeman," were all in all to each other, and also when "Atossa" vainly endeavoured by fury, invective, and torrents of reproaches and tears, to regain her fast-waning influence over the dull and feeble, but stolid and obstinate, mind of the Queen. It was at Kensington Palace too, and perhaps in this very room, that took place their famous interview, one April afternoon in the year 1710, when the only reply which the great Duchess Sarah could get to her inquiring entreaties was the phrase "You desired no answer and you shall have none,"--reiterated with exasperating and callous monotony by her whilom friend and mistress. Pictures in Queen Anne's Private Dining Room. 40 Installation of Knights of the Garter at Kensington Palace, on August 4th, 1713, by Queen Anne . . . . . PETER ANGELIS. There has been some question as to the exact ceremony, which is depicted here, but there can be but little doubt that it represents the Chapter of the Order of the Garter, held by Queen Anne at Kensington Palace on August 4th, 1713, when Henry Grey, Duke of Kent, Robert Harley, first Earl of Oxford, Charles Mordaunt, third Earl of Peterborough, and John, Earl Poulett, were installed as Knights of the Garter. The chapter was the last held by Queen Anne, and was held at Kensington, and not at Windsor, owing to her physical infirmities. Two of these noblemen kneel on the lowest step of the throne, and have already been invested with the mantle and collar of the Order and the Garter itself. The Queen places her hand upon the joined hand of the two Knights of the Garter. It is uncertain which of the noblemen are represented here, but the Knight kneeling on the right of the picture would appear to represent Harley. One of these noblemen is attended by a page boy in grey silk, and the other has two black boys supporting his long blue mantle. Among the Knights of the Garter in attendance, and they all wear their full robes and collars, one figure is prominent holding a long slender wand. This is probably Charles Talbot, Duke of Shrewsbury, who was Lord Chamberlain of the Household, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and for a brief period Lord High Treasurer. Two yeoman of the Guard, in the well-known costume, but without ruffs or rosettes to their shoes, holding halberds, stand prominently forth on the extreme left. Through a wide door, in the distant apartments, may be seen a crowd of courtiers waiting for admission, and through the large square panes of the window in a garden are seen clustered various persons in dark and formal attire, peering anxiously through the glass as if to obtain a sight of the ceremonial. On canvas, 2 ft. 5-1/4 in. high by 1 ft. 11-3/4 in. wide. Lent by the Trustees of the National Portrait Gallery. 41 William, Duke of Gloucester, son of Queen Anne (_885_) . . . . . KNELLER. Bust; in an oval turned to the left, face seen in full. He is in armour, and has a blue ermine-lined cape. On canvas, 2-1/2 ft. high, by 2 ft. wide. The young duke, though of feeble constitution, was not deficient in martial spirit. When but a boy of six years old, he came to meet his uncle William of Orange, who had just returned from a campaign, with a little musket on his shoulder, and presented arms, saying, "I am learning my drill, that I may help you beat the French." The king was so pleased that he made him a knight of the Garter a few days after. Many men have received that honour for less. He died in July 1700. 42 Prince George of Denmark, Husband of Queen Anne (_884_) . . . . . DAHL. In an oval, to the shoulders; in armour.--His death in this Palace has been mentioned on page 22. 43 John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough . . . . . JAN WYCK. Three-quarters length, in armour; face turned three-quarters to the left. His left hand is on his hip, his right on a table by his side, on which is a plumed helmet. A battle scene is shown in the lower right background. On canvas, 3 ft. high, by 2 ft. 4 in. wide. Lent by the Trustees of the National Portrait Gallery. This portrait would seem to represent him as a comparatively young man--about twenty-three--after he had distinguished himself at Maestricht, when he was nicknamed by Turenne "the handsome Englishman." It was the period of his famous _liaison_ with the Duchess of Cleveland, who had fallen a willing victim to his beauty and his charm of manner. Lord Wolseley, in his "Life of Marlborough," describes his appearance at this period as: "Strikingly handsome, with a profusion of fair hair, strongly-marked, well-shaped eyebrows, long eyelashes, blue eyes, and refined, clearly-cut features. A wart on his right upper-lip though large, did not detract from his good looks. He was tall, and his figure was remarkably graceful, although a contemporary says: 'Il avait l'air trop indolent, et la taille trop effilé.'" =Queen Mary's Privy Chamber.= Except for the oak panelling, which covered the walls of this room as late as the beginning of this century, but which was removed now many years ago, we see it exactly as it was finished for Queen Mary. Her initial, with that of her husband, King William, appears in the fine carved oak cornice. The ceiling is coved. At one time this room was called "The Admiral's Gallery," on account of the series of copies of portraits of British Admirals by Kneller and Dahl, which formerly hung here--until their removal in 1835 to Hampton Court, whence they have now been brought back to decorate again the walls of these state rooms at Kensington. They are now hung, as we shall see, in "The King's Gallery." The dimensions of this room are: 25 feet long by 17 feet 10 inches wide, by 12 feet 7 inches high to the top of the cornice, 15 feet 8 inches to the highest part of the ceiling. Pictures in Queen Mary's Privy Chamber. 50 Queen Mary, when Princess of Orange (_23_) . . . . . W. WISSING. Seated, nearly full length. She is dressed in blue in the costume of a lady of the time, and with a crimson mantle edged with ermine. Her left hand rests on a table, over which her mantle falls. Engraved by John Verkolje. This picture is signed on the left-hand side, and is the original of many replicas or copies at St. James's Palace, at Burley-on-the-Hill, Woburn, The Grove, etc. It was painted for James II., who sent Wissing over to the Hague for the purpose. His popularity as a portrait-painter was great, and was partly due no doubt to his making such flattering likenesses. "When any lady came to sit to him whose complexion was any ways pale, he would commonly take her by the hand and dance her about the room till she became warmer." 51 William III. when Prince of Orange . . . . . W. WISSING. Three-quarters length, standing; facing to the right, in a rich dress. This is the companion piece to the foregoing. 52 Portrait of James Stuart the Pretender (_664_) . . . . . B. LUTI. Half-length; facing in front, inclined to the right; his right hand only is seen. He is in the robes of the Order of the Garter, of which the jewel hangs on his breast, and has a long full-bottomed wig, a lace cravat and cuffs. On his left is a table on which is the royal crown of England. The background is gray, with a red curtain. On canvas, 3 ft. 3 in. high, by 2 ft. 6 in. wide. The canvas is new. Behind was formerly this inscription:--"_James son of James II.; by the Cavaliere Benedetto Luti, from the Cardinal of York's collection at Frascati._" (Note in the _Royal Inventory_.) This picture and No. 839 were bequeathed to George III. by Cardinal York, the old Pretender's son, and the last of the Stuarts, who died in 1807. It was no doubt painted at Rome, some time between the year 1718, when Prince James accepted the asylum in the Eternal City offered him by the Pope, and the year 1724, when Luti died there. In 1720 he was married to the Princess Sobieski, and at the end of the same year the young Pretender was born. The Pretender's countenance has that heavy, sodden appearance, and that weak dejected look, which were due partly to his inert character, partly to his misfortunes, and not less to the debauched and indolent life he led. His person, indeed, was never impressive; and even an adherent, writing of the events at Perth in 1715, admits:--"I must not conceal, that when we saw the man, whom they called our King, we found ourselves not at all animated by his presence, and if he was disappointed in us, we were tenfold more so in him. We saw nothing in him that looked like spirit. He never appeared with cheerfulness and vigour to animate us. Our men began to despise him; some asked him if he could speak." Gray the poet gives a similar account of him some years after:--"He is a thin, ill-made man, extremely tall and awkward, of a most unpromising countenance, a good deal resembling King James II., and has extremely the air and look of an idiot, particularly when he laughs or prays; the first he does not do often, the latter continually." Horace Walpole observed that "enthusiasm and disappointment have stamped a solemnity on his person, which rather creates pity than respect." 53 Frederick, Prince of Wales, at a Party (_606_) . . . . . M. LAROON? The Prince is at the head of the table, round which eight ladies and gentlemen are seated. He is pouring wine into a glass. Some thirteen persons, attendants, and a clergyman, are also in the room. Most of them are probably portraits. Altogether twenty-three small figures. On canvas, 3 ft. high, by 2 ft. 10 in. wide. This picture, though long labelled "Vanderbank," is probably by Marcellus Laroon, the younger, to whom it is attributed in an old catalogue. The likelihood that he is the painter is greatly strengthened by the close resemblance in style between it and the similar piece that follows--the personages evidently being the same. It is not certain what is the subject represented; though it has borne the above title for many years. In one of the Lord Chamberlain's old inventories it is stated to represent "a fête in honour of the marriage of the Duke of Wharton." 54 A Royal Assembly in Kew Palace . . . . . MARCELLUS LAROON. This represents some Royal assembly, apparently Augusta of Saxe-Gotha, the wife of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and her friends, in Kew Palace. The Princess in blue is pouring out the tea; a lady in white is singing; Handel is at the harpsichord, and "Orator" Henley close by. The equestrian portrait on the wall appears to be George II. Signed _Mar. Laroon_, and dated _1740_. Lent by Mr. Humphry Ward. 55 Matthew Prior . . . . . _By Thomas Hudson, after_ JONATHAN RICHARDSON. Half-length, seated, almost in profile to the right. On canvas, 3 ft. 4 in. high, by 2 ft. 9 in. wide. Lent by the Trustees of the National Portrait Gallery. Prior--poet, statesman, and diplomatist--published with Charles Montagu, afterwards Earl of Halifax, in 1689, "The City Mouse and the Country Mouse," intended to ridicule Dryden's "Hind and Panther." He was patronized by Dorset, who introduced him to the Court; and he was often employed in diplomatic offices. 56 Flower-Piece--_over the mantelpiece_ (_826_) . . . . . BAPTISTE. A green glass vase with chrysanthemums, poppies, honeysuckles, etc. Baptiste was a _protégé_ of Queen Mary, and painted a great number of flower-pieces to decorate Kensington and Hampton Court. 57 Portrait of Robert Boyle the Philosopher (_56_) . . . . . KERSEBOOM. Nearly full-length, seated in a big armchair; turned to the right, but facing in front. He leans his right arm on the chair; his left is turning over the leaves of a book on a table in front of him. He wears a large full-bottomed wig. This picture has been engraved by Baron several times. Boyle, the famous chemist and experimental philosopher, was the seventh son of the first Lord Cork, and from him received a fortune of _£_3,000 a year, which he devoted in a great measure to scientific research and the promotion of the Christian religion. He was never married, being of opinion that "a man must have very low and narrow thoughts of happiness or misery who can expect either from a woman's conduct." For his life, see his _Philaretus_. Frederic Kerseboom was a native of Germany, who worked at Paris and Rome under Le Brun and Poussin. He was in England during William III.'s reign, and painted a few indifferent portraits. 58 Portrait of John Locke (_947_) . . . . . KNELLER. Half-length, standing; turned to the right, but facing in front. He rests his left hand on a table, on which are an inkstand and a pen; his right hand in front of him. He wears a plain black coat, with part of his shirt showing; and he is without his wig, and shows his long white hair. This is one of Kneller's best portraits. It was evidently painted in the philosopher's later years, for he looks here on the point of dying of the asthma to which he succumbed in 1704. "Pray," said Locke in a letter to Collins, "get Sir Godfrey to write on the back of my picture 'John Locke;' it is necessary to be done, or else the pictures of private persons are lost in two or three generations." 59 Sir Isaac Newton (_957_) . . . . . KNELLER. Three-quarters length; turned to the left, facing in front. His right arm is by his side, his left leans on a table, on which are a globe and a book. He wears a dark, loose robe, and a large wig. On the left is inscribed: "_I Newton Esq^{re} Ã�tatis_ 47. 1689." There is a similar portrait to this at Petworth, which is engraved in Lodge. Newton was at this time member of the Convention Parliament, for the University of Cambridge. 59A King William III. (_779_) . . . . . KNELLER. Three-quarters length in armour, directed to the right; face turned round to the left. He wears a blue and gold sash. In the left background is a black servant, perhaps the one whose marble bust is now in this palace. =Queen Caroline's Drawing Room.= In entering this room we pass from the portion of the palace built in 1690 by Sir Christopher Wren for William and Mary, to that constructed by William Kent about 1723 for George I. The visitor has thus a good opportunity of comparing the styles and tastes of the two architects and of gauging their relative powers. Wren had been driven from his office, in 1718, by a shameful backstair intrigue; and two years afterwards, Kent, doubtless by the influence of his patron, the Earl of Burlington, was commissioned to build a set of new state rooms. How very mediocre were his talents, the exterior of his addition to Wren's work will, as we have already said, ever remain a palpable proof; and though for internal construction he shows less incapacity, still this room exhibits all his false ideas of pseudo-classicism--developed, as we shall see, to a most extravagant extent in the adjoining "Cube or Cupola Room." Examining the decoration in detail, we perceive everywhere evidences of his awkward, graceless style. The doorways, for instance, are unnecessarily lofty and gaunt, and with their heavy cumbrous architraves, flat moulded, with little light and shade, greatly impair the proportions of the room. In the tall semi-circular headed central window also, surmounted by a purposeless oak bracket--even in such details as the mouldings of the panelling and of the framing of the doors, and the flatness of the raised panels and their relative sizes to the width of the rails and "stiles,"--we detect his marked inferiority to Wren in the designing of such fittings. The =chimney-piece=, which is one of Kent's plainer and less ponderous ones, is of a choice marble, veined black and gold. The dimensions of this room are: 32 feet 9-1/2 inches long, 24 feet 2 inches wide, and 19 feet 2 inches high to the top of the cornice, 24 feet to the ceiling. Painted Ceiling of Queen Caroline's Drawing Room. But it is by the ceiling especially, with its great heavy oval frame of plasterwork, and its appearance of overhanging crushing weight, that we can most accurately appreciate Kent. The central recessed panel, containing an allegorical representation of Minerva, attended by History and the Arts, gives us a measure of his powers as a pictorial artist. The decorative painting of the cove of the ceiling, above the oaken cornice, is more satisfactory. In the four angles, and in the middle of each side, are classical pediments with volutes. Besides, the workmanship of the wainscoting being very good, and the original rawness of the ceiling somewhat faded, this room, with its new oak floor, its gorgeous paper, its Georgian furniture, probably designed by Kent, and the magnificent frames of some of the pictures on its walls, presents a fine and stately appearance. Contemporary French and German Portraits. 60 Madame de Pompadour (_986_) . . . . . DROUAIS. Half-length, seated, turned to the left. She wears a dress of figured brocade, worked with coloured flowers and foliage on a white ground, and trimmed with white ribbons; her sleeves are short and edged with lace. On her head is a sort of mob cap, or headdress of lace, tied under the chin with a striped ribbon; her hair is short and powdered. In front of her is a frame of embroidery called tambour-work, which she is working, her right hand being above, and her left under the canvas. The background is grey, with a red curtain to the right. Painted in an oval. On canvas, 2 ft. 7-1/2 in. high, by 2 ft. wide. This picture has been attributed, but quite unwarrantably, to Greuze, who does not appear to have painted Louis XV.'s mistress at all, and certainly could not have done so when she was as young as she is here represented. It is in fact a replica (and by no means a bad one) of a portrait by Drouais, of which a great many repetitions are extant, and of which the original--a full-length--is now at Mentmore, Lord Rosebery's. The Mentmore picture was purchased for £1,000. Drouais was an indifferent artist whose name would long have passed into oblivion, had he not painted princes and princesses. Diderot drew this just estimate of his works:--"Tous les visages de cet homme-là ne sont que le rouge vermillon le plus précieux, artistement couché sur la craie la plus fine et la plus blanche.... Il n'y en a pas une de laide, et pas une qui ne déplût sur la toile. Ce n'est pas de la chair; car, où est la vie, l'onctueux, le transparent, les tons, les dégradations, les nuances?" And Larousse endorses this view with the following remarks:--"Toutes ces peintures, habilement traitées d'ailleurs comme métier, n'ont rien de saillant, aucune puissance, aucune originalité. Les têtes sont banales, ternes, sans physionomie. L'allure est gauche et pénible. Les personnages sont fort mal habillés, bien que les draperies soient exécutées en trompe-l'oeil et avec magnificence." Madame de Pompadour is here represented at about the age of thirty-five, a period when, having lost the influence of a lover over the debauched and fickle Louis XV., she endeavoured to retain her power by ministering to his pleasures and vices. Her appearance completely tallies with the account given of her:--"Elle était assez grande, bien faite, les cheveux, châtain clair, tres-beaux, avec une peau d'une grande finesse et d'une blancheur éclatante. Mais elle avait un genre de beauté qui se fane vite: ses chairs molles s'infiltraient, s'enflammaient aisément; elle avait des langueurs et des pâleurs maladives." The tambour-work at which she is engaged was one of her favourite occupations; and it is pleasant to remember, with the shocking record of her extraordinary career, that she created that style in decoration, furniture, dress, literature, and even art, which is known by the name of Louis XV., a style which, wanting as it is in the simplicity of mediævalism, and stamped though it be with the character of its meretricious inventor, is yet always pleasing from a certain refinement and artificial beauty. 61 Mademoiselle de Clermont (_984_) . . . . . _unnamed._ Half-length, facing in front, hands not seen. She is dressed in a white dress, with a garland of flowers across it from under her left arm to her right shoulder. Behind her she has a blue scarf. Her hair is powdered and done high up. On canvas, 2 ft. 5 in. high, by 2 ft. wide. Behind is written:--"_Marianne. de. bourbon. nommeo. Mademoiselle. de. Clermont._" She was born in Paris in October, 1697, and was the daughter of Louis, the third Duke of Bourbon, and his wife Louise Françoise de Bourbon, Mademoiselle de Nantes, a natural daughter of Louis XV. In 1725 she was appointed "Surintendante de la Maison de la Reine." The story of her and her lover, M. de Melun, and his tragic end, forms the basis of Madame de Genlis' charming little novel, "Mademoiselle de Clermont." This portrait is painted in the style of Nattier. 62 Louis XVI. in his Coronation Robes (_516_) . . . . . CALLET. Full-length, standing, facing to the left. His left hand holds his hat by his side, his right leans on his sceptre. He is attired in the royal robes of France, a purple mantle embroidered with fleurs-de-lys, and an ermine tippet, etc. He has a small wig; his face is shaven. Behind him is his throne, with a figure of Justice. On canvas, 9 ft. high, by 6 ft. 5 in. wide. This is the original presentation frame, decorated with fleurs-de-lys. Though formerly labelled "Greuze," it is really a replica of Callet's well-known portrait, of which, besides the original at Versailles, there are other repetitions at Madrid and elsewhere, distributed to the various courts of Europe on the king's accession. The original was engraved by Bervic, the greatest of French engravers, the plate being lettered with the painter's name, "Callet Peintre du Roi." 63 Portrait of Louis XV. when young (_925_) . . . . . RIGAUD. Half-length, turned to the left; his left hand is in his sash, his right holds a marshal's bâton. His dress is a fawn-coloured doublet with a cuirass, a blue sash, and a blue mantle embroidered with a fleur-de-lys over it. Short hair, beardless face. On canvas, 3 ft. high, by 2 ft. 5 in. wide. This portrait was painted by Rigaud, as the contemporary mezzotint engraving by J. Simon proves, and not, as has been said, by Mignard, who had been dead thirty years. He is considered one of the best French portrait-painters of that period. Louis XV. conferred several favours on him, and decorated him with the Order of St. Michael, in 1727, soon after this portrait was painted. This distinction was given, as he said, "tant en considération de la réputation acquise dans son art, que pour avoir peint la famille royalle jusqu'à la quatrième génération." 64 Marianne, Duchess of Bourbon (_985_) . . . . . SANTERRE? Half-length, facing in front; her hands not seen. Her hair is dark, and dressed high, with a blue ribbon fastened over with a red jewel, and carried to the front. Her dress is yellow brocade with red drapery. On canvas, 2 ft. 5 in. high, by 2 ft. wide. Behind is written in ink:--"_Marianne. de. bourbon. fille. de. Monsieur. le. prince. de. Conty. famme. de. Monsieur. le. duc. de. bourbon._" She married, in 1713, Louis Henri de Bourbon, brother of Mademoiselle de Clermont (see No. 61), and died in 1720. There is a portrait of her husband at Paris, by Drouais. The portrait before us is very possibly by Jean Baptiste Santerre, a good painter whose works are rare. He died in 1717. 65 The Emperor Paul of Russia (_894_) . . . . . ----? Bust, turned to the left, eyes looking at the spectator. He is in a green uniform with red facing; and on his breast three stars and a green ribbon across from his right shoulder to his left. His hair is curled and powdered. On canvas, 2 ft. 4 in. high, by 1 ft. 10-1/2 in. wide. Behind the picture is inscribed:--"_Kopal T. Ep. K. E._ (?) 1799" and "_Catalogue No. 545, Emperor Paul of Russia._." This portrait represents the emperor in the forty-fifth year of his age, three years after his accession, and two years before his assassination. 66 Louis XIV., when young (_396_) . . . . . MIGNARD? Three-quarters length, facing in front. His left hand hangs by his side, right is on his hip. He is clad in armour, over which is a purplish robe, lined with yellow. He has a long brown wig. On canvas, 5 ft. high, by 3 ft. 7 in. wide. If this is really by Mignard, it must, on account of the age of the king, be one of the first pictures he painted in 1658, on his introduction to the French Court. 67 Stanislaus, King of Poland (_895_) . . . . . LAMPI. Bust, turned slightly to the left. He is dressed in a purple velvet coat, across which is a light blue sash, and on the left side of his breast a star. He wears a small wig and pigtail; his face is shaven. On canvas, 2 ft. 4 in. high, by 1 ft 10-1/2 in. wide. Behind in ink is written:--"Cavalieri Lampi de Vienna." In an old inventory, dated 1819, is this entry:--"Half-length portrait of the King of Poland, purple velvet coat, etc., painted by Lampi, member of the Academy of Vienna. Bought of Colnaghi for £21." Stanislaus-Augustus Poniatowski was proclaimed King of Poland on the 7th of September, 1764, having owed his election to his lover the Empress Catherine. It was during his reign that the infamous partition of Poland was perpetrated, to which he lent a passive assistance. He died in 1798. 68 Queen of Prussia (_907_) . . . . . ANTON GRAFF? Seated in a high-backed armchair covered with blue velvet; she is turned to the left, but faces in front. Her right hand rests on a table beside her, and points to a book; her left hangs by her side. She is dressed in black trimmed with ermine, and her head is covered with a black lace veil. Her hair is white. On canvas, 4 ft. 7 in. high, by 3 ft. 3 in. wide. This is attributed in the _Royal Inventory_ to Graff, a German painter who flourished at the end of the last century. Is she Sophia Dorothea, sister of George II., who married, in 1706, William I., King of Prussia, and who died in 1757? 69 Frederick, Prince of Wales (_789_) . . . . . ZEEMAN? Small full-length; turned to the right. His right hand pointing in front of him, his left on his breast. He wears a red coat, leather boots to the knees, and a long wig. Though this has long been known as Frederick, Prince of Wales, there are reasons to suspect that it is really his Brother William, Duke of Cumberland. 70 Louis XIV. on Horseback (_853_) . . . . . CHARLES LE BRUN? He is shown the size of life, on a cream-coloured charger, rising on its hind legs, and turned to the left. His dress is an embroidered coat, with jack boots and scarlet breeches. In his right hand he holds a bâton. On his head is a black laced hat; he has long flowing hair and curls. In the distance under the horse's forelegs an attack of cavalry is seen. On canvas, 8 ft. 3 in. high, by 6 ft. 2 in. wide. This has been attributed to Van der Meulen, but there is a similar picture at Versailles by Charles le Brun of which this is perhaps a replica. 71 Frederick the Great (_555_) . . . . . ANTOINE PESNE. Full-length, standing, turned to the left, but facing round to the front. His left hand points to a battle in the distance; his right holds a marshal's truncheon. He is in armour, over which is a crimson ermine-lined mantle; he has a small close-curled wig; his helmet is on the ground in front of him. On canvas, 8 ft. 7 in. high, by 5 ft. 7 in. wide. "To this admirable painter (_i.e._ Pesne) I am inclined to attribute the portrait of Frederick the Great. The king, who is still in youthful years, is pointing to a battlefield in the background, probably in allusion to the Silesian war. A picture of considerable merit."--_Waagen._ The painter is well remembered by the following couplet by Frederick the Great:-- "Quel spectacle étonnant vient de frapper mes yeux, Cher Pesne, ton pinceau t'égale au rang des Dieux," which Voltaire interpreted thus:--"Le roi ne regardant jamais le peintre, ce dernier était pour lui invisible comme Dieu." Pesne, who was a Frenchman and studied in Paris, was in England in 1724. He afterwards went to Berlin, where he became court painter to Frederick the Great. He died in 1757, the year of the Battle of Prague. The frame is doubtless a presentation one. 72 Frederick the Great (_978_) . . . . . _unnamed._ Bust, turned to the left, facing in front; his hands not seen. He wears a small wig and a dark-blue coat, with the star of the Order of the Black Eagle. 73 Charles XII. of Sweden (_977_) . . . . . MAGNUS DU BLAIRE? Bust; wearing a blue coat and a black choker; grey hair, and a beardless face. A small whole length, 49 in. by 39 in., of which this appears to be an enlarged copy of part, was in the Hamilton Palace collection, No. 1031, attributed to Magnus du Blaire, and inscribed: "In fatum Scandici Die XXX Nov. MDCCXVII." "David Krafft, a Swedish painter, born in 1655, painted the portrait of Charles XII. at the command of his sister, afterwards Queen Ulrica Eléanora; but this monarch, who objected to being portrayed, was so displeased at the accuracy of the picture, that he cut out the head. It had, however, already been transferred to copper, and also etched by several engravers."--_Bryan._ 74 Flower Piece . . . . . BAPTISTE. 75 Flower Piece . . . . . BAPTISTE. 76 Flower Piece . . . . . BAPTISTE. =The Cupola or Cube Room.= In this sumptuous and gorgeous chamber, with its marble-pillared doorways, its painted and gilded walls, its niches, brackets, slabs, and pediments of white marble, its gilt antique statues, its gaudy domed ceiling of blue and gold, we have the very acme and essence of the style and art of William Kent, triumphant and rampant. After our remarks on his work in the foregoing room, we shall not be expected to lose ourselves in admiration over this masterpiece of his pseudo-classic design and decoration. Yet little as we may agree with his theories of art, little as we may admire the way he carried them into practice, it is not to be denied that, viewed as a whole, there is considerable grandeur and stateliness, and a certain degree of fine proportion, about this highly-emblazoned saloon. Though called the "Cube" Room, its dimensions are not exactly of that mathematical figure, the walls being only 26 feet 2 inches high, to the top of the cornice, and 34 feet 7 inches to the centre of the ceiling, though each side is 37 feet long. The Painted Ceiling of the Cube Room. The ceiling seems to have been the first portion of the work undertaken by Kent, and to have been finished by him by the spring of the year 1722. That he was employed to do this work occasioned much very justifiable heart-burning. Sir James Thornhill was at that time serjeant-painter to the King, and in virtue of his office was entitled to receive the commission for painting this ceiling. Indeed, it appears from a "Memorial of Sir Thomas Hewett, Knt., Surveyor-General of His Majesties Works," addressed to the Lords of the Treasury, dated 14th February, 1722-3, and "relating to the painting of the large Square Room at Kensington," that in the foregoing autumn the King had commanded Hewett's attendance at Kensington "about finishing the Three Large Rooms in the New Building," and that Hewett then showed the King "several sketches of mosaic work, etc., for painting the ceiling of the Great Square Room." The Memorial proceeds to state: "His Majesty chose one of them; and after I ordered a model to be made, and Sir James Thornhill painted it, which His Majesty saw and approved of; and commanded me to tell the Vice-Chamberlain he should treat with Sir James Thornhill for the Price, and that it should be done out of Hand, which is all I know of the matter." Nevertheless, for some reason or other--probably owing to some backstair intrigue--Kent was employed to do the work instead. But before he had half finished it the officers of works were directed by the Treasury "to view and take care that the particulars of Mr. Kent's proposal for painting the ceiling of the Great Chamber at Kensington be well answer'd, and the work in the best manner performed with l'Ultra-Marine." They accordingly commissioned several of the best artists of the day "to view and carefully to consider the same and report in writing." [Illustration: THE CUPOLA OR CUBE ROOM, AS IT WAS WHEN THE QUEEN WAS BAPTIZED IN IT.] The artists, or rather critics as they became--and trust an artist to be no too lenient a critic of a fellow artist's work--were John van Vaart, Alex^{r} Nisbett, and Jacob Rambour. Their report is dated May 22nd, 1722, and in it they state as follows: "We have been to Kensington and carefully view'd and considered the said painting, which we did find better than half done: But having examin'd the particulars thereof, we have observed, and 'tis our opinion, that the Perspective is not just; that the principal of the work, which consists in ornaments and architecture, is not done as such a place requires. Mr. Nesbot adds that the Boys, Masks, Mouldings, etc., far from being well, he has seen very few worse for such a place: and Mr. Rambour affirms that the said work, far from being done in the best manner, as mentioned in your letter, it is not so much as tolerably well perform'd. As for the quality of the Blew used in the work, Mr. Vandewart and Mr. Rambour declare that they can't judge whether it is true ultramarine, because it does not look fine enough, but Mr. Nesbot's opinion is that it is nothing but Prussian Blew, in which perhaps there may be some Ultra-marine mixt." Nevertheless, the colours have endured unfaded until to-day; and the gilding also, both on the ceiling and the walls, has required but little renewing, only cleaning and an occasional application of modern leaf gold, and retouching with the paint brush, where the old surface had been injured. Much of the woodwork, however, had to be repaired, especially the capitals of the pilasters, some of which had to be renewed. The shape of the ceiling is slightly domed, the four coved sides terminating above in a flat centre, painted with a gigantic star of the Order of the Garter. The coved sides themselves are painted with octagonal panels, diminishing upwards to simulate a lofty pierced dome. Kent himself seems to have been so well satisfied with the work, that he made use of almost exactly the same design when painting the Queen's Staircase at Hampton Court some twelve years after. Across, part of the north cove of the ceiling is painted a deep shadow, to indicate that cast by the wall and cornice above the windows. The Painted Walls of the Cube Room. Kent, after finishing the ceiling, proceeded to decorate the walls with painting and gilding. There is a letter in the Record Office, from Lord Grafton, to the Lords of the Treasury, dated 29th of May, 1725, ordering payment of "£344 2_s._ 7_d._ to Mr. Kent, for painting the sides of the Cube Room at Kensington with ornaments enriched with gold." These walls, including the four pilasters on each, are of oak, painted with a light olive-green colour as a ground, embellished with niches of white marble, surmounted by brackets of the same, let into the woodwork. In the =six niches= are well-designed statues of classical deities--Ceres, Mercury, Venus, Minerva, Bacchus, Apollo, in cast lead, somewhat under life-size. These were so dirty and tarnished as to necessitate their being entirely new-gilt. Above them, standing on brackets in flat rectangular niches, were formerly busts representing Roman poets, now unfortunately no longer to be found. The two =doorways= opposite each other are likewise of the same fine polished marble, with pilasters and pillars of the Ionic order, supporting heavy entablatures, on the apexes of which are antique busts. The =chimney-place= is of the same design in miniature, of polished "dove-coloured" white-veined marble, similar to that at Marlborough House. On the apex was formerly a gilt bust of Cleopatra, now missing. Within the fireplace itself are very fine panelled and moulded "covings" or sides, of the same "dove-coloured" marble, discovered during the progress of the restorations. Above the chimney-piece is a large =bas-relief= in statuary marble representing a Roman marriage, sculptured by the statuary Rysbach. It is a fine work, but one feels rather as if standing in front of a sepultural monument in some foreign _campo santo_ than before an English fireside. Rysbach, who was a native of Antwerp, came over to England in 1720, four or five years before he executed this work. His talents were for some time--as have been those of many an unsuspecting foreigner--exploited by a commercializing British impresario, Gibbs. Two-thirds of the prices paid for his work found its way into the pockets of the unscrupulous intermediary, until Rysbach, at last shaking himself free from this bondage, took commissions on his own account, and, becoming the rage, he was able to exact great prices for his work. It is possible that he designed the gilt statues in the niches, which seem too good for Kent's narrow invention. General appearance of the Cupola Room. Such was the decoration of this famous Cupola or Cube Room when finished by Kent, such it appeared in 1818, when Pyne's drawing, from which our illustration is taken, was made, and such it appears to this day, save for the large musical clock which then stood in its centre, for the console tables against the walls, and the four large chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. These last were most essential features in this saloon, for its windows, abutting northwards on the private gardens, admit but very insufficient light; and only when illuminated by a blaze of candlelight can full justice have been done to the extravagant glories of its walls and ceilings. It was, in fact, intended essentially as a room for grand evening entertainments, and Kent evidently bore this in mind when he constructed it; for he contrived a very ingenious method, whereby the double doors in the doorways between it and the two drawing-rooms, with which it communicates, fold back, when opened, into the door jambs, in which they lie flush, offering no projecting hindrance to the movement of guests passing either way. This is a point never thought of by modern architects, who might do worse, when designing great reception rooms, than take a hint in this matter from the much contemned Kent, and so obviate the usual "crush" at the too narrow doorways. * * * * * It seems to have been in this Cupola Room that took place, on the 24th of June, 1819, the baptism of the infant Princess Victoria. Faulkner records that "the Royal Gold Font was brought from the Tower and fitted up in the Grand Saloon, with crimson velvet covering from the Chapel Royal, St. James's. The ceremony was performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, assisted by the Bishop of London.... The Prince Regent and nearly all the Royal Family were present at the ceremony, or at the dinner in the evening." Exactly underneath this room is the famous pillared "Council Chamber" in which, as we have already stated, the Queen held her first council. =King's Drawing Room.= Built at the same time as the two preceding rooms by command of King George I., William Kent here again reigns supreme in the design and decoration. "It was on the walls of this drawing-room," we are told by Pyne, writing in 1818, "that the then new art of paper-hangings, in imitation of the old velvet flock, was displayed, with an effect that soon led to the adoption of so cheap and elegant a manufacture, in preference to the original rich material from which it was copied." The paper that now covers the walls is a copy of an old pattern, and has been supplied by Messrs. Bertram, the decorators. We may again notice here the five lofty doorways, surmounted by flat architraves, and the oak pilasters in the dado as characteristic of Kent. There was originally one of his great massive marble chimney-pieces in this room, long since replaced by the present plain insignificant one. The dimensions of this room are 39 feet 6 inches long (from east to west), 28 feet wide, and 22 feet 8 inches high to the top of the cornice. Painted Ceiling of the King's Drawing Room. This is another of Kent's artistic efforts. There is in the Record Office a letter from Lord Grafton dated June 26th, 1725, conveying his majesty's commands that "their Lordships of the Treasury would give orders to Mr. William Kent to paint the ceilings, etc. in the new apartments at Kensington"--including this one. The cove of the ceiling, or portion nearest the cornice, is elaborately decorated with scroll-work and architectural ornaments, richly gilt and painted, and with medallions in the middle of each side supported by female figures. In the centre is a large projecting heavy oval frame of plaster, with the panel within it recessed about three feet. This is painted with the story of Jupiter and Semele, the God appearing in a thunder-cloud, and Semele, in a ridiculous attitude, on a couch. No painting could be worse. The signature of the artist, "_William Kent pinxit_, 1725," has been found a little to the left of the right foot of Semele. When the restoration of this room was taken in hand last winter, the ceiling was so begrimed with the dirt, dust, smoke, and smuts of upwards of a hundred and fifty years of London atmosphere, as to be nearly black. The cleaning was carried out with the most scrupulous care, and practically no re-painting or re-gilding has been necessary. William Kent, the Royal and Fashionable Decorator. The whole effect of this ceiling _if you do not look at it_ is rich and striking, and with the fine paper and the pictures on the walls will pass muster as a suitable decorative treatment of a grand state reception room. George I. and George II. at any rate had no hesitation in extending an unqualified approval to Kent's work. After having finished this suite he grew into greater favour than ever. He was soon after appointed "Master Carpenter, Architect, Keeper of the Pictures, and Principal Painter to the Crown, the whole, including a pension of £100 a year, which was given him for his works at Kensington, producing--according to Walpole--£600 a year." From the Court his vogue extended to a large circle of patrons and votaries. "He was not only consulted for furniture, as frames of pictures, glasses, tables, chairs, etc., but for plate, for a barge, for a cradle; and so impetuous was fashion, that two great ladies prevailed on him to make designs for their birthday gowns. The one he dressed in a petticoat decorated with columns of the five orders; the other like a bronze, in a copper-coloured satin, with ornaments of gold!" [Illustration: KING'S DRAWING ROOM.] Kent, the "Father of Modern Gardening." Kent also had a great reputation as a horticulturist, and was generally designated, at the end of last century, as the "Father of Modern Gardening"--his ghastly progeny consisting of the destructive and desolating "landscape-gardening" enterprises of "Capability Brown," Repton, and their followers. His hand doubtless fell heavy on the old Queen Anne formal gardens about Kensington Palace. We can see the influence of his taste, which was followed with enthusiasm by Queen Caroline and her gardener Bridgman, in the barrenness and commonplace appearance of the grounds that lie immediately below in front of us, as we look out of the windows of this room, and in the entire absence of planting or gardening in the large expanse surrounding the "Round Pond." This =Round Pond=, or "=the Basin=" as it used to be called, is, by the bye, not round at all, but of a geometrical figure, more of an oval form than circular, and with the four sides flattened and the intermediate portions of the circumference bent into "ogees." In thus shaping this basin the designer, whether Kent or Bridgman, has overstepped artistic discretion; for from no point of view, neither in Kensington Gardens, from the ground beside it, nor even from this window is its real shape to be made out--only from Rocque's plan or bird's-eye view, of 1736, can it be seen to be so eccentric. The distant =view=, however, beyond the private gardens, across the Round Pond and Kensington Gardens, over grassy slopes and ancient trees to Hyde Park, a mile away, is one of the pleasantest in the metropolis. Not a street, not a road, not a house, not a roof is to be seen. In the spring and early summer, when the foliage is fresh and green, one might imagine oneself in the depths of the country, in some old house overlooking midland pastures and woods. West's Pictures in the King's Drawing Room. In this room are hung the paintings of West, all of which were executed for George III., who greatly admired them, and extended to him a most liberal patronage. He was equally in favour with the public, who lauded his performances to the skies, and with his fellow-artists, who made him President of the Royal Academy. We now hardly know which to wonder at most--an obscure lad in the wilds of Pennsylvania, who took his earliest lessons in painting from a tribe of Cherokees, accomplishing what he did; or the English fetish, Public Opinion, having been so deluded as to regard his efforts as masterpieces of Art. The depreciation which has overtaken him may be judged when we hear that an "Annunciation," for which £800 was originally paid, was knocked down in 1840 for £10! His portraits, nevertheless, are interesting. 80 The Death of General Wolfe (_497_) . . . . . WEST. Wolfe lies in the centre, to the right, supported by three officers. In front of him is a wounded officer, standing, supported by others, to hear his dying injunctions. At his feet is an Indian warrior in his war-paint, gazing at him to see how an English chief will die. On the extreme left is a messenger running, and on the left ships with soldiers disembarking. On canvas, 5 ft. high, by 8 ft. wide. Wolfe was killed on the 13th September, 1759, in the moment of victory before Quebec. "The fall of Wolfe was noble indeed. He received a wound in the head, but covered it from his soldiers with his handkerchief. A second ball struck him in the belly, but that too he dissembled. A third hitting him in the breast, he sank under the anguish, and was carried behind the ranks. Yet, fast as life ebbed out, his whole anxiety centred on the fortune of the day. He begged to be borne nearer to the action, but his sight being dimmed by the approach of death, he entreated to be told what they who supported him saw: he was answered, that the enemy gave ground. He eagerly repeated the question, heard the enemy was totally routed, cried 'I am satisfied,' and expired." (Walpole's _Memoirs_.) "In this picture, which was painted in 1771, West introduced the sensible innovation of dressing the characters in their proper costume; previous to that time it was the common practice with painters to dress their figures in historical compositions of any kind, in the Greek or Roman costume. Sir Joshua Reynolds was one of those who were averse to the innovation, but when the picture was finished, he changed his opinion. After a careful examination of the picture, he observed to the Archbishop of York, who was with him at the time, 'West has conquered; he has treated his subject as it ought to be treated; I retract my objections. I foresee that this picture will not only become one of the most popular, but will occasion a revolution in the art.' When West related this to the King, he said, 'I wish I had known all this before, for the objection has been the means of Lord Grosvenor getting the picture, but you shall make a copy for me.'" This is the copy ordered by George III., for which the painter received £315. The original is at Grosvenor House, and has been finely engraved by Woollett. There are several other repetitions of it. 81 Prince of Wales (George IV.), and Duke of York (_500_) . . . . . WEST. The Prince is on the left, in yellow satin, his right hand on his hip, his left on his brother's shoulder, who leans against a table. They are both in the robes of the Garter and St. Andrew. On canvas, 9 ft. high, by 7 ft. wide. The Prince of Wales was born on August 12th, 1762; Frederick, Duke of York, on August 16th, 1763. This picture represents them when they were about fifteen and fourteen years old, therefore, about 1777. Soon afterwards the Duke of York proceeded to Prussia for the purpose of being educated as a soldier. 82 Dukes of Cumberland, Sussex, and Cambridge, and the Princesses Augusta-Sophia, Elizabeth, and Mary (_488_). The Duke of Cumberland is on the left, standing; the Duke of Sussex is lying down near his sister Elizabeth, who holds on her lap the infant Princess Mary (?). Kneeling by them is the Duke of Cambridge, and behind is the Princess Augusta-Sophia. Signed and dated 1776. On canvas, 6 ft. 7 in. high, by 7 ft. 10 in. wide. Prince Ernest Augustus, afterwards Duke of Cumberland and King of Hanover, and grandfather of her Royal Highness Princess Frederica, was born June 5th, 1771; Prince Augustus Frederick, Duke of Sussex, on January 27th, 1773; and Prince Adolphus Frederick, Duke of Cambridge, on February 24th, 1774. Princess Augusta-Sophia was born on November 8th, 1768; Princess Elizabeth, on May 22nd, 1770; and Princess Mary, on April 25th, 1776. The Princesses have long been wrongly called, Charlotte, Augusta, and Sophia; the correct names, as given above, are derived from the contemporary mezzotint by V. Green; besides, when this picture was painted the Princess Sophia was not born. 83 Queen Charlotte, aged 36, with her thirteen children in the background (_498_) . . . . . WEST. Standing; dressed in white, her hair powdered and piled up high. The thirteen children are seen in the distance to the left, in a picture which is now at Windsor Castle. On canvas, 9 ft. 6 in. high, by 7 ft. wide. 84 George III.; Lords Amherst and Lothian behind (_494_) . . . . . WEST. He is standing, facing to the right, in full regimentals. He holds a scroll of paper in his hands in front of him. Behind him is his crown and sceptre; and in the background the two peers, and a view of Coxheath Camp. On canvas, 9 ft. 6 in. high, by 7 ft. wide. It appears from West's own memoranda that this picture was painted before 1779, consequently the King cannot have been more than forty. 85 Duke of Cambridge, and Princesses Charlotte and Augusta (_487_) . . . . . WEST. The Duke, in a maroon-coloured suit, is standing on the right. Princess Charlotte is sitting on a stool, with her sister on her lap. In the background are a curtain, a column, and Kew Gardens with the Pagoda. Signed on the top in the left hand corner; and dated 1778. On canvas, 9 ft. high, by 6 ft. wide. Princess Charlotte, George III.'s eldest daughter, afterwards Queen of Wirtemburg, was born on September 29th, 1766; and Princess Augusta, on November 8th, 1768. It is doubtful whether the names are correct. 86 =Apotheosis of the Infant Princes Octavius and Alfred= (_503_). Alfred, the younger of the two, is seated on clouds, with his hands out-stretched to his brother, who is being conducted up to him by an angel. Prince Octavius was born on February 23rd, 1779, and Prince Alfred on September 22nd, 1780. Alfred died on August 20th, 1782. "I am very sorry for Alfred," said the King, "but had it been Octavius I should have died too." Octavius followed his brother to the grave on May 2nd, 1783. For this picture West received £315. Engraved by Sir Robert Strange. 87 =Queen Charlotte and the Princess Royal= (_492_) . . . . . WEST. The Queen is sitting on a sofa, with embroidery on her lap. The Princess stands on the right, by her side, and holds the embroidery. Dated 1776. On canvas, 5 ft. 5 in. high, by 6 ft. 8 in. wide. 88 Duke of Clarence (William IV.), and Duke of Kent (_502_) . . . . . WEST. The Duke of Clarence is on the left, dressed in a blue coat with a white vest; he has his right hand on a globe, his left on his hip. The Duke of Kent is in red turned full to the front, but looking at his brother; his right hand is on his brother's left hand, his left is pointing upwards. On canvas, 9 ft. 6 in. high, by 7 ft. wide. Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence, afterwards William IV., was born August 21st, 1765. Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, father of her present Most Gracious Majesty, was born November 2nd, 1767. This picture was painted when they were about thirteen and eleven years. In 1780, the Duke of Clarence went to sea as a midshipman. West received 250 guineas for the picture. 89 George III. Reviewing the Tenth Dragoons in Hyde Park in 1797 (_168_) . . . . . BEECHEY. The King is in front on a white horse, whose head is turned to the left. He is in full regimentals, with a cocked hat. Just behind him is the Prince of Wales, in the uniform of the 10th, holding up his sword and giving the word of command. To the left of the King is the Duke of York, with Generals Goldsworthy and Sir David Dundas; Sir William Fawcett is standing in front of them. The King is turning round to speak to them, and points with his right hand to the cavalry charge in the left distance. On canvas, 13 ft. 8 in. high, by 16-1/2 ft. wide. The 10th Light Dragoons (now the 10th Hussars) were frequently reviewed by George III. in company with the Prince of Wales, who entered the army as brevet-colonel, November 19th, 1782, and after whom the regiment was called "The Prince of Wales's Own," on Michaelmas Day, 1783. In 1793 he was appointed colonel-commandant of the corps, and succeeded as colonel on July 18th, 1796. The review commemorated here took place not long after that date, for the picture is mentioned in a biographical sketch of Sir William Beechey in _The London Monthly Mirror_ for July, 1798, where we are told that the King rewarded him for it with the honour of knighthood. The names of the officers were derived from an account of a review, which took place in 1799, and which this picture was formerly supposed to represent; it is therefore doubtful whether they are quite correct. (See _Notes and Queries_.) This picture is regarded as Beechey's masterpiece, and was very much admired at the time. But "although a clever and showy group of portraits, it has little of real nature, and is full of the painter's artifices. Thus the King's white horse forms the principal light, and comes off the Prince of Wales's dark horse, and so on; the light and shadow of all the heads being the light and shadow of the studio, and not of the field."--(Redgrave's _Century of Painters_.) The King had several copies taken of it; in one, which he gave to Lord Sidmouth, the figure of the Prince was omitted by the King's own desire, a curious proof of his dislike of his son. When the Prince became King he hinted that it should be restored, but this was evaded. Benjamin Smith engraved the portrait of George III. from this picture. =King's Privy Chamber.= Although this room formed part of the state apartments built by Kent, it was much transformed in the reign of George III., so that it bears little trace of its original decoration. Indeed, it is so commonplace in appearance, that, except for the pictures which now hang on its walls, it looks more like an ordinary bedroom in an old-fashioned country inn than a king's chamber in a palace. The plain deal dado, the common chimney-piece of black veined marble, the wood and plaster cornice, the shutters and windows, are all of the most ordinary and inartistic pattern. The dimensions of this room are 31 feet long, 24 feet wide, and 17 feet high. =Portraits of the Time of George III.= 90 Portrait of Francis, 5th Duke of Bedford (_961_) . . . . . J. HOPPNER. Full-length, turned to the left, looking to the front. He is dressed in a peer's full robes. His left hand is on his hip, his right holds a scroll of paper. He is bareheaded, face close-shaven, and his hair short. Behind him is a red curtain, and in the distance on the left a statue of Hercules. On canvas, 8 ft. 3 in. high, by 5 ft. 2 in. wide. Behind is written:--"Received, 7th April, 1810, from Mrs. Hoppner." The duke, who was born in 1765, died on March 2nd, 1802. "More dignified and well painted than the similar one at Woburn."--_Sir George Scharf._ 91 Francis Hastings, Earl of Moira (_950_) . . . . . HOPPNER. Full-length, figure slightly to the right, but the face turned round to the left. Dressed in uniform, with the Ribbon and Star of the Garter. His right hand holds a scroll of paper by his side; his left rests on a document on a table. Background, a green curtain, and sky on the right. On canvas, 7 ft. 10 in. high, by 4 ft. 10 in. wide. Behind is painted "R.A. 1794," the year of Hoppner's election, and "The Star and Garter added 1812," in June of which year Lord Moira, after failing to form a ministry, accepted the Garter, "but," says Lord Spencer in a letter to Lord Buckingham, "whether as a calm to his honour or his understanding, it is not for me to say." This picture was received from Hoppner's widow, in June, 1810, a few months after his death. 92 Portrait of John Hely, Lord Hutchinson (_872_) . . . . . PHILLIPS, R.A. Three-quarters length, seated, turned to the left, and looking downwards. His left leg is crossed over his right, and in his left hand he holds a map of Egypt; his right holds an eyeglass on his breast. He is in his uniform. In front of him on a table are writing materials. On canvas, 4 ft. high, by 3-1/2 ft. wide. John Hely was born in 1757, and in 1774 went into the army. In the expedition to Egypt in 1801 he was appointed second in command to Sir Ralph Abercrombie; on whose death the chief command devolved on Hely, then a major-general. For his admirable conduct of the campaign, in which he drove the French from Egypt, he received the thanks of both Houses, and was raised to the peerage in 1813. In 1823 he succeeded his brother to the earldom of Donoughmore. He died in 1832. 93 Christian VII. of Denmark (_976_) . . . . . DANCE. A head, in an oval, turned to the right; dressed in a red uniform trimmed with gold; on his breast a blue ribbon. His hair is powdered and brushed back. This was formerly unnamed, but the mezzotint engraving after it by Fisher shows it to have been painted by Dance; doubtless when the King was over here in 1767 for his marriage to Princess Matilda. He was then eighteen years old. Their domestic life was not happy. In politics he distinguished himself by granting liberty of the press to his subjects; in reward for which Voltaire addressed the famous lines to him, in which he tells him: "Je me jette à tes pieds au nom du genre humain." He afterwards went out of his mind, and died in 1808. He was the son of Princess Louisa, the daughter of George II., and succeeded to the throne in 1766. The engraving after this picture by G. Fisher is dated 1769. 94 Portrait of Richard Brinsley Sheridan (_891_) . . . . . K. A. HICKEL? Bust; face turned slightly to the right. He has a blue coat and a yellow waistcoat. His face is close-shaven. On canvas, 2 ft. high, by 1 ft. 8 in wide. "Whatever Sheridan has done, or chosen to do, has been _par excellence_ always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy, the best farce, and the best address ('Monologue on Garrick'), and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration (the famous Begum speech) ever conceived or heard in this country."--_Byron._ This appears to be the study for, or a replica of, the head of Sheridan in the picture of the Interior of the old House of Commons in 1793, painted by Karl Anton Hickel, and now in the National Portrait Gallery. 95 Portrait of Spencer Perceval (_890_) . . . . . JOSEPH. Half-length, turned to the left. In his left hand he holds a paper. He wears a blue coat and a white waistcoat. His face is shaven, his hair grey, and his head bald in front. On canvas, 2-1/2 ft. high, by 2 ft. wide. Behind is written:--"Received from Mrs. Joseph, 18th June, 1814." This is a posthumous likeness, taken from a mask after death, but considered by all who knew him to be a faithful resemblance. When Queen Charlotte went to see it, and the curtain which covered it was withdrawn, she was so struck with its truth, that she burst into tears. Many copies with slight variations were executed; one of them is now in the National Portrait Gallery. It is engraved in mezzotint by Turner. It is a fair specimen of George Francis Joseph, an indifferent artist, who was elected an associate of the Royal Academy after painting this portrait. He died in 1846. Perceval, who became Prime Minister in October, 1809, was assassinated in the lobby of the House of Commons by Bellingham, on May 11th, 1812. The official documents he holds in his hand remind us that his state papers were not at all to the taste of the Prince Regent, who remarked, "that it was a great misfortune to Mr. Perceval to write in a style which would disgrace a respectable washerwoman." 96 Mary Granville, Mrs. Delany (_944_) . . . . . OPIE. Bust, turned to the left. She is dressed in a black silk dress, trimmed with lace, and having a hood over her white widow's cap. Round her neck is a locket. On canvas, 2 ft. 6 in. high. This portrait represents her as a very old woman, and was probably painted not many years before her death, in 1788, at the age of eighty-eight. She was the eldest daughter of Bernard Granville, grandson of Sir Bevil Granville, the Royalist leader, and was born in 1700. She was educated under the care of her uncle, Lord Lansdowne, and married in 1717 Alexander Pendarves. She was intimate with Swift, through whom she became acquainted with her second husband, Dr. Delany. After his death she spent most of her time with her friend, the Duchess of Portland, and when she died, George III., who, with the Queen, became very intimate with the old lady, gave her a pension and a house at Windsor. She occupied her declining years in copying flowers in paper, and executed as many as 980. She died in 1788. Her autobiography was published in 1861; it contains a great many reminiscences of the court and family of George III. This picture first brought Opie into notice. A replica painted for the Countess of Bute is in the National Portrait Gallery. 97 Brownlow North, Bishop of Winchester (_888_) . . . . . _after_ DANCE. Bust, nearly a full face, slightly inclined to the right. He is seated in a purple-covered chair, in the robes of a Chancellor of the Garter, with the chain of the order on his breast. On canvas, 2 ft. 8 in. high, by 2 ft. 2 in. wide. He was a half-brother of Lord North, the Prime Minister; was born in 1741; and was successively appointed Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, Worcester and Winchester, and died in 1820. 98 Portrait of Hurd, Bishop of Worcester (_889_) . . . . . GAINSBOROUGH. Bust, turned to the left, facing and looking in front. Dressed in a bishop's canonicals, with a small, but full, curly wig. Painted in an oval. On canvas, 2 ft. 6 in. high, by 2 ft. 1 in. wide. Compare No. 371. 99 Richard Hurd, Bishop of Worcester (_887_) . . . . . GAINSBOROUGH. Bust, to the right, looking to the front His left hand is on his breast, holding his gown. Dressed in canonicals, with a bushy wig. On canvas, 2 ft. 6 in. high, by 2 ft. 1 in. wide. He was the son of a farmer at Congreve, Staffordshire, and was born in 1720. He was appointed preceptor to the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, and was nominated Bishop of Worcester in 1781; but declined the primacy offered by George III., with whom he was a great favourite. He wrote many moral and religious works, long since relegated to the limbo of insipid mediocrities. Engraved by Holl in 1774? Perhaps the picture exhibited in 1781. 100 A Rabbi (_266_) . . . . . _after Rembrandt, by_ GAINSBOROUGH. Bust, to the right. He wears a dark dress, and cap with flaps; his beard is long. On canvas, 2 ft. 6 in. high, by 2 ft. 1 in. wide. This was in Gainsborough's possession at his death, and was exhibited at Schomberg House, 1789. 101 Portrait of C. F. Abel, the Musician (_938_) . . . . . ROBINEAU. Half-length; seated at a piano or spinet, turned towards the right, but his face looking behind him, over his shoulder to the left. He is dressed in a red coat and has a small wig. On canvas, 2 ft. 1 in. high, by 1 ft. 8 in. wide. Signed on the left-hand side:--"_C. Robineau 1780._" Charles Frederick Abel was a pupil of Bach's, and at one time belonged to the royal band at Dresden. He came to England about 1765, and was appointed master of Queen Charlotte's band. Although he wrote music, he was more celebrated for his playing than his compositions. Abel was a very passionate man, and much addicted to the bottle,--peculiarities which the visitor would suspect him of, from his flushed face and red nose. He died in 1787, after being three days in a sort of drunken torpor. Robineau was a portrait-painter who practised in Paris and London. 102 Duchess of Brunswick, Sister of George III . . . . . A. KAUFFMAN. Full-length, turned to the right. She holds a child in her arms on an altar in front of her. She is dressed in white with an orange-coloured mantle, lined with light blue; she wears sandals. On canvas, 8 ft. 11 in. high, by 5 ft. 11 in. wide. On the left at the foot of the column is the signature:--"_Angelica Pinx Aº_. 1767." To the left, on a vase, the inscription:-- _Carol._ ILLE _de Bruns. & Priñ. Hered_. A. MDCCLX M. _Jul. apud Enisdorff_ VICTORIA. _et_ A. MDCCLXIV M. _Jan. apud Lond._ AMORE. _Coron._ Augusta, the eldest daughter of Frederick, Prince of Wales, was born on the 31st of July, 1737, and was married to the Duke of Brunswick on the 17th of January, 1764. By him she became the mother, among other children, of Caroline, Princess of Wales, and of Duke William Frederick, "Brunswick's fated chieftain," who fell at Quatre-Bras. In 1767, when this portrait was painted, she was in England on a visit. The child in her arms must be her eldest son Charles George Augustus, who was born 8th February, 1766, and died in 1806. 103. Frederick, Prince of Wales (_893_) . . . . . VANLOO? Bust, turned to the left, facing in front. He wears a blue sash over his coat. See _ante_, No. 4. 104. George III., when Prince of Wales, aged 12, and Prince Edward Augustus, Duke of York and Albany, aged 11 . . . . . RICHARD WILSON, R.A. Seated figures, on a couch by a table, the Prince of Wales on the left. On canvas, 3 feet 3-1/2 inches high, by 4 feet 1-1/2 inches wide. Lent by the trustees of the National Portrait Gallery. The Duke of York was born in 1739, became an admiral in 1759, and died at Monaco in 1767. =The Nursery.= The designation of "The Nursery" has been for many years applied to this room, having, it appears, been so used at one time by Queen Victoria, whose doll-house is now placed here. It was afterwards occupied by the late Duchess of Teck, and it was here that Princess May, now Duchess of York, was born, on May 26th, 1867. Its associations are, therefore, exclusively Victorian, with which its decoration--so far as it can be said to have any--accords. The "shell" of the room, however, is part of Kent's addition to the State Rooms. The dimensions of this room are 30 feet 7 inches long by 23 feet 5 inches wide, and 17 feet high to the highest point of the ceiling, 15 feet 2 inches to the top of the cornice. Pictures and Prints illustrative of the Queen's Life and Reign. A collection is here being formed by Mr. Holmes, the Queen's Librarian, of various prints, illustrative of Her Majesty's Life and Reign. Among them are old prints of the Queen as a child, and as the young Princess Victoria, Heiress to the Throne; also of the marriage of the Prince of Wales in St. George's Chapel, the Baptism of the Princess Royal, etc.; and also the Jubilee Celebration of 1887 in Westminster Abbey, from the painting by W. E. Lockhart, R.S.A. 110 The Queen's First Council in the pillared Council Chamber at Kensington Palace on 20th of June, 1837 . . . . . _After_ WILKIE. For an account of this famous scene, _see_ page 37. =Ante-Room.= As we go through the door of "The Nursery" into this ante-room, we pass from the portion of the Palace built by Kent, to the original block erected by Wren, this ante-room being a part of what was formerly one of William III.'s state rooms. Through this lobby it was that the Queen passed to the adjoining staircase when she went downstairs to receive the news of her accession. The dimensions of this room are: 19 feet 3 inches long, 10 feet 2 inches wide, and 16 feet high. Prints illustrative of the Life and Reign of the Queen. The wall space here will be devoted to further prints illustrative of the Queen's Life and Reign. [Illustration: Decoration] =Queen Victoria's Bedroom.= To future ages, if not indeed already to the present one, this plain, modestly-decorated chamber must have an interest far transcending that of the more gorgeous Georgian saloons, which we have just traversed. For, it was for many years the bedroom of our own Queen, when as a little girl of tender age she lived in quiet simplicity at Kensington Palace with her mother, the Duchess of Kent. From the windows of this room we can imagine the little princess, when she rose in the morning, gazing out over the gardens and the Park beyond, as the beams of the eastern sun struggled through the mists and smoke of distant London, musing on the mighty destiny awaiting her; or in the evening hour, when the flower-scented air of the garden beneath floated in at the casement, looking out where the far-off lights of the great town twinkled among the trees, her mind filled with solemn thoughts of the awful responsibility that was to be hers. Even now, when the building octopus, with its stucco tentacles, has clutched and sucked in so many a fair surrounding green field, from these windows not a roof, not a chimney meets the eye; not an echo, even, of the ceaseless roar of the traffic strikes the ear. It was in this room that the Queen was sleeping on the memorable morning of the 20th of June, 1837, when she was awakened by her mother, the Duchess of Kent, to go to the Drawing Room downstairs, where Lord Conyngham and the Archbishop of Canterbury were awaiting to inform her of her accession to the throne. The dimensions of this room are: 23 feet 3 inches long, 19 feet 3 inches wide, and 16 feet high. Prints of the Life and Reign of the Queen. Prints in continuation of the series commenced in "The Nursery," are in process of being arranged in this room. Mementoes and Relics of the Queen's Childhood, collected in "Queen Victoria's Bedroom." Here also will be arranged some of the Queen's toys, with which she played as a little girl in these rooms; and perhaps other similar objects of interest. Labels will, doubtless, be affixed to explain, what these are. [Illustration: Decoration] =King's Gallery.= This magnificent gallery, the finest of all the state rooms at Kensington Palace, was designed and built by Sir Christopher Wren for William III. about the year 1693. It owes much of its architectural effect to the great architect's wonderful knowledge and appreciation of proportion--an element too often disregarded in buildings of modern times. Its length is 96 feet, its breadth 21 feet 6 inches, and its height 18 feet to the top of the cornice, and 19 feet 8 inches to the highest point of the ceiling. It is, therefore, 12 feet longer than the already-described Queen Mary's Gallery, 2 feet higher, but of the same width. Compared with it, the "King's or Cartoon Gallery" at Hampton Court, built by Wren almost exactly at the same time, it is 21 feet less long, 3 feet less wide, and 10 feet less high. In relation to it the following items from the old accounts, dating from about the year 1693, are interesting: "Item to Richard Hawkesmore, Clerk of the Workes, for making up an account [an estimate?] of the King's New Gallery at Kensington--£5." "More to him for Pasteboard and other Materialls for making a modell of the said Gallery for the King--£5 2_s._" "Cha: Houghton for rating, casting up, and engrossing the Books of the said Building for the Auditor--£5." Decorative Carvings in "the King's Gallery." The oak cornice and the oak doors of this gallery, especially the beautiful architraves of the doors, are among the finest specimens anywhere existing of Wren's decorative art, designed by him and carried out under the superintendence of Gibbons. Relating to this work we find the following item in the accounts for the years 1691 to 1696: "To Grinling Gibbons, carver, for worke done in the new Gallery building, in the King's great and Little Closet, in three Roomes under the King's apartment, in the King's Gallery, and other places about the said Pallace--£839 0_s._ 4_d._" In other respects the appearance of this room has been much altered; for the oak panelling, which appears originally to have entirely covered its walls was removed, it would seem, in the reign of George I. or of George II.; when also the ceiling, which was originally plain, was painted as we see it now. Chimney-Piece, Map and Dial. At the same time a new chimney-piece was inserted. Part of the original over-mantel, however, of the time of William III., still remains, especially a very curious map of the north-west of Europe, showing the names of various towns, especially in the north of France, the Netherlands, and the British Isles. Relating to it we have discovered, in the course of our researches among the old parchment rolls in the Record Office, the following entry, dating from about, the year 1694: "To Rob^{t} Norden for his paines in drawing a map for the chimney-piece and for attending the painters--£5." Round the circumference of the map are the points of the compass; and an old =dial-hand= or pointer, still remains, which was actuated by an iron rod connected with a vane, still existing above the roof. This enabled King William to know from which quarter the wind was blowing; whether, therefore, it was safe for him, with his asthma, to venture out of doors, or whether the wind was favourable for wafting him away from this hated climate to his own dearly-loved country of Holland. It was this dial which so greatly interested Peter the Great, when he privately visited William III. in this palace in 1698, being admitted by a back door. "It was afterwards known," says Macaulay, but unfortunately without giving his authority, "that he took no notice of the fine pictures, with which the palace was adorned. But over the chimney in the royal sitting-room was a plate which, by an ingenious machinery, indicated the direction of the wind; and with this plate he was in raptures." [Illustration: THE KING'S GALLERY.] This old dial is fixed in a square carved and gilt frame, probably the one referred to in the following item in the old accounts of the years 1691-96: "To Rene Cousins gilder for a large frame carved and gilt with burnished gold--£10." The outer frame of deal wood surrounding this gilt one is, on the other hand, of a later date, evidently designed by Kent, as was also the decorated panel above it, itself surmounted by a pediment, richly carved, doubtless by men trained in the school of Wren and Gibbons. In the centre of this fine "Kentian" panel is a medallion picture of the "Virgin and Child," painted in fresco, of the school of Raphael, and inscribed behind with the date, 1583. All this over-mantel was, in the time of George I., painted over white with enrichments of gold. It so remained until last winter, when the thick coats of filthy paint were cleaned off. It has been thought best to leave the deal wood in its natural state, unpainted, only applying a little stain to tone it into harmony with the colour of the surrounding oak carvings. Although this carved over-mantel is an addition, and as far as the pediment is concerned, very out of place so close to the cornice, yet it is very beautiful and of much interest as being one of the finest examples of decorative design executed in England during the reigns of the first two Georges. In it we trace the influence of the lighter French taste of Louis XV., which Kent had no doubt become acquainted with when travelling abroad. The marble chimney-piece below, on the other hand, is in that architect's regular massive, heavy style. * * * * * Almost at once, after this gallery was finished by Wren, it became the receptacle of some of the finest works of art in the Royal collection. Among the manuscripts in the British Museum is the original list of William III.'s pictures, placed "in Kensington House, 1697"--some seventy pieces being mentioned as then hanging on its walls. It was in the year following that Peter the Great was in England; when, besides his private interview with the King, mentioned above, he was a spectator at a ball given in this same gallery on the birthday of Princess Anne, not publicly, however, but peeping through one of the doors, in a closet prepared for him on purpose. In this room, King William, in the month of March, 1702, after his accident, and a few days before his death, "took several turns" to exercise himself; but soon becoming fatigued, he reclined upon a couch and fell asleep, "but soon to awake in a shivering fit, which was the beginning of a fever, attended with serious symptoms, from which he never recovered." Painting of the Ceiling and Wainscot of the King's Gallery. This gallery was also a favourite sitting-room of Queen Anne and her husband, and of George I. It was by command of the latter monarch that Kent, about the year 1724, undertook the painting of the ceiling, his charge for which, with similar work in "the little closets," amounted to _£_850. Although the richness of the colouring and gilding give it a gorgeous appearance, neither the design nor the ornaments, least of all the panels, painted with mythological subjects, are interesting. It is divided into seven compartments, surrounded by elaborate classic scroll and arabesque work, and allegorical figures. The centre medallion is oval, the other six oblong or lozenge shaped. The officers of Works in their Report, dated 30th of September, 1725, to the "Lords Commissioners of His Majesty's Treasury," on this work, added: "We have caused an estimate to be made of the charge of painting the wainscot of the sd. Gallery and little closets in the same manner as the Bedchamber and closets are already painted, amounting to £32: 16: Gilding the same--£154: 4: Providing Scaffolds for the Painters and covering the floors with Boards to prevent their being damaged, etc., £233: 3:" They further added: "We crave leave to lay before your Lordships a letter that we have received from Sir James Thornhill, Serj^{t} Painter to his Majesty, in which he complains that the gilding of the cornishes, which hath hitherto been done by himself, and his predecessors, is by my Lord Chamberlain's Letter directed to be done by another person, which letter we have hereunto annexed." On October 5th, accordingly, an order was made to the Board of Works to commission Sir J. Thornhill to do the gilding of the cornices. On the barbarity of painting the beautiful oak work in this gallery, and especially the exquisitely carved oak architraves and cornices, we need not dwell. They remained painted until last autumn, when with infinite trouble and pains, the paint was cleaned off, and all the delicate chiselling of Gibbons and his assistants revealed to the eye, after being obscured for a hundred and seventy-four years. The visitor can judge for himself with what success this has been accomplished. No stain has been used in this restoration; and only after repeated experiments was the method adopted of treating it simply with wax polish. The old panelling of Wren's time was probably removed in the time of George II., in order to afford more wall-space for hanging pictures on--which was Queen Caroline's great hobby. An even worse barbarism was perpetrated in this superb gallery at the beginning of the century--when it was divided by partitions into three distinct rooms--in which state it remained until the restorations were begun last year. One of these subdivisions was used by Queen Victoria, when a little girl, for her toys. Naval Pictures in the King's Gallery. In this gallery have now been collected a large number of sea-pieces, sea-fights, dockyards, and admirals, mainly of the time of the Georges, to illustrate the history of the British Navy. Though but very few--for instance, those by Monamy and Scott--can be considered fine works of art, yet all of them will be found interesting and curious; and no one, who has known them only when hanging in bad lights on dark screens in the overcrowded rooms at Hampton Court, would have suspected how much there is to be studied in them, now that they are at length properly displayed. 201 The Dockyard at Sheerness (_1055_) . . . . . R. PATON. The dock is on the left, terminated by a fort in the centre of the picture. On the left are a large man-of-war and a disabled ship towed by a barque. This and Nos. 204, 232, 233, and 236 are pieces of dockyards, painted by Paton more than a hundred years ago. They are each on canvas, 3 ft. 4 in. high, by 4 ft. 10 in. wide. 202 Close of the Action, November 4th, 1805, Sir R. Strachan's Victory (_1037_). [See Companion Piece, No. 234.] . . . . . N. POCOCK. On the left are three French vessels,? The Formidable, Scipion, Mont Blanc, or Duguay Trouin, two of them utterly dismantled; to the right is the English fleet. The engagement took place off Ferrol, about a fortnight after Trafalgar, the French ships being under the command of Rear-Admiral Dumanoir, who had escaped from that battle. 203 George III. Reviewing the Fleet at Portsmouth (_1011_). [See No. 235.] . . . . . D. SERRES. In the centre is a large man-of-war, the "Barfleur": near it the "Worcester" firing a salute, and beyond a line of men-of-war, the "Royal Oak" and "Lennox" being distinguishable on the right. On canvas, 4 ft. 10 in. high, by 7 ft. wide. Signed "D. Serres, 1776." 204 The Dockyard at Deptford (_1000_). [See No. 201] . . . . . R. PATON. Greenwich is seen in the background; the dock buildings on the right; and on the left various ships, one firing a salute. 205 Ships in a Dockyard (_999_) . . . . . _unnamed._ 206 A Sea-piece (_1046_) . . . . . D. SERRES. A large vessel is seen broadside, and in front an officer's gig; other vessels are behind. Signed in lower right-hand corner, "D. Serres, 1789." 207 Action between the "Arethusa" and "Belle Poule" (_673_) . . . . . _unnamed._ The "Arethusa," with its stern to the spectator, is to the left; "La Belle Poule" is on the right. They are discharging heavy broadsides at each other. The moon is seen in the distance between them. The action took place on the 17th of July, 1778, off the Lizard, and lasted two hours at close quarters without intermission. The "Belle Poule" got away, though the English had got the best of the fight. 208 Sea Piece (_1078_) . . . . . BROOKING. On the right is an English frigate bearing away; on the left one coming in. A fair specimen of this good marine painter. 209 George III. Reviewing the Fleet at Portsmouth (_1012_). [See No. 235.] . . . . . D. SERRES. A large man-of-war in the centre; smaller craft on each side. 210 The Royal Yacht which brought Queen Charlotte to England in 1761, to be married to George III., in a storm (_1001_) . . . . . WRIGHT. The Royal Yacht is in the centre of the picture, attended by a convoy of twelve vessels. It had been re-named "The Royal Charlotte," and was newly ornamented with a profusion of carving and gilding for the occasion. They embarked at Stade on the 24th of August, and landed at Harwich on September 6th. Richard Wright was a painter of marine subjects. 211 A Small Sea-Piece (_1080_) . . . . . P. MONAMY. In the centre, towards the left, is an English man-of-war firing a salute; other smaller craft are to the right and left. 1 ft. 8 in. high, by 2 ft. 11 in. wide. This is an excellent specimen of Peter Monamy, an imitator, and probably pupil, of the Vandeveldes. Though much cracked, it is beautifully painted, "showing a fine quality of texture, with great precision of touch; the calm plane of the ocean level receding into the extreme distance, without that set scenic effect of passing cloud-shadows, which even the best masters have used to obtain the appearance of recession and distance; this work well deserves notice, and might puzzle the best painters of such subjects to rival."--(Redgrave's _Century of Painters_.) 212 His Majesty's Yacht in Portsmouth Harbour (_1035_) . . . . . J. T. SERRES. She has twenty-six guns, and lies across the picture; other craft are to the right and left. Behind is seen Portsmouth. Signed "_J. T. Serres_, 1820." 213 Shipping . . . . . _unnamed._ 214 On the Thames--The Tower of London (_1024_) . . . . . _unnamed._ 215 A Man-of-War engaged with two Vessels (_1015_) . . . . . MONAMY. A man-of-war is on the left engaged with two of the enemy's vessels; behind are others shown in action. (See No. 219.) 216 Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Knowles's Squadron attacking Port Louis in St. Domingo (? Hispaniola) March 8th, 1748 (_998_) . . . . . R. PATON? To the left is an English vessel, the "Cornwall," firing at a fort in the centre of the picture. More to the left is a small ship burning; on the right are other vessels attacking the fort. The fire-ship of the enemy was towed clear of the squadron by the boats, and left to burn and blow up at a distance from the fleet. The fort surrendered in the evening, and was blown up. The English lost seventy men. 217 Battle of Trafalgar--Close of the Action (_1058_). [See Companion Piece, No. 224.] . . . . . HUGGINS. In the centre is a large vessel (? the "Victory") with rigging much shot away and torn. Others are seen behind in action. These are two of three pictures, painted for William IV.; the third is now at St. James's Palace. 218 Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Knowles's Action with a Spanish Squadron off the Havannah, October 1st, 1748 (_1002_) . . . . . R. PATON? In the background is the battle-line of the enemy, under Vice-Admiral Reggio, against which the British fleet is bearing. The action began at two o'clock. Although defeated, nearly all the Spaniards got into port; they lost eighty-six men. Knowles, when he came home, was tried by court-martial for not pursuing the enemy with more vigour, and was reprimanded. 219 Sea Fight--A Man-of-War attacked by Boats (_226_) . . . . . MONAMY. The vessel is surrounded by boats, and is responding to their musketry by a fierce cannonade. 3 ft. 4 in. high, by 4 ft. 2 in. wide. 220 Admiral Viscount Keith . . . . . T. PHILLIPS, R.A. Half length, in robes, turned to the left. His right hand holds up his cloak, his left is seen underneath. His hair is gray. He commanded the fleet which, in 1795, captured the Cape of Good Hope, and performed other brilliant services. He died in 1823. 221 Shipping on the Thames--Temple Gardens (_1026_) . . . . . _unnamed._ 222 Sea-Piece--The British Fleet (_1017_) . . . . . ELLIOT. In front are some eight large vessels, some with the yards manned, others with their sails partly set; other ships are seen behind. On the frame in front is written:--"_To the R^{t}. Hon^{ble}. W^{m}. Pitt this view of the British Fleet, which secured to England the uninterrupted navigation of the Southern Ocean is dedicated_." William Elliot was a bad marine painter in the style of Serres. 223 Battle of Camperdown--Close of the Action (_1064_). [See Companion Piece, No. 225.] . . . . . J. T. SERRES. In the centre is a British flag-ship, shown at the end of a long line of vessels. On the right is one of the enemy on fire, to which boats are hastening. On the left is a ship with the name "WASSANAER." 224 The Day after the Battle of Trafalgar (_1057_). [See Companion Piece, No. 217.] . . . . . HUGGINS. It represents the storm which separated the squadron the day after the battle. On the right is a dismantled vessel rolling over; on the left is the "Victory." On canvas, 8 ft. high, by 10 ft. wide. 225 Battle of Camperdown--Lord Duncan's Victory (_1053_). [See Companion Piece, No. 223.] . . . . . J. T. SERRES. The English fleet is ranged in three lines about to begin the action by breaking the line of the enemy ranged beyond them. The enemy have already opened fire. On canvas, 3 ft. high, by 4 ft. wide. Signed, "J. T. Serres, 1793." John Thomas Serres was the son of Dominic Serres, who brought him up as a marine painter. In the year in which this picture was painted he succeeded, on his father's death, to the office of marine painter to the King, and one of his duties in this post was to make sketches of the harbours on the enemy's coast. He married the _soi-disant_ Princess Olive of Cumberland, who lost him his appointment, and brought him to misery, destitution, imprisonment, and madness. (Redgrave's _Dict. of Artists_.) 226 Equipment of the English Fleet in 1790 (_1033_) . . . . . ELLIOTT. Three full-rigged men-of-war and others partially rigged are in front; beyond is a port. In front is a label:--"_To the Earl of Chatham this view of the expeditious equipment of the British Fleet in 1790 is dedicated_." 227 A Man-of-War going out to Sea (_1034_) . . . . . _unnamed._ Crossing the picture to the left, following another going into the picture. 228 Admiral Lord Anson (_19_) . . . . . _After Hudson by_ BOCKMAN. This appears to be a copy of a picture in Lord Lichfield's possession at Shugborough in Staffordshire, by Thomas Hudson, a portrait painter, who flourished from 1701 to 1779, and who is chiefly remembered now as the master of Reynolds. Anson was a victorious admiral in the reign of George II., well known for his famous voyage round the world in the years 1740-44, and for his great exploit of capturing, in 1743, the Spanish galleon "Manilla," which had a cargo on board valued at £313,000. He was created a peer in 1747 for his victory over the French fleet, and was First Lord of the Admiralty during the Seven Years' War. He is here represented in peer's robes, which approximately fixes the date of the picture. Bockman, by profession a mezzotint engraver, was in England about 1745-50, when he executed copies of various portraits of admirals, which had been painted by Kneller for James II., and G. Dahl, a Swedish painter, for William III. The originals were presented by William IV. in 1835 to Greenwich Hospital. 229. Shipping (_1025_) . . . . . _unnamed._ 230. A Ship (_381_) . . . . . _unnamed._ 231 George III. Reviewing the Fleet at Portsmouth (_1013_). [See No. 235.] . . . . . D. SERRES. In the centre is a large three-masted vessel, with the Union Jack flying, and the royal party on board. Many others are behind. 232 The Dockyard at Portsmouth (_1051_). [See No. 201.] . . . . . R. PATON. On the left is a large vessel about to be launched; the dock buildings are behind. 233 The Dockyard at Chatham (_1062_). [See No. 201.] . . . . . R. PATON. The dock is on rising ground to the right; on the left is seen the Medway. Various ships are on the river. 234 Commencement of Sir Robert Calder's Action, July 22nd, 1805 (_1038_). [See Companion Piece, No. 202.] . . . . . N. POCOCK. A small English ship is engaging two French vessels on the left. On the 19th of July, Calder had received despatches from Nelson stating that the combined Franco-Spanish fleet was on its return from the West Indies, and he cruised about off Cape Finisterre in the hope of intercepting it. Though both sides lost heavily, the action had no very decided result. The small English ship is probably the "Hero," the van-ship of the British, which began the attack. Nicholas Pocock, like D. Serres, acquired his knowledge of the sea in the navy, which he gave up to adopt marine painting as a profession. 235 George III. Reviewing the Fleet at Portsmouth (_1014_) . . . . . D. SERRES. To the right is a large line-of-battle ship firing a salute. Several yachts with officers and spectators on board are seen. This, and Nos. 203, 209, and 231 pieces were painted by Dominic Serres, a native of Gascony, who, after running away from home, becoming a sailor, and then master of a trading vessel, and being captured by an English frigate, settled in England and took to painting marine pieces to earn a living. He was one of the original members of the Royal Academy, and frequently exhibited. He is to be distinguished from his son, J. T. Serres (see No. 225). 236 The Dockyard at Woolwich (_1066_) . . . . . [See No. 201.] R. PATON. Woolwich church is seen in the centre background; the dock buildings are on the right. 237 Admiral Sir John Jennings (_11_) . . . . . _After Kneller by_ BOCKMAN. Knighted by Queen Anne in 1704, died in 1743, and is buried in Westminster Abbey. 238 Admiral John Benbow . . . . . _After Kneller by_ BOCKMAN. He was given the command of a ship by James, Duke of York, for his bravery. In 1702, when in command of the West India squadron, he sustained, almost alone, the fire of the whole French fleet under Du Casse; his cowardly officers, two of whom were afterwards tried by court-martial and shot, having basely deserted him. He died at Jamaica very soon afterwards from a wound received in the action. 239 Admiral George Churchill (_10_) . . . . . _After Kneller by_ BOCKMAN. A brother of the Duke of Marlborough's. He died in 1708. 240 Admiral Sir G. Bing, Viscount Torrington (_7_) . . . . . _After Kneller by_ BOCKMAN. The celebrated admiral of the reigns of Queen Anne and George I. He was especially distinguished for his services against the Pretender, and for his great victory over the Spanish off Sicily in 1718. His son was the famous Admiral Byng, who was shot, as Voltaire said, "pour encourager les autres." 241 Admiral Edward Russell, Earl of Orford (_27_) . . . . . SIR G. KNELLER. Half length, to the right; in blue. His left hand is on his hip, his right has a bâton. This is the famous admiral in the reign of William and Mary, who gained the victory of La Hogue against the French fleet under Tourville. This portrait is one of the series of admirals painted for William III. 242 Portrait of General Spalken (_910_) . . . . . _unnamed._ Three-quarters in length. Bareheaded, with grey hair. His right arm rests on a table, on which is his cocked hat; his left is in his belt. He wears a general's uniform, a red coat with blue facings, a long white waistcoat with brass buttons, and white breeches. I can find nothing about Spalken. 243 Admiral Sir Thomas Dilks (_9_) . . . . . _After Kneller by_ BOCKMAN. This is the hero of a brilliant action in Cancalli Bay in 1703, when a small English squadron attacked a fleet of forty-three French merchantmen with three men-of-war, and captured them all. 244 Admiral Sir Stafford Fairbourne (_18_) . . . . . _After Kneller by_ BOCKMAN. Lived in the reigns of William III. and Anne. 245 Admiral Sir John Gradin (_8_) . . . . . _After Kneller by_ BOCKMAN. Served in the reign of Queen Anne, and was dismissed for over-caution. 246 Admiral Beaumont (_1_) . . . . . _After Dahl by_ BOCKMAN. He perished on the Goodwin Sands in the great storm "such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed," in 1703. =King's Grand Staircase.= Sir Christopher Wren was the original builder of this staircase, although Kent's name has usually alone been associated with it. To the great architect, however, we certainly owe the "shell" of the building, its proportions, the black marble steps, the black and white chequered marble on the landings, and the fine balustrade of wrought iron. This ironwork was doubtless designed by Jean Tijou, whose name we have found in the contemporary accounts relating to this palace, and in whose style the design certainly is. As to the stair-treads, it is worthy of note that in an estimate of Wren's for the completion of the King's Great Staircase at Hampton Court, in 1699, he proposed that they should be made "of Irish stone such as are at Kensington, but longer and easier," which, in fact, they are. In King William's time the windows must have been of a different type to those now here, which are in the style of Kent. As to the walls, they were then probably painted with simple ornaments. Among the Kensington accounts for the year 1692, we have found the following record of a payment relating to such work: "To Robt. Streeter, Serg^{t} Painter, for japanning, gilding and painting several Roomes and Lodgings in the said Pallace, painting severall staircase, and the Guard Chamber, and other places in and about the said Pallace--£3,599." Kent's Alterations in the King's Grand Staircase. Kent's improvements, which must have been carried out about 1725, included--besides the painting of the walls and ceiling--the alteration of the approach to the staircase on the ground floor, where he inserted, in the area or "well," an arcade of two plain arches, which support, or rather appear to support, the landing above. Under the first arch begins the wide flight of black marble steps, with two landings in the ascent, paved with alternate squares of black and white marble, as is also the long top landing or balcony. The balusters are now painted blue, their original colour, found under successive coats of more recent paint. The hand-rail of oak has had its dirty paint cleaned off. [Illustration: THE KING'S GRAND STAIRCASE.] No one who did not see this staircase before the restorations were begun can conceive the woeful state of dust, filth, decay and rot which it then presented. With the fine iron balusters broken, damp oozing from the walls, the paintings indistinguishable from incrustations of smoke, and strips of the painted canvas hanging from the walls in shreds--it seemed impossible that it could ever be restored to its pristine splendour. The visitor must judge for himself whether this result has not been triumphantly accomplished. The Painted Walls of the King's Grand Staircase. Opposite the balustrade, on the right side as one goes down the stairs, is a low wainscot of plain moulded panelling; and above this, level with the top of the second landing, is painted a large Vitruvian scroll. The square space thus formed beside the first landing, and the spandril space beside the rise of the stairs, are filled with representations, in chiaro-oscuro, of sea-horses, armorial trophies and other devices, and scroll-work, heightened by gilding. These, as well as similar paintings on the arcade, opposite and under the stairs, show that Kent's taste and skill as a decorative artist were by no means contemptible, whereas as a painter of subjects or figures he was no artist at all. The two walls of the staircase above the Vitruvian scroll are painted to represent a gallery, behind a colonnade of the Scamozzian Ionic order, supporting a corresponding entablature, with a frieze embellished with unicorns' heads, masks of lions, and festoons of foliage, divided by fleurs-de-lys, richly heightened with gold. Between these columns is painted a balustrade; with numerous figures of personages of George I.'s court, looking over it. In =the first and second compartments= on the left are yeomen of the guard and various ladies and gentlemen; and a young man in a Polish dress representing a certain Mr. Ulric, a page of the King's, "and admired by the court," says Pyne, "for the elegance and beauty of his person;" while the youth standing on the plinth outside the balcony is a page of Lady Suffolk's. In the third or right-hand compartment on the same wall are seen, among many other unidentified persons, a Quaker and an old man in spectacles. Two other servants of the court appear in this group, Mahomet and Mustapha, who were taken prisoners by the Imperialists in Hungary. At the raising of the siege of Vienna in 1685, George I., then elector of Hanover, was wounded, and was attended by these two Turks, who had been retained in his service, and who were said to have saved his life. Mahomet apostatized from the faith of his fathers and became a Christian; married a Hanoverian woman and had several children. King George, on his accession to the British throne, brought these two faithful servants with him to England in his suite. They were constantly about his person, and were credited with obtaining large sums of money from persons who purchased their influence to obtain places about the court. Mahomet, however, in whatever way he may have obtained his wealth, made a noble and benevolent use of it; for among many other recorded acts of benevolence, he released from prison about three hundred poor debtors by paying their harsh creditors. Pope, at any rate, believed in Mahomet's integrity, for he mentions him in his Epistle to Martha Blount in these lines: "From peer or bishop 'tis no easy thing To draw the man who loves his God or King. Alas! I copy (or, my draught would fail,) From honest Mahomet or plain Parson Hale." Mahomet died of dropsy in 1726, just after these walls were painted. Mustapha, after the death of George I., continued in the service of his successor, and is supposed to have died in Hanover. In the same group are also a Highlander, and a youth known as "Peter the Wild Boy." He was found in the woods of Hamelin, near Hanover, in 1725, and when first discovered was walking on his hands and feet, climbing trees with the agility of a squirrel, and feeding upon grass and moss of trees. He was supposed to be about thirteen years of age. He was presented to George I., then in Hanover, when at dinner, and the King made him taste of the different dishes at table. We get this information from Pyne, who adds: "He was sent over to England in April, 1726, and once more brought before his Majesty and many of the nobility. He could not speak, and scarcely appeared to have any idea of things, but was pleased with the ticking of a watch, the splendid dresses of the King and princess, and endeavoured to put on his own hand a glove that was given to him by her royal highness. He was dressed in gaudy habiliments, but at first disliked this confinement, and much difficulty was found in making him lie on a bed: he, however, soon walked upright, and often sat for his picture. He was at first entrusted to the care of the philosophical Dr. Arbuthnot, who had him baptized Peter; but notwithstanding all the doctor's pains, he was unable to bring him to the use of speech, or to the pronunciation of words.... He resisted all instruction, and existed on a pension allowed in succession by the three sovereigns in whose reigns he lived. He resided latterly at a farmer's near Berkhampstead in Hertfordshire, till February, 1785, where he died, at the supposed age of nearly ninety." The =east wall= of the staircase is painted as far as the width of the second landing with a continuation of the arcade, showing a fourth compartment, in which are again figures of yeomen of the guard and ladies--one holding an infant in her arms over the balustrade. Further up, on the same wall, is painted a pedimented niche, with a figure of a Roman emperor; and higher up still, on the top landing or balcony, are figures of Hercules, Diana, Apollo, and Minerva. All these paintings are on canvas, stretched on battens fixed to the wall. Painted Ceiling of the King's Grand Staircase. The ceiling of the staircase being square and flat, it did not afford much scope for the exercise of imaginative design, and Kent was obliged to content himself with a very commonplace pattern--sufficiently apparent in the accompanying plate. In the four corners are a sort of double oblong panels, with similar square ones intervening between them. The ground colour is gray. The oblongs are painted with ornamental scroll-work and horses' heads, the squares with human heads. These panels are bordered with very heavy projecting frames of plaster work, white and gilt, as is also the great square compartment in the middle. The panel of this last is painted with a representation of a circle, within which are four semicircular spaces or apertures, apparently intended to portray a pierced dome with galleries--but they are all in quite impossible perspective. In three of these spaces are seen musicians playing on various instruments, and spectators looking down upon the company below. In the fourth "the painter," says Pyne, "has introduced his own portrait, holding a palette and pencils, with two of his pupils, who assisted him in the decoration of the walls, and a female of a very pleasing countenance, which is supposed to be a resemblance of an actress with whom he lived in the habits of peculiar friendship, and to whom he left a part of his fortune." All these decorations--including "the female of a very pleasing countenance"--the visitor can make out, if he thinks it worth while to incur a stiff neck in doing so; but, in truth, the figures, as well as the perspective, are all so badly drawn and painted, that the less they are examined the better. They prove to us once more that Kent, as a pictorial artist, was beneath contempt. If, however, we are content to look on his paintings on this staircase as mere formless colour decoration, the general effect is rich and sumptuous enough. The paintings of the staircase were finished, as we have said, about 1726. Three years after we find among the records the following warrant: "For the delivery of the following for the King's service at Kensington, viz. for the Great Staircase 6 lanthorns, 12 inches square and 17 high, with a shade over each, an iron scroll and 2 flat sockets for candles, 1 lanthorn for a pattern 11 inches square and 19-1/2 inches high, with scrolls, etc." Our illustration, taken from Pyne's drawing dated 1818, shows these lanthorns still in it. Except for these, which disappeared a long time ago, and the tall German stove, which was only removed a few months ago, the staircase appears exactly the same to-day. =Presence Chamber.= In this room we have a blending of the style of Wren, who originally built and designed it, and of Kent, who redecorated it for George I. The chimney-piece and over-mantel, with its fine Gibbons carving of foliage, fruit, and flowers, the beautifully designed and richly carved oak cornice and the panelled dado are Wren's; whereas the painted ceiling and the doors are Kent's. It was, doubtless, he also who altered the spacing of the window sashes, and substituted the present ugly large panes for the originally picturesque small ones. There is record of this being done in 1723, among the old accounts. The walls appear originally to have been entirely lined, like most of Wren's rooms, with oak wainscot, but this had entirely disappeared long before the beginning of this century, when they were covered with tapestry, over which were nailed a great quantity of pictures--among them several which have now been brought back here from Hampton Court. At the same period, in 1818, there was still hanging between the windows "a looking-glass of large dimensions, tastefully decorated with festoons of flowers, painted with great truth and spirit by Jean Baptiste Monnoyer.... Queen Mary sat by the painter during the greatest part of the time he was employed in painting it." This looking-glass has disappeared. =Gibbons' fine carving=, however, over the chimney-piece, of foliage, fruit, and flowers in lime wood fortunately remains. When recently cleaned and repaired, it was found to be so fragile and friable as to necessitate its being all painted over in order to hold the fragments together. An oaken colour, "flatted," in accord with the prevailing tone of the panelling in the room was thought most suitable. The two windows of this room, the sashes of which were altered by Kent, look into a small courtyard. The dimensions of the room are 27 feet 4 inches long, 26 feet 10 inches wide, by 16 feet 4 inches high to the top of the cornice, 18 feet to the highest part of the ceiling. We presume it to have been in this room that William III. in May, 1698, received the Count de Bonde, Ambassador Extraordinary from the Court of Sweden, when he returned to the King the insignia of the Order of the Garter, which had belonged to Charles XI., King of Sweden. "The Sovereign assembled the Knights Companions upon this occasion in the Presence Chamber, and all appeared in their mantles, caps, and feathers, attended by the officers of the order in their mantles, and the heralds in their coats." Painted Ceiling of the Presence Chamber. The ceiling of this room, like most of those in the state apartments built by Wren, is "coved" or "saucer-domed," and was no doubt originally quite plainly-coloured, with a light cream-tinted wash. As we see it now, it gives the idea of an attempt by Kent to imitate Raphael's Loggie in the Vatican. The paintings have been stated to be in imitation of those "then recently discovered on the ruined walls of Herculaneum and Pompeii," but these were not unearthed until twenty-five years after. Kent has, however, carefully followed what indications he could get of the decorative treatment of Roman classic art. The colours are bright-reds and blues, enriched with gilding on a white ground. The ceiling, or rather the plaster behind the cornice, bears the date, 1724. Faulkner, in his "History of Kensington," considers that "a proof of his liberal zeal for the interest of his profession is clearly evinced by his adopting this antique ornament rather than his own historical compositions." Why this should be the case, however, he does not deign to explain. Ceremonial Pictures of the Queen's Reign. In this room are arranged the ceremonial pictures of the reign of the Queen, copied from well-known pictures by British artists. They afford most accurate representations of the events depicted, and no doubt will live to remotest history, as interesting and curious specimens of early Victorian art. The scenes, and the participants in them are all too well known to require explanation. Perhaps later on the numbered "key-plans" will be put up to assist in the identification of each personage. 271 Coronation of the Queen in Westminster Abbey, June 28th, 1838. Her Majesty taking the Sacrament . . . . . _After_ C. R. LESLIE, R.A. When the Queen had been formally invested with the insignia of her sovereignty, and had received the homage of the peers, she laid aside the crown and sceptre, and following the Archbishop, advanced to the altar to receive the sacrament. 272 Marriage of the Queen and Prince Albert at the Chapel Royal, St. James's, 10th February, 1840 . . . . . _After_ HAYTER. 273 Christening of the Princess Royal at Buckingham Palace, 10th February, 1841 . . . . . _After_ C. R. LESLIE, R.A. 274 Marriage of the Princess Royal to Prince Frederick William of Prussia in the Chapel Royal, St. James's, 25th January, 1858 . . . . . _After_ J. PHILLIP, R.A. 275 Christening of the Prince of Wales in St. George's Chapel, Windsor Castle, 28th of January, 1842 . . . . . _After_ HAYTER. 276 Marriage of the Prince of Wales and the Princess Alexandra of Denmark in St. George's Chapel, Windsor Castle, 10th March, 1863 . . . . . _After_ W. P. FRITH, R.A. 277 A Sketch of the Queen leaving Westminster Abbey after her Coronation . . . . . _By_ CAMILLE ROQUEPLAN. Camille Roqueplan was a French artist sent over by Louis Philippe to make sketches at the Queen's Coronation. 278 The Marriage of H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught and Strathearn and H.R.H. Princess Louise Margaret of Prussia in St. George's Chapel, Windsor, 13th March, 1879 . . . . . _After_ SIDNEY P. HALL. [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: William Talman, Comptroler=> William Talman, Comptroller {pg 18} his exernal architectural effect=> his external architectural effect {pg 63} being situate=> being situated {pg 68} his face his shaven=> his face is shaven {pg 91} Prince Octavious was born on February 23rd, 1779=> Prince Octavius was born on February 23rd, 1779 {pg 106} 9947 ---- QUEEN VICTORIA STORY OF HER LIFE AND REIGN 1819-1901 [ILLUSTRATION: QUEEN VICTORIA. (From a Photograph by Russell & Son.)] 'Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen.' TENNYSON. 'God bless the Queen for all her unwearied goodness! I admire her as a woman, love her as a friend, and reverence her as a Queen. Her courage, patience, and endurance are marvellous to me.' NORMAN MACLEOD. 'A Prince indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, through all time, Albert the Good.' TENNYSON. PREFACE. This brief life of Queen Victoria gives the salient features of her reign, including the domestic and public life, with a glance at the wonderful history and progress of our country during the past half-century. In the space at command it has been impossible to give extended treatment. The history is necessarily very brief, as also the account of the public and private life, yet it is believed no really important feature of her life and reign has been omitted. It is a duty, incumbent on old and young alike, as well as a pleasing privilege, to mark how freedom has slowly 'broadened down, from precedent to precedent,' and how knowledge, wealth, and well-being are more widely distributed to-day than at any former period of our history. And this knowledge can only increase the gratitude of the reader for the golden reign of Queen Victoria, of whom it has been truly written: A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--Reign of Queen Victoria--Outlook of Royalty in 1819--Duke and Duchess of Kent--Birth of Victoria--Anecdotes. CHAPTER II.--First Meeting with Prince Albert--Death of William IV.--Accession of Queen Victoria--First Speech from the Throne--Coronation--Life at Windsor--Personal Appearance--Betrothal to Prince Albert--Income from the Country. CHAPTER III.--Marriage--Family Habits--Birth of Princess Royal--Queen's Views of Religious Training--Osborne and Balmoral--Death of the Duke of Wellington. CHAPTER IV.--Chief Public Events, 1837-49--Rebellion in Canada--Opium War with China--Wars in North-west India--Penny Postage--Repeal of the Corn-laws--Potato Famine--Free Trade-Chartism. CHAPTER V.--The Crimean War, 1854-55--Interest of the Queen and Prince Consort in the suffering Soldiers--Florence Nightingale--Distribution of Victoria Crosses by the Queen. CHAPTER VI.--The Indian Mutiny, 1857-58--The Queen's Letter to Lord Canning. CHAPTER VII.--Marriage of the Princess Royal--Twenty-first Anniversary of Wedding-day--Death of the Prince-Consort. CHAPTER VIII.--Death of Princess Alice--Illness of Prince of Wales--The Family of the Queen--Opening of Indian Exhibition and Imperial Institute--Jubilee--Death of Duke of Clarence--Marriage of Princess May. CHAPTER IX.--The Queen as an Artist and Author--In her Holiday Haunts--Norman Macleod--Letter to Mr Peabody--The Queen's Drawing-room--Her pet Animals--A Model Mistress--Diamond Jubilee--Death of the Queen. CHAPTER X.--Summary of Public Events and Progress of the Nation. CHAPTER I. Reign of Queen Victoria--Outlook of Royalty in 1819--Duke and Duchess of Kent--Birth of Victoria--Wisely trained by Duchess of Kent--Taught by Fräulein Lehzen--Anecdotes of this Period--Discovers that she is next to the Throne. The reign of Queen Victoria may be aptly described as a period of progress in all that related to the well-being of the subjects of her vast empire. In every department of science, literature, politics, and the practical life of the nation, there has been steady improvement and progress. Our ships circumnavigate the globe and do the chief carrying trade of the world. The locomotive binds industrial centres, and abridges time and space as it speeds along its iron pathway; whilst steam-power does the work of thousands of hands in our large factories. The telegraph links us to our colonies, and to the various nationalities of the world, in commerce and in closer sympathy; and never was the hand and heart of Benevolence busier than in this later period of the nineteenth century. Our colonial empire has shared also in the welfare and progress of the mother-country. When we come to look into the lives of the Queen and Prince-Consort, we are thankful for all they have been and done. The wider our survey of history, and the more we know of other rulers and courts, the more thankful we shall be that they have been a guiding and balancing power, allied to all that was progressive, noble, and true, and for the benefit of the vast empire over which Her Majesty reigns. And the personal example has been no less valuable in Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which heats upon a throne, And blackens every blot. In the year 1819 the family outlook of the British royal house was not a very bright one. The old king, George III., was lingering on in deep seclusion, a very pathetic figure, blind and imbecile. His son the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV., had not done honour to his position, nor brought happiness to any connected with him. Most of the other princes were elderly men and childless; and the Prince-Regent's only daughter, the Princess Charlotte, on whom the hopes of the nation had rested, and whose marriage had raised those hopes to enthusiasm, was newly laid in her premature grave. But almost immediately after Princess Charlotte's death, the king's third and fourth sons, the Dukes of Clarence and Kent, had married. Of the Duke of Clarence we need say little more. He and his consort eventually reigned as William IV. and Queen Adelaide, and they had two children who died in earliest infancy, and did not further complicate the succession to the crown. The Duke of Kent, born in 1767, fourth son of George III.--a tall, stately man, of soldierly hearing, inclined to corpulency and entirely bald--married the widowed Princess of Leiningen, already the mother of a son and a daughter by her first husband. The duke was of active, busy habits; and he was patron of many charitable institutions--he presided over no less than seventy-two charity meetings in 1816. Baron Stockmar describes the Princess of Leiningen after her marriage in 1818, as 'of middle height, rather large, but with a good figure, with fine brown eyes and hair, fresh and youthful, naturally cheerful and friendly; altogether most charming and attractive. She was fond of dress, and dressed well and in good taste. Nature had endowed her with warm feelings, and she was naturally truthful, affectionate, and unselfish, full of sympathy, and generous.' The princely pair lived in Germany until the birth of a child was expected, when the duke at first thought of taking a house in Lanarkshire--which would have made Queen Victoria by birth a Scotchwoman. Eventually, the Duke and Duchess of Kent took up their abode in Kensington Palace. On the 24th May 1819, their daughter was born, and she was named Alexandrina Victoria, after the reigning Emperor of Russia and her mother. The Prince Regent had wished the name of Georgiana; her own father wished to call her Elizabeth. The little one was the first of the British royal house to receive the benefits of Jenner's discovery of vaccination. The Duke of Kent was so careful of his little girl that he took a cottage at Sidmouth to escape the London winter. To a friend he wrote: 'My little girl thrives under the influence of a Devonshire climate, and is, I am delighted to say, strong and healthy; too healthy, I fear, in the opinion of some members of my family, by whom she is regarded as an intruder.' Next winter the Duke came in one day, after tramping through rain and snow, and played with his little child while in his damp clothes; he thus contracted a chill from which he never rallied, and died January 23, 1820. This child was destined to be the Empress-Queen, on whose dominion the sun never sets. Yet so remote did such a destiny then seem, owing to the possibilities of the Regent's life, and of children being born to the Duke of Clarence, that in some courtly biographies of George III. there is no mention made of the birth of the little princess. Even in their accounts of the death of her father the Duke of Kent, seven months afterwards, they do not deem it necessary to state that he left a daughter behind him; though he, poor man, had never had any doubts of her future importance, and had been in the habit of saying to her attendants, 'Take care of her, for she may be Queen of England.' The Duke of Kent was a capable and energetic soldier, of pure tastes and simple pleasures. In presenting new colours to the Royal Scots in 1876, the Queen said: 'I have been associated with your regiment from my earliest infancy, as my dear father was your colonel. He was proud of his profession, and I was always told to consider myself a soldier's child.' The position of the widowed Duchess of Kent, a stranger in a foreign country, was rather sad and lonely. It was further complicated by narrowness of means. The old king, her father-in-law, died soon after her husband. The duchess was a woman of sense and spirit. Instead of yielding to any natural impulse to retire to Germany, she resolved that her little English princess should have an English rearing. She found a firm friend and upholder in her brother Leopold, husband of the late Princess Charlotte, and afterwards King of the Belgians. On discovering her straitened means he gave her an allowance of £3000 a year, which was continued until it was no longer necessary in 1831. As the duke came into a separate income only at a late period of his life, he had died much in debt. Long afterwards the Queen said to Lord Melbourne: 'I want to pay all that remains of my father's debts. I must do it. I consider it a sacred duty.' And she did not rest till she did it. In reply to an address of congratulation on the coming of age of the Queen, the Duchess of Kent said: 'My late regretted consort's circumstances, and my duties, obliged us to reside in Germany; but the Duke of Kent at much inconvenience, and I at great personal risk, returned to England, that our child should be "born and bred a Briton." In a few months afterwards my infant and myself were awfully deprived of father and husband. We stood alone--almost friendless and alone in this country; I could not even speak the language of it. I did not hesitate how to act, I gave up my home, my kindred, my duties [the regency of Leiningen], to devote myself to that duty which was to be the whole object of my future life. I was supported in the execution of my duties by the country. It placed its trust in me, and the Regency Bill gave me its last act of confidence. I have in times of great difficulty avoided all connection with any party in the state; but if I have done so, I have never ceased to press on my daughter her duties, so as to gain by her conduct the respect and affection of the people. This I have taught her should be her first earthly duty as a constitutional sovereign.' The little princess was brought up quietly and wisely at Kensington and Claremont. In a letter from the Queen to her uncle Leopold, written in 1843, we find the following: 'This place [Claremont] has a particular charm for us both, and to me it brings back recollections of the happiest days of my otherwise dull childhood, when I experienced such kindness from you, dearest uncle, kindness which has ever since continued.... Victoria [the Princess Royal] plays with my old bricks, &c., and I see her running and jumping in the flower-garden, as old, though I fear still _little_, Victoria of former days used to do.' Bishop Fulford of Montreal remembered seeing her when four months old in the arms of her nurse. In the following year she might be seen in a hand-carriage with her half-sister, the Princess Feodora of Leiningen. Wilberforce in a letter to Hannah More, July 21, 1820, wrote: 'In consequence of a very civil message from the Duchess of Kent, I waited on her this morning. She received me with her fine, animated child on the floor by her side, with its playthings, of which I soon became one.' She became familiar to many as a pretty infant, riding on her sleek donkey (a gift from her uncle the Duke of York) in Kensington Gardens. She used to be seen in a large straw hat and a white cotton frock, watering the plants under the palace windows, dividing the contents of the watering-pot between the flowers and her feet, and often took breakfast with her mother on the lawn there. There are playful stories told of those happy early days. The little princess was very fond of music, listening as one spell-bound when first she heard some of Beethoven's glorious compositions. But like most children, she rebelled against the drudgery of scales and finger exercises, and on being told that there is 'no royal road to music,' she sportively locked the piano and announced that 'the royal road is never to take a lesson till you feel disposed.' Sir Walter Scott records in his diary that he dined with the Duchess of Kent on 19th May 1828. 'I was very kindly received by Prince Leopold, and presented to the little Victoria--the heir-apparent to the crown as things now stand. The little lady is educated with much care, and watched so closely that no busy maid has a moment to whisper "You are heir of England." I suspect if we could dissect the little heart, we should find that some pigeon or other bird of the air had carried the matter, however.' This, it seems, was not the case. Charles Knight has told us how he one morning saw the household breakfasting in the open air, at a table on the lawn. It is also related that Victoria took her airings in Kensington Gardens in a little phaeton drawn by a tiny pony, led by a page. A dog ran between the legs of the pony one day, frightening it, so that the little carriage was upset, and the princess would have fallen on her head, but for the presence of mind of an Irishman who rescued her. Leigh Hunt saw her once 'coming up a cross-path from the Bayswater gate, with a girl of her own age by her side, whose hand she was holding as if she loved her;' and he adds that the footman who followed seemed to him like a gigantic fairy. When the princess was in her fifth year, George IV., who acted as one of her godfathers, sent a message to parliament which resulted in a grant for the cost of the education of his niece. In 1824, when the princess was five years old, Fräulein Lehzen, a German lady, became her governess; afterwards she held the post of the Queen's private secretary, until relieved by the Prince-Consort. She was the daughter of a Hanoverian pastor, and came to England in 1818 as governess to the Princess Feodora of Leiningen. In her home letters she records that 'the princess received her in a pretty, childlike way,' and describes her as 'not tall, but very pretty;' adding that she 'has dark brown hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a mouth which, though not tiny, is very good-tempered and pleasant; very fine teeth, a small but graceful figure, and a very small foot. She was dressed in white muslin with a coral necklet.' The domestic life was that of any other well-regulated and happy family. The princess shared her governess's bedroom. They all took their meals together at a round table. When they did not go to church, the duchess read a sermon aloud and commented pleasantly on it. As early as 1830 Thomas Moore heard the Princess Victoria sing duets with her mother, who also sang some pretty German songs herself. Nor are there lacking traces of strict and chastening discipline. The princess had been early taught that there are good habits and duties in the management of money. When she was buying toys at Tunbridge Wells, her wishes outran her little purse, and the box for which she could not pay was not carried away on credit, but set aside for her to fetch away when the next quarter-day would renew her allowance. Fräulein Lehzen says, 'The duchess wished that when she and the princess drove out, I should sit by her side, and the princess at the back. Several times I could not prevent it, but at last she has given in, and says on such occasions with a laugh to her daughter: "Sit by me, since Fräulein Lehzen wishes it to be so." But,' says the governess, 'I do not hesitate to remark to the little one, whom I am most anxious not to spoil, that this consideration is not on her account, because she is still a child, but that my respect for her mother disposes me to decline the seat.' Once when the princess was reading how Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, introduced her sons to the first of Roman ladies with the words, 'These are my jewels,' she looked up from her book, and remarked: 'She should have said my _Cornelians_.' [Illustration: Princess Victoria--Early Portrait.] Mrs Oliphant remembers of having in her own youth seen the Princess Victoria, and says: 'The calm full look of her eyes affected me. Those eyes were very blue, serene, still, looking at you with a tranquil breadth of expression which, somehow, conveyed to your mind a feeling of unquestioned power and greatness, quite poetical in its serious simplicity.' While on a visit to Malvern she climbed walls and trees, and rode on a donkey. One day she had climbed an apple tree, and could not get down till relieved by the gardener, who got a guinea for his pains, which was preserved and neatly framed. On another occasion, at Wentworth House, the gardener cautioned her: 'Be careful, miss, it's slape' (using a provincial form for 'slippery'), while she was descending a sloping piece of turf, where the ground was wet. While she was asking, 'What is _slape?_'her feet slid from beneath her, and the old gardener was able to explain as he lifted her up, 'That's slape, miss.' Miss Jane Porter, then resident at Claremont, describes the princess as a beautiful child, with a cherubic form of features, clustered round by glossy, fair ringlets. Her complexion was remarkably transparent, with a soft, but often heightening tinge of the sweet blush-rose upon her cheeks, that imparted a peculiar brilliancy to her clear blue eyes. Whenever she met any strangers in her usual paths, she always seemed, by the quickness of her glance, to inquire who and what they were? The intelligence of her countenance was extraordinary at her very early age, but might easily be accounted for on perceiving the extraordinary intelligence of her mind. At Esher Church, even in her sixth year, the youthful princess was accustomed to devote earnest attention to the sermons preached there, as the Duchess of Kent was in the habit of inquiring not only for the text, but the heads of the discourse. 'The sweet spring of the princess's life,' continues Miss Porter, 'was thus dedicated to the sowing of all precious seeds of knowledge, and the cultivation of all elegant acquirements.... Young as she was, she sang with sweetness and taste; and my brother, Sir Robert (who, when in England, frequently had the honour of dining at Claremont), often had the pleasure of listening to the infant chorister, mingling her cherub-like melody with the mature and delightful harmonies of the Duchess of Kent and Prince Leopold.' When Fräulein Lehzen died in 1870, her old pupil wrote of her as 'my dearest, kindest friend, old Lehzen; she knew me from six months old, and from my fifth to my eighteenth year devoted all her care and energies to me, with the most wonderful abnegation of self, never even taking one day's holiday. I adored, although I was greatly in awe of her. She really seemed to have no thought but for me.' And the future queen profited by it all, for it has been truly said that, 'had she not been the Queen of England, her acquirements and accomplishments would have given her a high standing in society.' Dr Davys, the future Bishop of Peterborough, was her instructor in Latin, history, mathematics, and theology, and the Dowager Duchess of Northumberland had also, after her own mother, a considerable share in her training. The Duchess of Kent took her daughter to visit many of the chief cities, cathedrals, and other places of interest in the British Isles. Her first public act was to present the colours to a regiment of foot at Plymouth. An American writer has recorded that he saw the widowed lady and her little girl in the churchyard of Brading, in the Isle of Wight. They were seated near the grave of the heroine of a 'short and simple annal of the poor'--the _Dairyman's Daughter_, whose story, as told by the Rev. Legh Richmond, had a great popularity at the time. The duchess was reading from a volume she carried (probably that one), and the little princess's soft eyes were tearful. The princess, it appears, was much devoted to dolls, and played with them until she was nearly fourteen years old. Her favourites were small wooden dolls which she would occupy herself in dressing; and she had a house in which they could be placed. As she had no girl companions, many an hour was solaced in this manner. She dressed these dolls from some costumes she saw in the theatre or in private life. A list of her dolls was kept in a copy-book, the name of each, and by whom it was dressed, and the character it represented, being given. The dolls seem to have been packed away about 1833. Of the 132 dolls preserved, thirty-two were dressed by the princess. They range from three to nine inches in height. The sewing and adornment of the rich coloured silks and satins show great deftness of finger. Her wise mother withheld her from the pomp and circumstance of the court. She was not even allowed to be present at the coronation of her uncle, the Duke of Clarence, when he ascended the throne as William IV. He could not understand such reticence, was annoyed by it, and expressed his annoyance angrily. But his consort, good Queen Adelaide, was always kind and considerate: even when she lost all her own little ones, she could be generous enough to say to the Duchess of Kent, 'My children are dead, but yours lives, and she is mine too.' All doubts as to the princess's relation to the succession were gradually removed. George IV. had died childless. Both the children of William IV. were dead. The Princess Victoria therefore was the heiress of England. A paper had been placed in the volume of history she had been reading, after perusing which she remarked, 'I never saw this before.' 'It was not thought necessary you should, princess,' the governess replied. 'I see,' she said timidly, 'that I am nearer the throne than I thought.' 'So it is, madam,' said the governess. 'Now many a child,' observed the princess thoughtfully, 'would boast, but they don't know the difficulty. There is much splendour, but there is more responsibility.' And putting her hand on her governess's, she said solemnly, '_I will be good_.' Let that be recorded as among royal vows that have been faithfully fulfilled. In August 1835, the Princess Victoria was confirmed in the Chapel Royal, St James's, by the Archbishop of Canterbury; and she was so much moved by the solemn service, that at the close of it she laid her head on her mother's breast, and sobbed with emotion. CHAPTER II. First Meeting with Prince Albert--Death of William IV.--Accession of Queen Victoria--First Speech from the Throne--Coronation--Life at Windsor--Personal Appearance--Betrothal to Prince Albert--Income from the Country--Her Majesty a genuine Ruler. The first great event in the young princess's life, and that which was destined to colour it all for her good and happiness, was her first meeting in 1836 with her cousins, her mother's nephews, the young princes Ernest and Albert of Saxe-Coburg. That visit was of about a month's duration, and from the beginning the attraction was mutual. We can see how matters went in a letter from Princess Victoria to King Leopold, 7th June 1836. 'I have only now to beg you, my dearest uncle, to take care of the health of one now so dear to me, and to take him under your special protection. I hope and trust that all will go on prosperously and well on this subject, now of so much importance to me.' Although in her heart preferring Albert, she had been equally kind to both, and her preference was as yet unknown. And as a mere preference it had for a while to remain, as the princess was only seventeen, and the education of the prince was yet incomplete. He was still on his student travels, collecting flowers and views and autographs for the sweet maiden in England, when in 1837, news reached him that by the death of William IV. she had attained her great dignity, and was proclaimed queen. [Illustration: The Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham announcing to the Queen the Death of William IV.] The death of William IV. took place at 2.30 A.M. on June 20, 1837. According to a contemporary account, the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham reached Kensington Palace about five as bearers of the news. They desired to see _the Queen_. They were ushered into an apartment, and in a few minutes the door opened, and she came in, wrapped in a dressing-gown, with slippers on her naked feet, and with tearful eyes and trembling lips. Conyngham told his errand in few words, and as soon as he uttered the words 'Your Majesty,' she put out her hand to him to be kissed. He dropped on one knee, and kissed her hand. The archbishop likewise kissed her hand, and when he had spoken of the king's death, she asked him for his prayers on her behalf. The first result of the accession of Victoria was the separation of Hanover from the British crown. By the Salic law of that realm, a woman was not permitted to reign; and thus the German principality, which had come to us with the first George, and which had led us into so many wars on the Continent, ceased to have any concern with the fortunes of this country. The crown of Hanover now went to the Duke of Cumberland, the Queen's uncle. On 26th June 1837, her cousin Albert wrote: 'Now you are queen of the mightiest land of Europe, in your hand lies the happiness of millions. May Heaven assist you, and strengthen you with its strength in that high but difficult task! I hope that your reign may be long, happy, and glorious; and that your efforts may be rewarded by the thankfulness and love of your subjects.' The Queen closed her first speech from the throne as follows: 'I ascend the throne with a deep sense of the responsibility which is imposed upon me; but I am supported by the consciousness of my own right intentions, and by my dependence upon the protection of almighty God. It will be my care to strengthen our institutions, civil and ecclesiastical, by discreet improvement wherever improvement is required, and to do all in my power to compose and allay animosity and discord. Acting upon these principles, I shall upon all occasions look with confidence to the wisdom of parliament and the affections of my people, which form the true support of the dignity of the crown, and ensure the stability of the constitution.' 'When called upon by the Duke of Wellington to sign her first death-warrant, the Queen asked, with tears in her eyes, 'Have you nothing to say in behalf of this man?' 'Nothing; he has deserted three times,' was the reply. 'Oh, your Grace, think again.' 'Well, your Majesty,' said the duke, 'though he is certainly a very bad _soldier_, some witnesses spoke for his character, and, for aught I know to the contrary, he may be a good _man_.' 'Oh, thank you for that a thousand times!' the Queen exclaimed; and she Wrote 'pardoned' across the paper. The great Duke of Wellington declared that he could not have desired a daughter of his own to play her part better than did the young queen. She seemed 'awed, but not daunted.' Nor was the gentler womanly side of life neglected. She wrote at once to the widowed Queen Adelaide, begging her, in all her arrangements, to consult nothing but her own health and convenience, and to remain at Windsor just as long as she pleased. And on the superscription of that letter she refused to give her widowed aunt her new style of 'Queen Dowager.' 'I am quite aware of Her Majesty's altered position,' she said, 'but I will not be the first person to remind her of it.' And on the evening of the king's funeral, a sick girl, daughter of an old servant of the Duke of Kent, to whom the duchess and the princess had been accustomed to show kindness, received from 'Queen Victoria,' a gift of the Psalms of David, with a marker worked by the royal hands, and placed in the forty-first psalm. The first three weeks of her reign were spent at Kensington, and the Queen took possession of Buckingham Palace on 13th July 1837. Mr Jeaffreson, in describing her personal appearance, says: 'Studied at full face, she was seen to have an ample brow, something higher, and receding less abruptly, than the average brow of her princely kindred; a pair of noble blue eyes, and a delicately curved upper lip, that was more attractive for being at times slightly disdainful, and even petulant in its expression. No woman was ever more fortunate than our young Queen in the purity and delicate pinkiness of her glowing complexion.... Her Majesty's countenance was strangely eloquent of tenderness, refinement, and unobtrusive force.... Among the high-born beauties of her day, the young Queen Victoria was remarkable for the number of her ways of smiling.' Other observers say that the smallness of her stature was quite forgotten in the gracefulness of her demeanour. Fanny Kemble thought the Queen's voice exquisite, when dissolving parliament in July 1837: her enunciation was as perfect as the intonation was melodious. Charles Sumner was also delighted, and thought he never heard anything better delivered. She was proclaimed queen, June 21, 1837: the coronation took place in Westminster Abbey on June 28, 1838, and has been vividly described by many pens. At least 300,000 visitors came to London on this occasion. We are told of the glow of purple, of the acclamations of the crowd, and the chorus of Westminster scholars, of the flash of diamonds as the assembled peeresses assumed their coronets when the crown was placed on the head of the young queen. But we best like the touch of womanly solicitude and helpfulness with which Her Majesty made a hasty movement forward as an aged peer, Lord Rolle, tripped over his robes, and stumbled on the steps of the throne. As she left the Abbey, 'the tender paleness that had overspread her fair face on her entrance had yielded to a glow of rosy celestial red.' Miss Harriet Martineau thus describes the scene before the entrance of the Queen: 'The stone architecture contrasted finely with the gay colours of the multitude. From my high seat I commanded the whole north transept, the area with the throne, and many portions of galleries, and the balconies, which were called the vaultings. Except the mere sprinkling of oddities, everybody was in full dress. The scarlet of the military officers mixed in well, and the groups of clergy were dignified; but to an unaccustomed eye the prevalence of court dress had a curious effect. I was perpetually taking whole groups of gentlemen for Quakers till I recollected myself. The Earl Marshal's assistants, called Gold Sticks, looked well from above, lightly flitting about in white breeches, silk stockings, blue laced frocks, and white sashes. 'The throne, covered as was its footstool with cloth of gold, stood on an elevation of four steps in front of the area. The first peeress took her seat in the north transept opposite at a quarter to seven, and three of the bishops came next. From that time the peers and their ladies arrived faster and faster. Each peeress was conducted by two Gold Sticks, one of whom handed her to her seat, and the other bore and arranged her train on her lap, and saw that her coronet, footstool, and book were comfortably placed.... About nine o'clock the first gleams of the sun started into the Abbey, and presently travelled down to the peeresses. I had never before seen the full effect of diamonds. As the light travelled, each lady shone out like a rainbow. The brightness, vastness, and dreamy magnificence of the scene produced a strange effect of exhaustion and sleepiness.... The guns told when the Queen set forth, and there was unusual animation. The Gold Sticks flitted about; there was tuning in the orchestra; and the foreign ambassadors and their suites arrived in quick succession. Prince Esterhazy, crossing a bar of sunshine, was the most prodigious rainbow of all. He was covered with diamonds and pearls, and as he dangled his hat, it cast a dazzling radiance all around.... At half-past eleven the guns told that the Queen had arrived.' An eye-witness says: 'The Queen came in as gay as a lark, and looking like a girl on her birthday. However, this only lasted till she reached the middle of the cross of the Abbey, at the foot of the throne. On her rising from her knees before the "footstool," after her private devotions, the Archbishop of Canterbury turned her round to each of the four corners of the Abbey, saying, in a voice so clear that it was heard in the inmost recesses, "Sirs, I here present unto you the undoubted Queen of this realm. Will ye all swear to do her homage?" Each time he said it there were shouts of "Long live Queen Victoria!" and the sounding of trumpets and the waving of banners, which made the poor little Queen turn first very red and then very pale. Most of the ladies cried, and I felt I should not forget it as long as I lived. The Queen recovered herself after this, and went through all the rest as if she had been crowned before, but seemed much impressed by the service, and a most beautiful one it is.' The service was that which was drawn up by St Dunstan, and with a very few alterations has been used ever since. Then the anointing followed--a canopy of cloth of gold was held over the Queen's head, a cross was traced with oil upon her head and hands, and the Dean of Westminster and the archbishop pronounced the words, 'Be thou anointed with holy oil, as kings, priests, and prophets were anointed.' Meanwhile, the choir chanted the 'Anointing of Solomon,' after which the archbishop gave her his benediction, all the bishops joining in the amen. She was next seated in St Edward's chair, underneath which is the rough stone on which the Scottish kings had been crowned, brought away from Scotland by Edward I. While seated here she received the ring which was a token that she was betrothed to her people, a globe surmounted by a cross, and a sceptre. The crown was then placed upon her head; the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannons were fired, and cheers rose from the multitude both without and within the building. The archbishop presented a Bible to Her Majesty, led her to the throne, and bowed before her; the bishops and lords present in their order of rank did the same, saying, 'I do become your liegeman of life and limb and of earthly worship, and faith and love I will bear unto you, to live and die against all manner of folks; so help me God.' When the ceremony of allegiance was over, the Queen received the holy communion, and, after the last blessing was pronounced, in splendid array left the Abbey. Mr Greville, one of the brilliant gossip-mongers of the court, related that Lord John Thynne, who officiated for the Dean of Westminster, told him that no one knew but the archbishop and himself what ceremony was to be gone through, and that the Queen never knew what she was to do next. She said to Thynne, 'Pray tell me what I am to do, for they don't know.' At the end, when the orb was put into her hand, she said, 'What am I to do with it?' 'Your Majesty is to carry it, if you please, in your hand.' 'Am I?' she said; 'it is very heavy.' The ruby ring was made for her little finger instead of her fourth; when the archbishop was to put it on she extended the former, but he said it was to be put on the latter. She said it was too small, and she could not get it on. He said it was right to put it there, and, as he insisted, she yielded, but had first to take off her other rings, and then it was forced on; but it hurt her very much, and as soon as the ceremony was over, she was obliged to bathe her finger in iced water in order to get it off. It is said that she was very considerate to the royal dukes, her uncles, when they presented themselves to do homage. When the Duke of Sussex, who was old and infirm, came forward to take the oath of allegiance, she anticipated him, kissed his cheek, and said tenderly, 'Do not kneel, my uncle, for I am still Victoria, your niece.' Lord Shaftesbury wrote of the service, as 'so solemn, so deeply religious, so humbling, and yet so sublime. Every word of it is invaluable; throughout, the church is everything, secular greatness nothing. She declares, in the name and by the authority of God, and almost enforces, as a condition preliminary to her benediction, all that can make princes rise to temporal and eternal glory. Many, very many, were deeply impressed.' [Illustration: Queen Victoria at the Period of her Accession.] The old crown weighed more than seven pounds; the new one, made for this coronation, but three pounds. The value of the jewels in the crown was estimated at £112,760. These precious stones included 1 large ruby and sapphire; 16 sapphires, 11 emeralds, 4 rubies, 1363 brilliant diamonds; 1273 rose diamonds, 147 table diamonds; 4 drop-shaped pearls; 273 other pearls. The entire coronation expenses amounted to less than £70,000: those of George IV. amounted to £238,000 (banquet, £138,000). As the ceremony lasted four and a half hours, it was well Queen Victoria was spared the fatigue of a banquet. Reasons of state and court etiquette required the Duchess of Kent to retire from the constant companionship of her daughter, lest she should be suspected of undue influence over her. The young queen of England had entered upon a time of moral trial. Many of those who had been ready to applaud her were found equally ready to criticise her. Her mother's natural pangs at settling down into their new relationship were maliciously interpreted as consequences of the Queen's coldness and self-will. It was said that she 'began to exhibit slight signs of a peremptory disposition.' It is good to know from such a well-informed authority as Mrs Oliphant that the immediate circle of friends around her fed her with no flatteries. The life of the Queen at Windsor has been thus described: 'She rose at a little after eight; breakfasted in her private rooms; then her ministers were admitted; despatches were read, and there would be a consultation with Lord Melbourne. After luncheon she rode out, and on her return amused herself with music and singing and such like recreations till dinner, which was about 8 P.M. On the appearance of the ladies in the drawing-room she stood, moving about from one to the other, talking for a short time to each, and also speaking to the gentlemen as they came from the dining-room. A whist table would be made up for the Duchess of Kent. The Queen and the others seated themselves about a large round table and engaged in conversation.' 'Poor little Queen!' said Carlyle, with a shake of his head at the time, 'she is at an age when a girl can hardly be trusted to choose a bonnet for herself, yet a task is laid upon her from which an archangel might shrink.' Her Majesty was not overawed, however, and expressly declared to her mother that she ascended the throne without alarm. 'She is as merry and playful as a kitten,' wrote Sir John Campbell.... 'She was in great spirits, and danced with more than usual gaiety a romping, country-dance called the Tempest.' An observant writer of this date says: 'She had a fine vein of humour, a keen sense of the ludicrous; enjoyed equestrian exercise, and rode remarkably well.' N. P. Willis, the American poet, who saw her on horseback in Hyde Park, said: 'Her Majesty rides quite fearlessly and securely; I met her party full gallop near the centre of the Rotten Row. On came the Queen on a dun-coloured, highly groomed horse, with her prime-minister on one side of her, and Lord Byron on the other; her _cortége_ of maids of honour, and lords and ladies of the court checking their spirited horses, and preserving always a slight distance between themselves and Her Majesty. ... Victoria's round, plump figure looks exceedingly well in her dark-green riding dress.... She rode with her mouth open, and seemed exhilarated with pleasure.' James Gordon Bennett, who saw her at the opera, describes her as 'a fair-haired little girl, dressed with great simplicity in white muslin, with hair plain, a blue ribbon at the back.... Her bust is extremely well proportioned, and her complexion very fair. There is a slight parting of her rosy lips, between which you can see little nicks of something like very white teeth. The expression of her face is amiable and good-tempered. I could see nothing like that awful majesty, that mysterious something which doth hedge a queen.' Mr Greville, who dined at the Queen's table in Buckingham Palace in 1837, pronounced the whole thing dull, so dull that he marvelled how any one could like such a life: but both here and at a ball he declared the bearing of the Queen to be perfect, noting also that her complexion was clear, and that the expression of her eyes was agreeable. Despite her strong attraction to her cousin Albert, she expressed a determination not to think of marriage for a time. The sudden change from her quiet, girlish life in Kensington to the prominence and the powers of a great queen, standing 'in that fierce light which beats upon a throne,' might well have excused a good deal of wilfulness had the excuse been needed. Her Majesty decides that 'a worse school for a young girl, or one more detrimental to all natural feelings and affections, cannot well be imagined.' Perhaps it was an experience which she needed to convince her fully of the value and blessedness of the true domesticity which was soon to be hers. After she had in 1837 placed her life-interest in the hereditary revenues of the crown at the disposal of the House of Commons, her yearly income was fixed at £385,000. This income is allocated as follows: For Her Majesty's privy purse, £60,000; salaries of Her Majesty's household and retired allowances, £131,260; expenses of household, £172,500; royal bounty, alms, &c., £13,200; unappropriated moneys, £8040. The first change from a Whig to a Conservative government ruffled the waters a little. Her Majesty was advised by the Duke of Wellington to invite Sir Robert Peel to form a new ministry. She did so, but frankly told Peel that she was very sorry to lose Lord Melbourne. When arranging his cabinet, Sir Robert found that objections were raised to the retention of certain Whig ladies in personal attendance upon the Queen, as being very likely to influence her. The Duchess of Sutherland and Lady Normanby, it is believed, were particularly meant. The Queen at first flatly refused to dismiss her Ladies of the Bedchamber, to whom she had got so accustomed. As Sir Robert Peel would not yield the point, she recalled Lord Melbourne, who now retained office till 1841. The affair caused a great deal of talk in political and non-political circles. The Queen wrote: 'They wanted to deprive me of my ladies, and I suppose they would deprive me next of my dresses and my housemaids; but I will show them that I am Queen of England.' This little episode has since gone by the name of the 'Bedchamber Plot.' Of Her Majesty it may safely be said that she has always been a genuine ruler, in the sense that from the first she trained herself to comprehend the mysteries of statecraft. She had Lord Melbourne as her first prime-minister, and from the beginning every despatch of the Foreign Office was offered to her attention. In 1848, a year of exceptional activity, these numbered 28,000. If for a while the Queen thus drew back from actually deciding to marry the cousin whom, nevertheless, she owned to be 'fascinating,' that cousin on his side was not one of those of whom it may be said: He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all. 'I am ready,' he said, 'to submit to delay, if I have only some certain assurance to go upon. But if, after waiting perhaps for three years, I should find that the Queen no longer desired the marriage, it would place me in a ridiculous position, and would, to a certain extent, ruin all my prospects for the future.' Love proved stronger than girlish pride and independence--the woman was greater than the queen. The young pair met again on the 10th October 1839, and on the 14th of the same month the Queen communicated the welcome news of her approaching marriage to her prime-minister. Her best friends were all delighted with the news. 'You will be very nervous on declaring your engagement to the Council,' said the Duchess of Gloucester. 'Yes,' replied the Queen, 'but I did something far more trying to my nerves a short time since.' 'What was that?' the duchess asked. 'I proposed to Albert,' was the reply. Etiquette of course forbade the gentleman in this case to speak first; and we can well believe that the Queen was more nervous over this matter than over many a state occasion. How the thing took place we may gather in part from a letter of Prince Albert to his grandmother: 'The Queen sent for me to her room, and disclosed to me, in a genuine outburst of love and affection, that I had gained her whole heart.' After the glad announcement was made, warm congratulations were showered on the young people. Lord Melbourne expressed great satisfaction on behalf of himself and his country. 'You will be much more comfortable,' he said, 'for a woman cannot stand alone for any time in whatever position she may be.' To King Leopold, who had much to do with the matter, the news was particularly welcome. In his joyous response to the Queen occur these words: 'I had, when I learned your decision, almost the feeling of old Simeon, "Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace." Your choice has been, for these last years, my conviction of what might and would be the best for your happiness.... In your position, which may, and will perhaps, become in future even more difficult in a political point of view, you could not exist without having a happy and agreeable _intérieur_. And I am much deceived (which I think I am not) or you will find in Albert just the very qualities and disposition which are indispensable for your happiness, and will suit your own character, temper, and mode of life.' [Illustration: The Houses of Parliament. (From a photograph by Frith.)] To Baron Stockmar, the prince wrote: 'Victoria is so good and kind to me, that I am often puzzled to believe that I should be the object of so much affection.' Prince Albert knew he was choosing a position of no ordinary difficulty and responsibility. 'With the exception of my relation to the Queen, my future position will have its dark sides, and the sky will not always be blue and unclouded. But life has its thorns in every position, and the consciousness of having used one's powers and endeavours for an object so great as that of promoting the welfare of so many, will surely be sufficient to support me.' True love is always humble. Among the entries in the Queen's Journals are many like this: 'How I will strive to make Albert feel as little as possible the great sacrifice he has made! I told him it _was_ a great sacrifice on his part, but he would not allow it.' After they had spent a month together, the prince returned to Germany. The following extract occurs in a letter from Prince Albert to the Duchess of Kent: 'What you say about my poor little bride, sitting all alone in her room, silent and sad, has touched me to the heart. Oh that I might fly to her side to cheer her!' On the 23d November, she made the important declaration regarding her approaching marriage to the privy-councillors, eighty-three of whom assembled in Buckingham Palace to hear it. She wore upon her slender wrist a bracelet with the prince's portrait, 'which seemed,' she says, 'to give her courage.' The Queen afterwards described the scene: 'Precisely at two I went in. Lord Melbourne I saw kindly looking at me, with tears in his eyes, but he was not near me. I then read my short declaration. I felt that my hands shook, but I did not make one mistake. I felt most happy and thankful when it was over. Lord Lansdowne then rose, and in the name of the Privy-Council asked that this most gracious, most welcome communication might be printed. I then left the room, the whole thing not taking above three minutes.' The Queen had to make the same statement before parliament, when Sir Robert Peel replied. 'Her Majesty,' he said, 'has the singular good fortune to be able to gratify her private feelings while she performs her public duty, and to obtain the best guarantee for happiness by contracting an alliance founded on affection.' Hereupon arose a discussion both in and out of parliament as to the amount of the grant to Prince Albert, which was settled at £30,000 a year. But Prince Albert assured the Queen that this squabbling did not trouble him: 'All I have to say is, while I possess your love, they cannot make me unhappy.' Another source of trouble arose from the fact that several members of the royal family thought it an indignity that they should give precedence to a German prince. Prince Albert was born at Schloss Rosenau, near Coburg, August 26, 1819, the younger son of the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, by his first marriage with Louisa, daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Gotha-Altenburg. After a careful domestic education, the prince, along with his elder brother, studied at Brussels and Bonn (1836-38), where, in addition to the sciences connected with state-craft, he devoted himself with ardour to natural history and chemistry, and displayed great taste for the fine arts, especially painting and music. Gifted with a handsome figure, he attained expertness in all knightly exercises; whilst by Baron Stockmar, his Mentor, he was imbued with a real interest in European politics. King Leopold wrote truly of him: 'If I am not very much mistaken, he possesses all the qualities required to fit him for the position which he will occupy in England. His understanding is sound, his apprehension is clear and rapid, and his heart in the right place. He has great powers of observation, and possesses singular prudence, without anything about him that can be called cold or morose.' The two met first in 1836, and fell in love, as we have seen, like ordinary mortals, though the marriage had long been projected by King Leopold and Baron Stockmar. CHAPTER III. Marriage--Delicacy of the Prince's Position--Family Habits--Birth of Princess Royal--Queen's Views of Religious Training--Osborne and Balmoral--Bloomfield's _Reminicences_--Death of the Duke of Wellington. Nowhere does the genuine unselfishness and sweet womanliness of the Queen show more than in her record of those days. She did not, like too many brides, think of herself as the only or even the principal person to be considered. She did not grudge that her bridegroom's heart should feel the strength of former ties. 'The sacrifice,' in her eyes, was all on his side, though he would not admit that. He had to leave his brother, his home, his dear native land. He on his side could ask, 'What am I, that such happiness should he mine? for excess of happiness it is for me to know that I am so dear to you.' But her one thought was, 'God grant that I may be the happy person--the _most_ happy person, to make this dearest, blessed being happy and contented.' 'Albert has completely won my heart,' she had written to Baron Stockmar.... 'I feel certain he will make me very happy. I wish I could say I felt as certain of my making him happy, but I shall do my best.' The marriage itself took place on 10th February 1840 in the Chapel Royal, St James's Palace. It was a cold cheerless morning, but the sun burst forth just as the Queen entered the chapel. As a grand and beautiful pageant, it was second only to the Coronation. The Queen was enthusiastically cheered as she drove between Buckingham Palace and St James's. She is described as looking pale and anxious, but lovely. Her dress was of rich white satin, trimmed with orange blossoms; a wreath of orange blossoms encircled her head, and over it a veil of rich Honiton lace, which fell over her face. Her jewels were the collar of the Order of the Garter, and a diamond necklace and ear-rings. She had twelve bridesmaids, and the ceremony was performed by the Archbishops of Canterbury and York and the Bishop of London. Her Majesty bore herself from first to last with quietness and confidence, and went through the service with due earnestness and solemnity. The wedding breakfast was at Buckingham Palace. The wedding-cake was no less than three hundred pounds in weight, fourteen inches in depth, and three yards in circumference. The young couple proceeded to Windsor, where they were received by an enthusiastic throng of Eton boys, in white gloves and white favours. One of the ladies-in-waiting wrote to her family that 'the Queen's look and manner were very pleasing: her eyes much swollen with tears, but great happiness in her countenance: and her look of confidence and comfort at the prince when they walked away as man and wife, was very pleasing to see.' And this sympathetic observer adds: 'Such a new thing for her to _dare_ to be _unguarded_ with anybody; and with her frank and fearless nature, the restraints she has hitherto been under, from one reason or another, with everybody, must have been most painful.' The day after the marriage the Queen wrote to Baron Stockmar: 'There cannot exist a purer, dearer, nobler being in the world than the prince;' and she never had cause to take these words back. The blessing of loving and being loved was certainly given to Queen Victoria. The royal pair spent three days of honeymoon at Windsor, and then Her Majesty had to return to London, to hold court, and to receive addresses of congratulation on her marriage; indeed, she was nearly 'addressed to death.' The Queen and Prince Albert went everywhere together; to church, to reviews, to races, theatres, and drawing-rooms; and everywhere the people were charmed with their beauty and happiness. One of the trials of royalty is that they are the observed of all observers, and from the first Prince Albert understood the extreme delicacy of his position. How well he met the difficulty is told by General Gray (_Early Years_): 'From the moment of his establishment in the English palace as the husband of the Queen, his first object was to maintain, and, if possible, even raise the character of the court. With this view he knew that it was not enough that his own conduct should be in truth free from reproach; no shadow of a shade of suspicion should by possibility attach to it. He knew that, in his position, every action would be scanned--not always, possibly, in a friendly spirit; that his goings out and his comings in would be watched; and that in every society, however little disposed to be censorious, there would always be found some prone, where an opening afforded, to exaggerate and even invent stories against him, and to put an uncharitable construction on the most innocent acts. He therefore, from the first, laid down strict, not to say severe rules for his guidance. He imposed a degree of restraint and self-denial upon his own movements which could not but have been irksome, had he not been sustained by a sense of the advantage which the throne would derive from it. 'He denied himself the pleasure--which, to one so fond as he was of personally watching and inspecting every improvement that was in progress, would have been very great--of walking at will about the town. Wherever he went, whether in a carriage or on horseback, he was accompanied by his equerry. He paid no visits in general society. His visits were to the studio of the artist, to museums of art or science, to institutions for good and benevolent purposes. Wherever a visit from him, or his presence, could tend to advance the real good of the people, there his horses might be seen waiting; never at the door of mere fashion. Scandal itself could take no liberty with his name. He loved to ride through all the districts of London where building and improvements were in progress, more especially when they were such as would conduce to the health or recreation of the working classes; and few, if any, took such interest as he did in all that was being done, at any distance east, west, north, or south of the great city--from Victoria Park to Battersea--from the Regent's Park to the Crystal Palace, and far beyond. "He would frequently return," the Queen says, "to luncheon at a great pace, and would always come through the Queen's dressing-room, telling where he had been--what new buildings he had seen--what studios he had visited." Riding, for riding's sake, he disliked. "It bores me so," he said. It was for real service that Prince Albert devoted his life; and for this end he gave himself to the very diligent study of the English Constitution. Never obtrusive, he yet did the work, kept the wheels moving; but in the background, sinking his individuality in that of the Queen, and leaving her all the honour.' [Illustration: Marriage of Queen Victoria.] A hard-working man himself, the prince and also the Queen were in sympathy with the working-classes, and erected improved dwellings upon the estates of Osborne and Balmoral. The prince was also in favour of working-men's clubs and coffee palaces. It was remarked that whether he spoke to a painter, sculptor, architect, man of science, or ordinary tradesman, each of them was apt to think that his speciality was their own calling, owing to his understanding and knowledge of it. He rose at seven A.M., summer and winter, dressed, and went to his sitting-room, where in winter a fire was burning, and a green lamp was lit. He read and answered letters here, and prepared for Her Majesty drafts of replies to ministers and other matters. After breakfast, he would read such articles in the papers or reviews as seemed to his thoughtful mind to be good or important. At ten he went out with the Queen. So began the happy years of peaceful married life. The prince liked early hours and country pleasures, and the Queen, like a loyal wife, not merely consented to his tastes, but made them absolutely her own. Before she had been married a year, she made the naive pretty confession that 'formerly I was too happy to go to London and wretched to leave it, and now, since the blessed hour of my marriage, and still more since the summer, I dislike and am unhappy to leave the country, and would be content and happy never to go to town;' adding ingenuously, 'The solid pleasures of a peaceful, quiet, yet merry life in the country, with my inestimable husband and friend, my all in all, are far more durable than the amusements of London, though we don't despise or dislike them sometimes.' They took breakfast at nine; then they went through details of routine business, and sketched or played till luncheon, after which the Queen had a daily interview with Lord Melbourne (prime-minister till the next year). Then they drove, walked, or rode, dined at eight o'clock, and had pleasant social circles afterwards, which were broken up before midnight. Both were fond of art and music. Indeed the Prince-Consort gave a powerful impulse to that study of classical music which has since become so universal. Mendelssohn himself praised the Queen's singing, though without flattering blindness to its faults and shortcomings. And the brightness of life was all the brighter because it flowed over a substratum of seriousness and solemnity. The first time that the Queen and her husband partook of holy communion together, they spent the preceding evening--the vigil of Easter--in retirement, occupied with good German books, and soothed and elevated by Mozart's music, for the prince was master of the organ, and the Queen of the piano. The prince made his maiden speech at a meeting for the abolition of the slave-trade, speaking in a low tone, and with 'the prettiest foreign accent.' While she was driving up Constitution Hill, an attempt was made upon the Queen's life by a weak-minded youth, but luckily neither of the pistol shots took effect. There have been at least seven other happily futile attempts on the life of the Queen. The Princess Royal was born on the 21st November 1840; and the royal mother, fondly tended by her husband, made a speedy and happy recovery. Prince Albert's care for the Queen in these circumstances was like that of a mother. The Prince of Wales was born on November 9, 1841, and after that the little family circle rapidly increased, and with it the parents' sense of responsibility. 'A man's education begins the first day of his life,' said the prince's tried friend, the wise Baron Stockmar, and the Queen felt it 'a hard case' that the pressure of public business prevented her from being always with her little ones when they said their prayers. She has given us her views on religious training: 'I am quite clear that children should be taught to have great reverence for God and for religion, but that they should have the feeling of devotion and love which our Heavenly Father encourages His earthly children to have for Him, and not one of fear and trembling; and that the thoughts of death and an after-life should not be presented in an alarming and forbidding view; and that they should be made to know, _as yet_, no difference of creeds.' Court gossips considered the Queen 'to be very fond of her children, but severe in her manner, and a strict disciplinarian in her family.' A nurse in the royal household informed Baron Bunsen that 'the children were kept very plain indeed: it was quite poor living--only a bit of roast meat, and perhaps a plain pudding.' Other servants have reported that the Queen would have made 'an admirable poor man's wife.' We used to hear how the young princesses had to smooth out and roll up their bonnet strings. By these trifling side-lights we discern a vigorous, wholesome discipline, striving to counteract the enervating influences of rank and power, and their attendant flattery and self-indulgence. 'One of the main principles observed in the education of the royal children was this--that though they received the best training of body and mind to fit them for the high position they would eventually have to fill, they should in no wise come in contact with the actual court life. The children were scarcely known to the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, as they only now and then made their appearance for a moment after dinner at dessert, or accompanied their parents out driving. The care of them was exclusively intrusted to persons who possessed the Queen and Prince-Consort's entire confidence, and with whom they could at all times communicate direct.' An artist employed to decorate the pavilion in the garden of Buckingham Palace, wrote of Her Majesty and the prince: 'In many things they are an example to the age. They have breakfasted, heard morning prayers with the household in the private chapel, and are out some distance from the palace talking to us in the summer-house before half-past nine o'clock--sometimes earlier. After the public duties of the day and before their dinner, they come out again evidently delighted to get away from the bustle of the world to enjoy each other's society in the solitude of the garden.' [Illustration: Osborne House.(From a Photograph by Frith.)] The seaside villa of Osborne, built at the Queen's own charges at a cost of £200,000, and the remote castle of Balmoral, the creation of the Prince-Consort, were the favourite homes of the royal household: the creations as it were, of their domestic love, and inwrought with their own personalities, as statelier Windsor could never be. In the Swiss cottage at Osborne, with its museum, kitchen, storeroom, and little gardens, the young people learned to do household work and understand the management of a small establishment. The parents were invited as guests, to enjoy the dishes which the princesses had prepared with their own hands, and there each child was free to follow the bent of its own industrial inclination. In the Highlands, again, among the reserved and dignified Scottish peasantry, the children were encouraged to visit freely, to make themselves acquainted with the wants and feelings of the poor, and to regard them with an understanding sympathy and affection. Sir Robert Peel, who succeeded Lord Melbourne in 1841 as prime-minister, had the following advice from his predecessor as to his conduct in office, which shows the Queen's good sense: 'Whenever he does anything, or has anything to propose, let him explain to her clearly his reasons. The Queen is not conceited; she is aware there are many things she cannot understand, and she likes to have them explained to her elementarily, not at length and in detail, but shortly and clearly. One of the minor posts in the new ministry was filled by a young member of parliament, who was destined in after-years to become as celebrated as Peel himself. This was the distinguished scholar and orator, William Ewart Gladstone, the son of Sir John Gladstone, a Scotch merchant who had settled in Liverpool. He was already a power in parliament, and every year after this saw him rising into greater prominence. In the new parliament, too, though not in the ministry, was another member, who afterwards rose to high office, and became very famous. This was Benjamin Disraeli, son of Disraeli the elder, a distinguished literary man. Although very clever, Benjamin Disraeli had not as yet obtained any influence in the House. His first speech, indeed, had been received with much laughter; but, as he himself had then predicted, a time came at last when the House _did_ listen to him. Lady Bloomfield, while maid-of-honour to the Queen, was much in the society of royalty. The following are extracts from her _Reminiscences_, giving a sketch of the life at Windsor in 1843: 'I went to the Queen's rooms yesterday, and saw her before we began to sing. She was so thoroughly kind and gracious. The music went off very well. Costa [Sir Michael] accompanied, and I was pleased by the Queen's telling me, when I asked her whether I had not better practise the things a little more, "that was not necessary, as I knew them perfectly." She also said, "If it was _convenient_ to me, I was to go down to her room any evening to try the _masses_." Just as if anything she desired could be inconvenient. We had a pleasant interview with the royal children in Lady Lyttelton's room yesterday, and _almost_ a romp with the little Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales. They had got a round ivory counter, which I spun for them, and they went into such fits of laughter, it did my heart good to hear them. The Princess Royal is wonderfully quick and clever. She is always in the Queen's rooms when we play or sing, and she seems especially fond of music, and stands listening most attentively, without moving. '_Dec_. 18.--We walked with the Queen and prince yesterday to the Home Farm, saw the turkeys crammed, looked at the pigs, and then went to see the new aviary, where there is a beautiful collection of pigeons, fowls, &c., of rare kinds. The pigeons are so tame that they will perch upon Prince Albert's hat and the Queen's shoulders. It was funny seeing the royal pair amusing themselves with farming. '_Dec_. l9.--My waiting is nearly over, and though I shall be delighted to get home, I always regret leaving my dear kind mistress, particularly when I have been a good deal with Her Majesty, as I have been this waiting. We sang again last night, and after Costa went away, I sorted a quantity of music for the Queen; and then Prince Albert said he had composed a German ballad, which he thought would suit my voice, and he wished me to sing it. So his royal highness accompanied me, and I sang it at sight, which rather alarmed me; but I got through it, and it is very pretty. The Duchess of Kent has promised to have it copied for me.' In 1847 Baron Stockmar wrote: 'The Queen improves greatly. She makes daily advances in discernment and experience; the candour, the love of truth, the fairness, the considerateness with which she judges men and things are truly delightful, and the ingenuous self-knowledge with which she speaks about herself is simply charming.' It was not perhaps surprising that the Queen's views and the prince's views on public questions coincided. When Lord Shaftesbury, then Lord Ashley, delivered a very able speech on the Mine and Colliery Bill, the Prince-Consort wrote, 'I have carefully perused your speech, which you were so good as to send me, and I have been highly gratified by your efforts, as well as horror-stricken by the statements which you have brought before the country. I know you do not wish for praise, and I therefore withhold it; but God's best blessing will rest with you and support you in your arduous but glorious task.' In 1848, a year of revolution, the Prince-Consort consulted Lord Shaftesbury as to his attitude towards the working-classes. The interview took place at Osborne, and the Queen and Prince-Consort were greatly alarmed by the revolution in France and the exile of Louis-Philippe. 'They feared the continuance of commotions in England, and were desirous to know how they could exercise their influence to soothe the people. The Queen, on my arrival, expressed this sentiment very warmly, and added at dinner, "The prince will talk to you to-morrow. We have sent for you to have your opinion on what we should do in view of the state of affairs to show our interest in the working-classes, and you are the only man who can advise us in the matter."' On the following morning, during a long walk of an hour and a half in the garden, Lord Shaftesbury counselled the prince to put himself at the head of all social movements in art and science, and especially of those movements as they bore upon the poor, and thus would he show the interest felt by royalty in the happiness of the kingdom. The prince did so with marked success; and after he had presided at a Labourers' Friend Society, a noted Socialist remarked, 'If the prince goes on like this, why, he'll upset our apple-cart.' The poet-laureate is an official attached to the household of royalty, and it was long his duty to write an ode on the king's birthday. Towards the end of the reign of George III. this was dropped. On the death of the poet Wordsworth on 23d April 1850, the next poet-laureate was Alfred Tennyson. The Queen, it is said, had picked up one of his earlier volumes, and had been charmed with his 'Miller's Daughter;' her procuring a copy of the volume for the Princess Alice gave a great impetus to his popularity. No poet has ever written more truly and finely about royalty, as witness the dedication to the _Idylls of the King_, which enshrines the memory of the Prince-Consort; or the beautiful dedication to the Queen, dated March 1851, which closes thus: Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen. And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet. 'It is perhaps natural,' says a contemporary writer, 'for the laureates to be loyal, but there is no doubt that the sincere tributes which he paid to the Queen and to her consort contributed materially to the steadying of the foundation of the British throne. He almost alone among the poets gave expression to the inarticulate loyalty of the ordinary Englishman, and he did it without being either servile or sycophantic. If it were only for his dedication to the Queen and Prince-Consort, he would have repaid a thousand times over the value of all the bottles of sherry and the annual stipends the poet-laureates have received since the days of Ben Jonson.' Mrs Gilchrist writes: 'Tennyson likes and admires the Queen personally much, enjoys conversation with her. Mrs Tennyson generally goes too, and says the Queen's manner towards him is childlike and charming, and they both give their opinions freely, even when these differ from the Queen's, which she takes with perfect humour, and is very animated herself.' The Prince-Consort, to whom Tennyson dedicated his _Idylls of the King_, Since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself, had his copy inscribed with the poet's autograph. One most characteristic feature of the Queen's reign was the inauguration, in 1851, of that system of International Exhibitions which has infused a new and larger spirit into commerce, and whose influence as yet only begins to work. The idea came from the Prince-Consort, and was carried out by his unfailing industry, energy, and perseverance. Sir Joseph Paxton's genius raised a palace of crystal in Hyde Park, inclosing within it some of the magnificent trees, few, if any, of which were destroyed by the undertaking. As Thackeray wrote: A blazing arch of lucid glass Leaps like a fountain from the grass To meet the sun. The Queen took the greatest interest in the work, which she felt was her husband's. She visited it almost daily, entering into interested conversation with the manufacturers who had brought their wares for display. The building was opened on the 1st of May, which the Queen names in her diary as 'a day which makes my heart swell with pride and glory and thankfulness.' She dwells lovingly on 'the tremendous cheers, the joy expressed in every face,' adding, 'We feel happy--so full of thankfulness. God is indeed our kind and merciful Father.' After the building had served its purpose, the exhibition building was removed to Sydenham, a London suburb then almost in the country, and opened by the Queen, 10th June 1854. Under its new name of the 'Crystal Palace' it has since been the resort of millions of pleasure-seekers. It was fondly hoped by its promoters that the Great Exhibition would knit the nations together in friendship, and 'inaugurate a long reign of peace.' Yet the year 1851 was not out before Louis Napoleon overthrew the new French Republic, of which he had been elected president, by a _coup d'état_, or 'stroke of policy,' as cruel as it was cowardly. Lord Palmerston's approval of this outrage, without the knowledge of either the Queen or Lord John Russell, procured him his dismissal from the cabinet. Two months later, however, Palmerston 'gave Russell his tit-for-tat,' defeating him over a Militia Bill. In the year 1852, amid the anxieties consequent on the sudden assumption of imperial power by Louis Napoleon, the Queen writes thus to her uncle, King Leopold: 'I grow daily to dislike politics and business more and more. We women are not made for governing, and if we are good women, we must dislike these masculine occupations.' It was about this time that unjust reports were circulated concerning the political influence of Prince Albert, who was represented as 'inimical to the progress of liberty throughout the world, and the friend of reactionary movements and absolute government.' When parliament was opened, the prince was completely vindicated, and his past services to the country, as the bosom counsellor of the sovereign, were made clear. The Queen naturally felt the pain of these calumnies more deeply than did the prince himself, but on the anniversary of her wedding day she could write: 'Trials we must have; but what are they if we are together?' [Illustration: Duke of Wellington.] In 1852 the great Duke of Wellington died, full of years and honours. He passed quietly away in his sleep, in his simple camp-bed in the castle of Walmer. Though he had been opposed to the Reform Bill and many other popular measures, he was still loved and respected by the nation for his high sense of duty and his many sterling qualities. The hero of Waterloo was laid beside the hero of Trafalgar in St Paul's Cathedral. He was lowered into his grave by some of his old comrades-in-arms, who had fought and conquered under him; and from the Queen to the humblest of her subjects, it was felt on that day 'that a great man was dead.' Of his death the Queen wrote: 'What a _loss!_ We cannot think of this country without "the Duke," our immortal hero! In him centred almost every earthly honour a subject could possess.... With what singleness of purpose, what straightforwardness, what courage, were all the motives of his actions guided! The crown never possessed--and I fear never _will_--so devoted, loyal, and faithful a subject, so staunch a supporter.' An eccentric miser, J. C. Neild, who died 30th August 1852, left £250,000 to Her Majesty. This man had pinched and starved himself for thirty years in order to accumulate this sum. The Queen satisfied herself that he had no relations living, before accepting the money. [Illustration: Great Exhibition of 1851.] CHAPTER IV. Chief Public Events, 1837-49--Rebellion in Canada--Opium War with China--Wars in North-west India--Penny Postage--Repeal of the Corn-laws--Potato Famine--Free Trade--Chartism. The Queen had been only a few months on the throne when tidings arrived of a rebellion in Canada. The colonists had long been dissatisfied with the way in which the government was conducted by the mother-country. In the year 1840 Upper and Lower Canada were united into one province, and though the union was not at first a success, the colonists were granted the power of managing their own affairs; and soon came to devote their efforts to developing the resources of the country, and ceased to agitate for complete independence. The principle of union then adopted has since been extended to most of the other North American colonies; and at the present time the Dominion of Canada stretches across the whole breadth of the continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Another contest which marked the early years of the new reign was the inglorious war with China (1839-42). The Chinese are great consumers of opium, a hurtful drug, which produces a sort of dreamy stupor or intoxication. The opium poppy is extensively grown in India, and every year large quantities were exported to China. The government of the latter country, professedly anxious to preserve its subjects from the baneful influence of this drug, entirely prohibited the trade in it. Several cargoes of opium belonging to British merchants were seized and destroyed, and the trading ports closed against our vessels. Our government resented this conduct as an interference with the freedom of commerce, and demanded compensation and the keeping open of the ports. As the Chinese refused to submit to the demands of those whom they considered barbarous foreigners, a British armament was sent to enforce our terms. The Celestials fought bravely enough, but British discipline had all its own way. Neither the antiquated junks nor the flimsily constructed forts of the enemy were any match for our men-of-war. Several ports had been bombarded and Nankin threatened, when the Chinese yielded. They were compelled to pay nearly six millions sterling towards the expenses of the war; to give up to us the island of Hong-Kong; and to throw open Canton, Shanghai, and three other ports to our commerce. During this period also the British took a prominent part in upholding the Sultan of Turkey against his revolted vassal, Mehemet Ali, the Pasha of Egypt. The latter, a very able prince, had overrun Syria; and there seemed every likelihood that he would shortly establish his independence, and add besides a considerable portion of Turkish territory to his dominions. Lord Palmerston, the British foreign minister, however, brought about an alliance with Austria and the eastern powers of Europe to maintain the integrity of the Turkish empire. The Egyptians were driven out of Syria, and the supremacy of the Turks restored. The energetic action of Lord Palmerston at this crisis brought him much popularity; and from this time until his death, twenty-five years later, the nation almost absolutely trusted him in all foreign affairs. [Illustration: Sir Robert Peel.] So necessary at the present day has the penny post become to all classes of the people, that we can scarcely realise how our forefathers managed to live without it. Yet even so recently as the accession of Victoria, the nation was not in the enjoyment of this great blessing. So seldom in those days did a letter reach the abode of a working-man, that when the postman did make his approach, he was thought to be the bearer of news of great importance. The adoption of the penny postage scheme was the only great measure of Lord Melbourne's ministry during the early years of the new reign. The credit of it, however, did not in reality belong to the ministers. The measure was forced upon them by the pressure of public opinion, which had been enlightened by Rowland Hill's pamphlet upon the question. Hill was the son of a Birmingham schoolmaster; and thus, like so many other benefactors of the human race, was of comparatively humble origin. He had thoroughly studied the question of postal reform, and his pamphlet, which was first published in 1837, had a great effect upon the public mind. Previous to this, indeed, several other persons had advocated the reform of the post-office system, and notably Mr Wallace, member of parliament for Greenock. Before 1839, the rates of postage had been very heavy, and varied according to the distance. From one part of London, or any other large town, to another, the rate was 2d.; from London to Brighton, 8d.; to Edinburgh, 1s. 1d.; and to Belfast, 1s. 4d. Some of these charges were almost equal to the daily wages of a labouring-man. There was considerable opposition to the new measure, especially among the officials of the postal department. Many prominent men, too, both in and out of parliament, were afraid it would never pay. The clever and witty Sydney Smith spoke slightingly of it as the 'nonsensical penny postage scheme.' In spite of the objections urged against it, however, it was adopted by parliament in the later part of 1839, and brought into actual operation in January 1840; and the example set by this country has since been followed by all civilised states. Every letter was now to be _prepaid_ by affixing the penny stamp. In this way a letter not exceeding half-an-ounce in weight could be carried to any part of the United Kingdom. In 1871 the rate was reduced to a penny for one ounce. The success of this great measure is best shown by the increase of letters delivered in Great Britain and Ireland: from 85 millions in 1839, the number had more than doubled by 1892. Thus, at the present time, the income from stamps forms no inconsiderable item of the revenue; while it need scarcely be said that the advantages of the penny post, both to business men and the public generally, cannot be over-estimated. Between the years 1839 and 1849 the British were engaged in a series of military enterprises in the north-west of India, which greatly tried the bravery of our soldiers, and were attended even with serious disaster. They resulted, however, in the conquest of the territories in the basin of the Indus, and in establishing the British sway in India more firmly than ever. With the view of averting certain dangers which seemed to threaten our Indian empire in that quarter, the English invaded Afghanistan. The expedition was, in the first instance, completely successful. Candahar and Cabul were both occupied by British troops, and a prince friendly to England was placed upon the throne (1839). The main force then returned to India, leaving garrisons at Candahar and Cabul to keep the hostile tribes in order. The troops left behind at Cabul were destined to terrible disaster. General Elphinstone, who commanded, relying too much on the good faith of the Afghans, omitted to take wise measures of defence. The Afghans secretly planned a revolt against the English, and the general, finding himself cut off from help from India, weakly sought to make terms with the enemy. The Afghans proved treacherous, and General Elphinstone was reduced to begin a retreat through the wild passes towards India. It was a fearful march. The fierce tribes who inhabited the hilly country along the route attacked our forces in front, flank, and rear. It was the depth of winter, and the sepoy troops, benumbed with cold, and unable to make any defence, were cut down without mercy. Of the whole army, to the number of 4500 fighting men and 12,000 camp followers, which had left Cabul, only one man (Dr Brydon) reached Jellalabad in safety. All the rest had perished or been taken captive. As soon as the news of this disaster reached India, prompt steps were taken to punish the Afghans and rescue the prisoners who had been left in their hands. General Pollock fought his way through the Khyber Pass, and reached Jellalabad. He then pushed forward to Cabul, and on the way the soldiers were maddened by the sight of the skeletons of their late comrades, which lay bleaching on the hill-sides along the route. They exacted a terrible vengeance wherever they met the foe, and the Afghans fled into their almost inaccessible mountains. General Nott, with the force from Candahar, united with Pollock at Cabul. The English prisoners were safely restored to their anxious friends. After levelling the fortifications of Cabul, the entire force left the country. Shortly afterwards, war broke out with the Ameers of Scinde, a large province occupying the basin of the lower Indus. The British commander, Sir Charles Napier, speedily proved to the enemy that the spirit of the British army had not failed since the days of Plassey. With a force of only 3000 men, he attacked and completely defeated two armies much superior in numbers (1843). The result of these two victories--Meanee and Dubba--was the annexation of Scinde to the British dominions. The main stream of the Indus is formed by the junction of five smaller branches. The large and fertile tract of country watered by these tributary streams is named the Punjab, or the land of the 'five waters.' It was inhabited by a people called the Sikhs, who, at first a religious sect, have gradually become the bravest and fiercest warriors in India. They had a numerous army, which was rendered more formidable by a large train of artillery and numerous squadrons of daring cavalry. After being long friendly to us, disturbances had arisen among them; the army became mutinous and demanded to be led against the British. Much severe fighting took place; at length, after a series of victories, gained mainly by the use of the bayonet, the British army pushed on to Lahore, the capital, and the Sikhs surrendered (1846). Three years later they again rose; but after some further engagements, their main army was routed with great slaughter by Lord Gough, in the battle of Gujerat. The territory of the Punjab was thereupon added to our Indian empire. The terrible famine which was passing over Ireland (1846-47), owing to the failure of the potato crop, had to be dealt with by the ministry. The sufferings of the Irish peasantry during this trying time were most fearful; and sympathy was keenly aroused in this country. Parliament voted large sums of money to relieve the distress as much as possible, the government started public works to find employment for the poor, and their efforts were nobly seconded by the generosity of private individuals. But so great had been the suffering that the population of Ireland was reduced from eight to six millions during this period. The measure for which Peel's ministry will always be famous was the Repeal of the Corn-laws. The population of the country was rapidly increasing; and as there were now more mouths to fill, it became more than ever necessary to provide a cheap and plentiful supply of bread to fill them. For several years the nation had been divided into two parties on this question. Those who were in favour of protection for the British wheat-grower were called Protectionists, while those who wished to abolish the corn-duties styled themselves Free-traders. In the year 1839 an Anti-Corn-law League had been formed for the purpose of spreading free-trade doctrines among the people. It had its headquarters at Manchester, and hence the statesmen who took the leading part in it were frequently called the 'Manchester Party.' There being no building at that time large enough to hold the meetings in, a temporary wooden structure was erected, the site of which is marked by the present Free-trade Hall. The guiding spirit of the league was Richard Cobden, a cotton manufacturer, who threw himself heart and soul into the cause. He was assisted by many other able men, the chief of whom was the great orator, John Bright. Branches of the league were soon established in all the towns of the kingdom, and a paid body of lecturers was employed to carry on the agitation and draw recruits into its ranks. At the beginning of the year 1845, owing to the success of Peel's financial measures, the nation was in a state of great prosperity and contentment; and there seemed little hope that the repealers would be able to carry their scheme for some time to come. Before the year was out, however, the aspect of affairs was completely changed. As John Bright said years afterwards, 'Famine itself, against which we had warred, joined us.' There was a failure in the harvest, both the corn and potato crops being blighted. Things in this country were bad enough; but they were far worse in Ireland, where famine and starvation stared the people in the face. Under these circumstances the demand for free-trade grew stronger and stronger; and the league had the satisfaction of gaining over to its ranks no less a person than Sir Robert Peel himself. When Peel announced his change of opinion in the House of Commons, the anger of the Protectionists, who were chiefly Conservatives, knew no bounds. They considered they had been betrayed by the leader whom they had trusted and supported. Mr Disraeli, in a speech of great bitterness, taunted the prime-minister with his change of views. His speech was cheered to the echo by the angry Protectionists; and from this moment Disraeli became the spokesman and leader of that section of the Conservative party which was opposed to repeal. The next year a measure for the repeal of the corn-laws was introduced into parliament by the prime-minister. In spite of the fierce opposition of Mr Disraeli and his friends, it passed both Houses by large majorities. At the close of the debates, Peel frankly acknowledged that the honour of passing this great measure was due, not to himself, but to Richard Cobden. On the very day on which the Corn Bill passed the Lords, the Peel ministry was defeated in the Commons on a question of Irish coercion, and had to resign. [Illustration: The Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava.] The fall of the government was brought about by the Protectionists, who on this occasion united with their Whig opponents for the purpose of being avenged upon their old leader. Peel bore his retirement with great dignity, and firmly refused to accept any honours either for himself or his family. Four years afterwards, he was thrown from his horse while riding up Constitution Hill, and the injuries he received caused his death in a few days. A monument was erected to him in Westminster Abbey. On its base are inscribed the closing words of the speech in which he announced his resignation: 'It may be that I shall leave a name sometimes remembered with expressions of good-will in the abodes of those whose lot it is to labour, and to earn their daily bread by the sweat of their brow, when they shall recruit their exhausted strength with abundant and untaxed food, the sweeter because it is no longer leavened with a sense of injustice.' On the retirement of Sir Robert Peel from office in 1846, Lord John Russell became prime-minister, with Lord Palmerston as foreign secretary. No very great measures were passed by the new ministry, but the policy of free trade recently adopted by the country was steadily carried out. But, although parliament did not occupy itself with any very important reforms during his tenure of office, Lord Russell had his hands quite full in other respects. Chartism came to a head during this period; and besides this, there were fresh difficulties in Ireland in store for the new premier. For ten years during the early part of the reign of Victoria, Chartism was like a dark shadow over the land, causing much uneasiness among peaceable and well-disposed persons. The Reform Bill of 1832 had disappointed the expectations of the working-classes. They themselves had not been enfranchised by it; and to this fact they were ready to ascribe the poverty and wretchedness which still undoubtedly existed among them. It was not long, therefore, before an agitation was set on foot for the purpose of bringing about a further reform of parliament. At a meeting held in Birmingham (1838), the People's Charter was drawn up. It contained six 'points' which henceforward were to be the watchwords of the party, until they succeeded in carrying them into law. These points were (1) universal suffrage; (2) annual parliaments; (3) vote by ballot; (4) the right of any one to sit in parliament, irrespective of property; (5) the payment of members; and (6) the redistribution of the country into equal electoral districts. The agitation came to a head in 1848. Britain had thus her own 'little flutter' of revolution, like so many other European countries during that memorable year. On the 10th of April, the Chartists were to muster on Kennington Common half a million strong. Headed by O'Connor, they were then to enter London in procession bearing a monster petition to parliament insisting on their six 'points.' The demonstration, however, which had called forth all these preparations, proved a miserable failure. Instead of half a million people, only some twenty or thirty thousand appeared at the place of meeting, and the peace of the capital was not in the least disturbed. From this time Chartism fell into contempt, and speedily died out. Of the six 'points,' all but the second and fifth have since that time become the law of the land, as the growing requirements of the nation have seemed to render them necessary. CHAPTER V. The Crimean War, 1854-55--Siege of Sebastopol--Balaklava--Inkermann--Interest of the Queen and Prince-Consort in the suffering Soldiers--Florence Nightingale--Distribution of Victoria Crosses by the Queen. For a long time the Turkish empire had been gradually falling into decay, and the possessions of the Turk--the 'sick man,' as he has been aptly termed--had excited the greed of neighbouring countries. Russia especially had made several attempts to put an end to the 'sick man' by violent means, and seize upon his rich inheritance. The year 1853 seemed to the Czar Nicholas to be a favourable time for accomplishing his designs against Turkey. Great Britain and France both vigorously remonstrated against the proceedings of the Czar; but believing that neither of them would fight, he commanded his armies to cross the Pruth into Turkish territory. By this step the 'dogs of war' were once more slipped in Europe, after a peace of forty years' duration. The Russian forces pushed on for the Danube, doubtless expecting to cross that river and take possession of the long-wished-for prize of Constantinople before the western powers had made up their minds whether to fight or not. To their disappointment, however, the Russians met with a most stubborn resistance from the Turks, and utterly failed to take the fortress of Silistria, where the besieged were encouraged and directed by some British officers. Meanwhile, the queen of Great Britain and the emperor of France had both declared war against Russia, March 28, 1854. Before long, our fleets were scouring the Baltic and the Black seas, chasing and capturing every Russian vessel which dared to venture out, bombarding the fortresses, and blockading the seaports. Two armies also were sent out to the assistance of Turkey; the British force being commanded by Lord Raglan, and the French by Marshal St Arnaud. The Turks having repulsed the Russian armies on the Danube, the allies resolved to invade the peninsula of the Crimea, and make an assault upon the Russian fortress of Sebastopol. The great fortress was a standing menace to Turkey; and to effect its destruction seemed the likeliest means of humbling Russia and bringing the war to a close. Accordingly a landing of the allied forces--British, French, and Turkish--to the number of 54,000 men, was made on the Crimea, at Eupatoria, no opposition being offered by the enemy. The army then set forward along the coast toward the Russian stronghold, the fleet accompanying it by sea. In order to bar the progress of the allied forces, the Russian army of the Crimea was strongly posted on a ridge of heights, with the small stream of the Alma in front, September 20, 1854. After a severe struggle the heights were gallantly stormed, and the Russians retreated towards Sebastopol. The allied armies now laid siege to Sebastopol. It went on for a year, during which the invaders were exposed to many hardships from the assaults of the foe, and the severity of the climate during the winter months. Before the year was out, also, both Lord Raglan and the French general died, and their places were taken by others. Nor did the Czar Nicholas live to witness the result of the war which he had commenced. His son, Alexander, made no change, however, but trod in the footsteps of his sire. In the early days of the siege, and before the allies had got reinforcements from home, the Russians made several formidable attacks upon the camp. Their first attempt was directed against the British lines, with the design of capturing the port of Balaklava, October 25, 1854. They were gallantly repulsed, however, chiefly by Sir Colin Campbell and his Highlanders, who firmly stood their ground against the charge of the Russian horse. The British cavalry, advancing to the assistance of the infantry, cut through the masses of their opponents as if they had been men of straw. It was in this battle that the famous charge of the Light Brigade took place, when, owing to some misunderstanding on the part of the commanders, six hundred of our light horsemen, entirely unsupported, rode at full gallop upon the Russian batteries. It was a brilliant but disastrous feat; in the space of a few minutes, four hundred of the gallant men were uselessly sacrificed. 'It is magnificent, but it is not war,' was the remark of a French general. Shortly afterwards occurred the desperate fight of Inkermann, November 5, 1854, where about 8000 British troops bravely stood their ground for hours against 40,000 Russians. Upon their ammunition running short, some of our brave men, rather than retreat, hurled volleys of stones at the foe. Ultimately, a strong body of the French came to their aid, and the Russians were driven from the field. Not long after this encounter, the besiegers met with a disaster which did them more harm than all the assaults of the Russian hordes. A terrific storm swept across the Black Sea and the Crimea, November 14, 1854. A great number of the vessels in Balaklava harbour were wrecked, and there was an immense loss of stores of all kinds intended for the troops. The hurricane also produced the most dreadful consequences on land. Tents were blown down, fires extinguished, and food and cooking utensils destroyed. The poor soldiers, drenched to the skin, and without so much as a dry blanket to wrap round them, had to pass the dreary night as best they could upon the soft wet ground. For some time afterwards there was a great scarcity of food and clothing and other necessaries, and much suffering was endured during the long dreary winter. When tidings of these misfortunes reached England there was much indignation against the government, and especially against the officials whose duty it was to keep the army properly supplied with stores. The prime-minister, the Earl of Aberdeen, resigned, and was succeeded by Lord Palmerston. Vigorous steps were now taken to provide for the comfort of the troops, and in a short time the camp was abundantly supplied with everything necessary. All through the following summer the siege operations went on. Nearer and nearer approached the trenches towards the doomed city, which at intervals was subjected to a terrific bombardment from hundreds of guns. The allied armies had been strongly reinforced from home, and had also been joined by a Sardinian force, so that the Russians no longer ventured to attack them so frequently. At length the advances of the allies were completed, and the final cannonade took place, and lasted for three days. The storming columns then carried the main forts; and the Russians, finding that further resistance was useless, evacuated the town during the night, and the following day it was taken possession of by the combined armies. With the capture of Sebastopol, 8th Sept., 1855, the war was virtually at an end, though peace was not formally declared till six months afterwards by the Treaty of Paris. The Queen and prince watched intently every movement of the tremendous drama. In the terrible winter of 1855, the Queen's thoughts were with her troops, suffering in the inclement weather, amid arrangements that proved miserably inadequate to their needs. On 6th December 1854, the Queen wrote the following letter to Mr Sidney Herbert, Secretary of War. 'Would you tell Mrs Herbert that I begged she would let me see frequently the accounts she receives from Miss Nightingale or Mrs Bracebridge, as I hear no details of the wounded, though I see so many from officers, &c., about the battlefield; and naturally the former must interest me more than any one. Let Mrs Herbert also know that I wish Miss Nightingale and the ladies would tell these poor, noble, wounded and sick men that no one takes a warmer interest, or feels more for their sufferings, or admires their courage and heroism more than their Queen. Day and night she thinks of her beloved troops; so does the prince.' With her own hands she made comforters, mittens, and other articles of clothing, for distribution among the soldiers, and she wrote to Lord Raglan that she 'had heard that their coffee was given to them green, instead of roasted, and some other things of this kind, which had distressed her, and she besought that they should be made as comfortable as circumstances can admit.' The little princes and princesses contributed their childish but very pretty drawings to an exhibition which was opened for the benefit of the soldiers' widows and children. As the disabled soldiers returned to this country, the Queen and the prince took the earliest opportunity of ascertaining by personal observation in what condition they were, and how they were cared for. And when the war was over, Miss Florence Nightingale, the soldier's nurse and friend, was an honoured guest in the royal family, 'putting before us,' writes the prince, 'all the defects of our present military hospital system, and the reforms that are needed.' On 5th March 1855, the Queen wrote to Lord Panmure suggesting the necessity of hospitals for sick and wounded soldiers, which eventually took shape in the great military hospital at Netley. [Illustration: Victoria Cross.] Victoria Crosses were distributed by the Queen in Hyde Park, 26th June 1857, to those soldiers who had performed special acts of bravery in presence of the enemy. This decoration was instituted at the close of the Crimean War, and has since been conferred from time to time. It is in the form of a Maltese cross, and is made of bronze. In the centre are the royal arms, surmounted by the lion, and below, in a scroll, the words 'For Valour.' The ribbon is blue for the navy, and red for the army. On the clasp are two branches of laurel, and from it the cross hangs, supported by the initial 'V.' [Illustration: Massacre at Cawnpore.] CHAPTER VI. The Indian Mutiny, 1857-58--Cause of the Mutiny--Massacre of Cawnpore--Relief of Lucknow--The Queen's Letter to Lord Canning. Exactly one hundred years after Clive had laid the foundation of our empire in India by the victory of Plassey, events occurred in that country which completely cast into the shade the tragic incident of the 'Black Hole' of Calcutta. During the century which had elapsed since the days of Clive, the British power had been extended, till nearly the whole of the great peninsula from the Himalaya Mountains to Cape Comorin was subject to our sway. A native army had been formed, which far outnumbered the British force maintained there. The loyalty of these sepoy troops had not hitherto been suspected; and in fact they had frequently given proofs of their fidelity in the frontier wars. Unsuspected by the officers, a spirit of discontent had been gradually spreading among the sepoy regiments. An impression had become prevalent among them that the British government intended forcing them to give up their ancient faith and become Christians. Just about this time, the new Enfield rifle was distributed among them in place of the old 'brown Bess.' The cartridges intended for this weapon were greased; and as the ends of them had to be bitten off before use, the sepoys fancied that the fat of the cow--an animal they had been taught to consider sacred--had been purposely used in order to degrade them, and make them lose caste. The fierce temper of the sepoys was now thoroughly roused, and a general mutiny took place. It commenced at Meerut, where the native troops rose against their officers, and put them to death, and then took possession of the ancient city of Delhi, which remained in their hands for some months. The rebellion quickly spread to other towns, and for a short time a great portion of the north and centre of India was in the power of the rebels. Wherever they got the upper hand, they were guilty of shocking deeds of cruelty upon the Europeans. The British troops which were stationed in different places offered the most heroic resistance to the rebels, and the mutiny was at length suppressed. Of all the incidents of that terrible year, two stand out in bold relief, on account of the thrilling interest attaching to them. These are the massacre of Cawnpore and the relief of Lucknow. Cawnpore, which was in the heart of the disaffected area, contained about a thousand Europeans, of whom two-thirds were women and children. The defensive post into which they had thrown themselves at the beginning of the outbreak was speedily surrounded by an overwhelming number of the mutineers, led on by the infamous Nana Sahib. The few defenders held out bravely for a time, but at last surrendered on a promise of being allowed to depart in safety. The sepoys accompanied them to the river-side, but as soon as the men were on board the boats, a murderous fire was opened upon them, and only one man escaped. The women and children, being reserved for a still more cruel fate, were carried back to Cawnpore. Hearing that General Havelock was approaching with a body of troops for the relief of the place, Nana Sahib marched out to intercept him, but was driven back. Smarting under this defeat, he returned to Cawnpore, and gave directions for the instant massacre of his helpless prisoners. His orders were promptly carried out by his troops, under circumstances of the most shocking cruelty. Shortly afterwards, Havelock and his little army arrived, but only to find, to their unutterable grief, that they were too late to rescue their unfortunate countrywomen and their children. [Illustration: Relief of Lucknow.] Havelock now marched to the relief of Lucknow, where the British garrison, under Sir Henry Lawrence, was surrounded by thousands of the rebels. Havelock encountered the enemy over and over again on his march, and inflicted defeat upon them. Step by step, our men fought their way into the fort at Lucknow, where, if they could not relieve their friends, they could remain and die with them. But this was not to be. Another deliverer with a stronger force was coming swiftly up; and very soon the ears of the anxious defenders were gladdened by the martial sound of the bagpipes, playing 'The Campbells are coming;' and shortly afterwards, Sir Colin Campbell and his gallant Highlanders--the victors of Balaklava--were grasping the hands of their brother veterans, who were thus at length relieved. The brave Lawrence had died from his wounds before Sir Colin arrived, and Havelock only survived a few weeks. He lived long enough, however, to see that by his heroic efforts he had upheld Britain's power in her darkest moment; and that her forces were now coming on with irresistible might, to complete the work which he had so gallantly begun. The power of the rebels in that quarter was now broken. In Central India Sir Hugh Rose had been equally successful; and the heroic deeds of the British troops in suppressing the revolt cannot be better described than in the words of this general, in addressing his soldiers after the triumph was achieved: 'Soldiers, you have marched more than a thousand miles and taken more than a hundred guns; you have forced your way through mountain-passes and intricate jungles, and over rivers; you have captured the strongest forts, and beat the enemy, no matter what the odds, wherever you met them; you have restored extensive districts to the government; and peace and order now reign where before for twelve months were tyranny and rebellion.' This rising led to an alteration in the government of India. The old East India Company was abolished, and its power transferred to the crown, which is represented in parliament by a secretary of state, and in India by a viceroy. More recently the Queen received the title of Empress of India. When the mutiny was quelled, nobody deprecated more than the Queen did the vindictiveness with which a certain section of the English people desired to treat all the countrymen of the military mutineers whose reported atrocities had roused their indignation. The Queen wrote to Lord Canning that she shared 'his feelings of sorrow and indignation at the unchristian spirit shown towards Indians in general and towards sepoys without discrimination.... To the nation at large--to the peaceable inhabitants--to the many kind and friendly natives who have assisted us, sheltered the fugitives, and been faithful and true--there should be shown the greatest kindness.... The greatest wish on their Queen's part is to see them happy, contented, and flourishing.' CHAPTER VII. Marriage of the Princess Royal--Carriage Accident--Twenty-first Anniversary of Wedding-day--Death of the Prince-Consort. Meanwhile a domestic incident had made a great change in the royal family. The Princess Royal had become engaged to Prince Frederick-William of Prussia (for three months Emperor of Germany), and the marriage came off on the 25th of January 1858. It was the first break in the home circle. The Queen recorded it in her diary as 'the second most eventful day in my life as regards feelings.' Before the wedding, the Queen and her daughter were photographed together, but the Queen 'trembled so, that her likeness came out indistinct.' The correspondence between the mother and her daughter began and continued, close and confidential, full of trusting affection and solicitous wisdom. [Illustration: Prince-Consort.] On November 9, 1858, the Prince of Wales celebrated his eighteenth birthday. Mr Greville in his journal tells us that on that occasion the Queen wrote her son 'one of the most admirable letters that ever were penned.' She told him that he may have thought the rule they adopted for his education a severe one, but that his welfare was their only object, and well knowing to what seductions of flattery he would eventually be exposed, they wished to prepare and strengthen his mind against them; that he must now consider himself his own master, and that they should never intrude any advice upon him, although always ready to counsel him whenever he thought fit to attend. This was a very long letter, which the prince received with a feeling that proved the wisdom which dictated it. In 1860, while travelling with the Queen in Germany, the Prince-Consort met with a severe carriage accident, his comparative escape from which left the Queen full of happy thanksgiving, though, as she herself says, 'when she feels most deeply, she always appears calmest.' But, she added, she 'could not rest without doing something to mark permanently her feelings. In times of old,' she considered, 'a church or a monument would probably have been erected on the spot.' But her desire was to do something which might benefit her fellow-creatures. The outgrowth of this true impulse of the Queen's was the establishment of the 'Victoria Stift' at Coburg, whereby sums of money are applied in apprenticing worthy young men or in purchasing tools for them, and in giving dowries to deserving young women or otherwise settling them in life. In the course of the same year the Queen's second daughter, Princess Alice, afterwards the friend and companion of her mother's first days of widowhood, was betrothed to Prince Louis of Hesse. In February 1861, the Queen and the Prince-Consort kept the twenty-first anniversary of their wedding-day--'a day which has brought us,' says the Queen, 'and I may say, to the world at large, such incalculable blessings. Very few can say with me,' she adds, 'that their husband at the end of twenty-one years is not only full of the friendship, kindness, and affection which a truly happy marriage brings with it, but of the same tender love as in the very first days of our marriage.' The Prince-Consort wrote to the aged Duchess of Kent, 'You have, I trust, found good and loving children in us, and we have experienced nothing but love and kindness from you.' Alas! it was the death of that beloved mother which was to cast the first of the many shadows which have since fallen upon the royal home. The duchess died, after a slight illness, rather suddenly at last, the Queen and the prince reaching her side too late for any recognition. It was a terrible blow to the Queen: she wrote to her uncle Leopold that she felt 'truly orphaned.' Her sister, the Princess Hohenlohe, daughter of the Duchess of Kent by her first marriage, could not come to England at the time, but wrote letters full of sympathy and inspiration; yet Her Majesty became very nervous, and was inclined to shrink into solitude, even from her children, and to find comfort nowhere but with the beloved consort who was himself so soon to be taken from her. The great blow which made the royal lady a widow, and deprived the whole country of the throne's wisest and most disinterested counsellor, came on the 14th of December 1861. In the year 1861, what with public and private anxieties, the prince felt ill and feverish, and miserable. He passed his last birthday on a visit to Ireland, where the Prince of Wales was serving in the camp at the Curragh of Kildare. From Ireland, the Queen, the prince, Prince Alfred, and the Princesses Alice and Helena went to Balmoral; and there the prince enjoyed his favourite pastime of deer-stalking. On the return to Windsor in October, the Queen began to be anxious about her husband. One of the last letters of the prince was to his daughter the Crown Princess of Prussia, on her twenty-first birthday, and it shows the noble spirit which animated his whole career. 'May your life, which has begun beautifully, expand still further to the good of others and the contentment of your own mind! True inward happiness is to be sought only in the internal consciousness of effort systematically devoted to good and useful ends. Success, indeed, depends upon the blessing which the Most High sees meet to vouchsafe to our endeavours. May this success not fail you, and may your outward life leave you unhurt by the storms to which the sad heart so often looks forward with a shrinking dread.' In conversation with the Queen, he seemed to have a presentiment that he had not long to live. 'I do not cling to life; you do, but I set no store by it. If I knew that those I love were well cared for, I should be quite ready to die to-morrow.... I am sure, if I had a severe illness, I should give up at once. I should not struggle for life.' The fatigue and exposure which he underwent on a visit to Sandhurst to inspect the buildings for the Staff College and Royal Military Hospital, there is no doubt, injured his delicate health. Next Sunday he was full of rheumatic pains; he had already suffered greatly from rheumatism during the previous fortnight. One of his last services to his country was to write a memorandum in connection with the _Trent_ complications; which suggestions were adopted by British ministers and forwarded to the United States. He attended church on Sunday, 1st December, but looked very ill. Dr Jenner was sent for, and for the next few days he grew worse, with symptoms of gastric or low fever. Another account says: 'The anxious Queen, still bowed down by the remembrance of the recent death of her mother, the Duchess of Kent, went through her state duties as one "in a dreadful dream." Sunday, the 8th, saw the prince in a more dangerous condition. Of this day one of the Queen's household, in a letter written shortly afterwards, says: "The last Sunday Prince Albert passed on earth was a very blessed one for Princess Alice to look back upon. He was very weak and very ill, and she spent the afternoon alone with him while the others were at church. He begged to have the sofa drawn to the window that he might see the sky and the clouds sailing past. He then asked her to play to him, and she went through several of his favourite hymns and chorales. After she had played some time she looked round and saw him lying back, his hands folded as if in prayer, and his eyes shut. He lay so long without moving that she thought he had fallen asleep. Presently he looked up and smiled. She said, 'Were you asleep, dear papa?' 'Oh no!' he answered; 'only I have such sweet thoughts.' During his illness his hands were often folded in prayer; and when he did not speak, his serene face showed that the 'sweet thoughts' were with him to the end." 'On the afternoon of Saturday, the 14th of December, it was evident that the end was near. "_Gutes Frauchen_" ("Good little wife") were his last loving words to the Queen as he kissed her and then rested his head upon her shoulder. A little while afterwards the Queen bent over him and said, "_Es ist kleins Frauchen_" ("It is little wife"); the prince evidently knew her, although he could not speak, and bowed his head in response. Without apparent suffering he quietly sank to rest, and towards eleven o'clock it was seen that the soul had left its earthly tabernacle. The well-known hymn beginning-- Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee, had been the favourite of Prince Albert in his last illness. His physician expressed one day the hope that he would be better in a few days; but the prince replied, "No, I shall not recover, but I am not taken by surprise; _ I am not afraid, I trust I am prepared _." 'When the end came' (we quote the beautiful words of the biographer) 'in the solemn hush of that mournful chamber there was such grief as has rarely hallowed any death-bed. A great light, which had blessed the world, and which the mourners had but yesterday hoped might long bless it, was waning fast away. A husband, a father, a friend, a master, endeared by every quality by which man in such relations can win the love of his fellow-men, was passing into the silent land, and his loving glance, his wise counsels, his firm, manly thought should be known among them no more. The castle clock chimed the third quarter after ten. Calm and peaceful grew the beloved form; the features settled into the beauty of a perfectly serene repose; two or three long but gentle breaths were drawn; and that great soul had fled to seek a nobler scope for its aspirations in the world within the veil, for which it had often yearned, where there is rest for the weary, and where the "spirits of the just are made perfect."' The funeral took place on the 23d December, at Frogmore, and the Prince of Wales was the chief mourner. The words on the coffin were as follow: 'Here lies the most illustrious and exalted Albert, Prince-Consort, Duke of Saxony, Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Knight of the most noble Order of the Garter, the most beloved husband of the most august and potent Queen Victoria. He died on the 14th day of December 1861, in the forty-third year of his age.' A Prince indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, through all time, Albert the Good. On that sad Christmas which followed the prince's death the usual festivities were omitted in the royal household, and the nation mourned in unison with the Queen for the great and good departed. It has been well said by a distinguished writer that it was only 'since his death, and chiefly since the Queen's own generous and tender impulse prompted her to make the nation the confidant of her own great love and happiness, that the Prince-Consort has had full justice.... Perhaps, if truth were told, he was too uniformly noble, too high above all soil and fault, to win the fickle popular admiration, which is more caught by picturesque irregularity than by the higher perfections of a wholly worthy life.' CHAPTER VIII. The Queen in Mourning--Death of Princess Alice--Illness of Prince of Wales--The Family of the Queen--Opening of Indian Exhibition and Imperial Institute--Jubilee--Jubilee Statue--Death of Duke of Clarence--Address to the Nation on the marriage of Princess May. Henceforth the great Queen was 'written widow,' and while striving nobly in her loneliness to fulfil those public functions, in which she had hitherto been so faithfully companioned, she shrank at first from courtly pageantry and from the gay whirl of London life, and lived chiefly in the quiet homes which she had always loved best, at Osborne and Balmoral. When she has come out among her people, it has chiefly been for the sake of some public benefit for the poor and the suffering. At times there have been murmurs against the Queen for failing in her widowhood to maintain the gaieties and extravagances of an open court in the capital of her dominions. It was said that 'trade was bad therefore,' and times of depression and want of employment were attributed to this cause. The nation is growing wiser. It is seen that true prosperity does not consist merely in the quick circulation of money--above all, certainly not in the transference of wealth gained from the tillers of the soil to the classes which minister solely to vanity and luxury. A few months after her father's death, the Princess Alice married her betrothed, Prince Louis, and since her own death (on the same day of the year as her father's) in the year 1878, we have had an opportunity of looking into the royal household from the point of view of a daughter and a sister. The Prince-Consort's death-bed made a very close tie between the Queen and the Princess Alice, who herself had a full share of womanly sorrow in her comparatively short life, and the tone of perfect self-abnegation which pervades her letters is very touching. On that fatal 14th December 1878, the first of the Queen's children was taken from her. The Princess Alice fell a victim to her kind-hearted care while nursing those of her family ill with diphtheria. Her last inquiries were about poor and sick people in her little capital. And the day before she died, she expressed to Sir William Jenner her regret that she should cause her mother so much anxiety. The Queen in a letter thanked her subjects for their sympathy with her loss of a dear child, who was 'a bright example of loving tenderness, courageous devotion, and self-sacrifice to duty.' In 1863, on the 10th of March, the Prince of Wales married the Princess Alexandra of Denmark, and in 1871, when the fatal date, the 14th of December came round, he lay at the point of death, suffering precisely as his father had done. But his life was spared, and in the following spring, accompanied by the Queen and by his young wife, and in the presence of all the power, the genius, and the rank of the realm, he made solemn thanksgiving in St Paul's Cathedral. On the 3rd November 1871, Mr H. M. Stanley, a young newspaper correspondent, succeeded in finding Dr Livingstone. This was but the beginning of greater enterprises, for, catching the noble enthusiasm which characterised Livingstone, Stanley afterwards crossed the Dark Continent, and revealed the head-waters of the Congo. Again he plunged into Africa and succoured Emin Pasha, whose death was announced in the autumn of 1893. To Mr Stanley, Lord Granville, then Foreign Secretary, sent the present of a gold snuff-box set with diamonds, and the following letter: 'Sir--I have great satisfaction in conveying to you, by command of the Queen, Her Majesty's high appreciation of the prudence and zeal which you have displayed in opening a communication with Dr Livingstone, relieving Her Majesty from the anxiety which, in common with her subjects, she had felt in regard to the fate of that distinguished traveller. The Queen desires me to express her thanks for the service you have thus rendered, together with Her Majesty's congratulations on your having so successfully carried out the mission which you so fearlessly undertook.' The most notable events of the year 1873 were the death of the Emperor Napoleon III. in his exile at Chiselhurst, and the visit of the Shah of Persia, who was received by Her Majesty in state at Windsor. The Prince of Wales made almost a royal tour through India in 1875-76, and early in the following year witnessed the proclamation of the Queen as Empress of India. In 1886 the Queen opened the Colonial and Indian Exhibition at Kensington, the results of which, financially and otherwise, were highly satisfactory. On 21st June 1887, Her Majesty completed the fiftieth year of her reign, and the occasion was made one of rejoicing not only in Britain, but in all parts of our world-wide empire. In every town and village of the kingdom, by high and low, rich and poor, tribute was paid, in one way or other, to a reign which, above all others, has been distinguished for the splendour of its achievements in arts, science, and literature, as well as for its great commercial progress. One notable feature was the release of 23,307 prisoners in India. The Jubilee presents were exhibited in St James's Palace, and afterwards in Bethnal Green Museum, and attracted large crowds of sight-seers. The Jubilee celebrations were brought to a close by a naval review in the presence of the Queen at Spithead. The fleet assembled numbered 135 war-vessels, with 20,200 officers and men, and 500 guns. Early in 1887 a movement was set afoot in order to found in London an Imperial Institute as a permanent memorial of the Queen's Jubilee. Her Majesty laid the foundation stone on July 4, 1887, and it was formally opened in 1893. A movement was also commenced having for its object the receiving of contributions towards a personal Jubilee offering to the Queen, from the women and girls of all classes, grades, and ages throughout the United Kingdom. A leaflet was written for general distribution, which ran as follows: 'The women and girls of the United Kingdom, of all ages, ranks, classes, beliefs, and opinions, are asked to join in one common offering to their Queen, in token of loyalty, affection, and reverence, towards the only female sovereign in history who, for fifty years, has borne the toils and troubles of public life, known the sorrows that fall to all women, and as wife, mother, widow, and ruler held up a bright and spotless example to her own and all other nations. Contributions to range from one penny to one pound. The nature of the offering will be decided by the Queen herself, and the names of all contributors will be presented to Her Majesty.' The Queen selected as this women's Jubilee gift a replica of Baron Marochetti's Glasgow statue of Prince Albert, to be placed in Windsor Great Park, opposite the statue of herself in Windsor. The amount reached £75,000; nearly 3,000,000 had subscribed, and the statue was unveiled by the Queen, May 12, 1890. The surplus was devoted to founding an institution for promoting the education and maintenance of nurses for the sick poor in their own homes. In connection with the Jubilee the Queen addressed the following letter to her people: WINDSOR CASTLE, _June_ 24, 1887. I am anxious to express to my people my warm thanks for the kind, and more than kind, reception I met with on going to and returning from Westminster Abbey, with all my children and grandchildren. The enthusiastic reception I met with then, as well as on all these eventful days, in London, as well as in Windsor, on the occasion of my Jubilee, has touched me most deeply. It has shown that the labour and anxiety of fifty long years, twenty-two of which I spent in unclouded happiness shared and cheered by my beloved husband, while an equal number were full of sorrows and trials, borne without his sheltering arm and wise help, have been appreciated by my people. This feeling and the sense of duty towards my dear country and subjects, who are so inseparably bound up with my life, will encourage me in my task, often a very difficult and arduous one, during the remainder of my life. The wonderful order preserved on this occasion, and the good behaviour of the enormous multitudes assembled, merits my highest admiration. That God may protect and abundantly bless my country is my fervent prayer. VICTORIA, R. & I. [Illustration: Windsor Castle.] When a Jubilee Memorial Statue of the Queen, presented by the tenantry and servants on Her Majesty's estates, was unveiled by the Prince of Wales at Balmoral, the Queen in her reply said, she was 'deeply touched at the grateful terms in which you have alluded to my long residence among you. The great devotion shown to me and mine, and the sympathy I have met with while here, have ever added to the joys and lightened the sorrows of my life.' In the Jubilee year the Queen did not grudge to traverse the great east end of London, that she might grace with her presence the opening of 'the People's Palace.' But we have not space to notice one half of the public functions performed by the Queen. On June 28, 1893, a Jubilee statue of the Queen, executed by Princess Louise, was unveiled at Broad Walk, Kensington. The statue, of white marble, represents the Queen in a sitting position, wearing her crown and coronation robes, whilst the right hand holds the sceptre. The windows of Kensington Palace--indeed the room in which Her Majesty received the news of her accession to the throne--command a view of the memorial, which faces the round pond. The likeness is a good one of Her Majesty in her youth. The pedestal bears the following inscription: 'VICTORIA R., 1837. 'In front of the Palace where she was born, and where she lived till her accession, her loyal subjects of Kensington placed this statue, the work of her daughter, to commemorate fifty years of her reign.' Sir A. Borthwick read an address to the Queen on behalf of the inhabitants of Kensington, in which they heartily welcomed her to the scene of her birth and early years, and of the accession to the throne, 'whence by God's blessing she had so gloriously directed the destinies of her people and of that world-wide empire which, under the imperial sway, had made such vast progress in extent and wealth as well as in development of science, art, and culture.' The statue representing Her Majesty at the date of accession would, they trusted, ever be cherished, not for its artistic merit only, and as being the handiwork of Her Majesty's beloved daughter, Princess Louise, who had so skilfully traced the lineaments of a sovereign most illustrious of her line, but also as the only statue representing the Queen at that early date. The Queen, in reply, said: 'I thank you sincerely for your loyal address, and for the kind wish to commemorate my jubilee by the erection of a statue of myself on the spot where I was born and lived till my accession. It gives me great pleasure to be here on this occasion in my dear old home, and to witness the unveiling of this fine statue so admirably designed and executed by my daughter.' All the Queen's children are now married. The Princess Helena became Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein. The Princess Louise has gone somewhat out of the usual course of British princesses and in 1871 married the Marquis of Lorne, Duke of Argyll since 1900. Him the Queen described on her visit to Inveraray in 1847 as 'a dear, white, fat, fair little fellow, with reddish hair but very delicate features.' The Princess Beatrice, of whom we all think as the daughter who stayed at home with her mother, became the wife of Prince Henry of Battenberg, without altogether surrendering her filial position and duties. A daughter born October 24, 1887, was baptised at Balmoral, the first royal christening which had taken place in Scotland for three hundred years. Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, married the favourite child and only daughter of the late Emperor of Russia, and sister of the Czar. On the death of Duke Ernst of Coburg-Gotha, brother of the Prince-Consort, he succeeded to the ducal throne on August 24, 1893, as Duke Alfred of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. He died in 1900. Prince Arthur, Duke of Connaught, wedded the daughter of Prince Charles, 'the Red Prince' of Prussia; and Leopold, Duke of Albany, took for his wife Princess Helena of Waldeck. Prince Leopold had had a somewhat suffering life from his childhood, and he died suddenly while abroad, on March 28, 1884, leaving behind his young wife and two little children, one of whom was born after his death. On July 27, 1889, Princess Louise, eldest daughter of the Prince of Wales, was married to the Duke of Fife. Preparations were being made to celebrate another marriage, that of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale, eldest son of the Prince of Wales, to Princess Victoria Mary (May) of Teck, in January 1892; but to the sorrow of all, he was stricken down with influenza accompanied by pneumonia on January 10th, and died on the 14th. The Queen addressed a pathetic letter to the nation in return for public sympathy, which was much more than a mere note of thanks and acknowledgement. OSBORNE, _January_ 26, 1892. I must once again give expression to my deep sense of the loyalty and affectionate sympathy evinced by my subjects in every part of my empire on an occasion more sad and tragical than any but one which has befallen me and mine, as well as the nation. The overwhelming misfortune of my clearly loved grandson having been thus suddenly cut off in the flower of his age, full of promise for the future, amiable and gentle, and endearing himself to all, renders it hard for his sorely stricken parents, his dear young bride, and his fond grandmother to bow in submission to the inscrutable decrees of Providence. The sympathy of millions, which has been so touchingly and visibly expressed, is deeply gratifying at such a time, and I wish, both in my own name and that of my children, to express, from my heart, my warm gratitude to _all_. These testimonies of sympathy with us, and appreciation of my dear grandson, whom I loved as a son, and whose devotion to me was as great as that of a son, will be a help and consolation to me and mine in our affliction. My bereavements during the last thirty years of my reign have indeed been heavy. Though the labours, anxieties, and responsibilities inseparable from my position have been great, yet it is my earnest prayer that God may continue to give me health and strength to work for the good and happiness of my dear country and empire while life lasts. VICTORIA, R.I. On July 6, 1893, the Duke of York was united in marriage to the Princess May, amidst great national rejoicing. Three years later occurred the death of Prince Henry of Battenberg, husband of Princess Beatrice, when returning from the Ashanti Expedition. On 22d July 1896 Princess Maud, daughter of the Prince of Wales, married Prince Charles, son of Frederick, Crown Prince of Denmark. The Queen was present on the occasion of the marriage, which took place in the Chapel Royal, Buckingham Palace. The visit of the Emperor and Empress of Russia to Balmoral in the autumn was a memorable occasion, marked by great festivity and rejoicing. During 1896 the Queen received an immense number of congratulatory messages on entering upon the sixtieth year of her reign; and on 23d September she exceeded the limit attained by any previous English sovereign. Many proposals were made to publicly mark this happy event. One scheme, supported by the Prince of Wales, had for its object the freeing of certain London hospitals of debt; but at the Queen's personal request the celebration of the Diamond Jubilee was reserved until the completion of the sixtieth year of her reign in June 1897. CHAPTER IX. The Queen as an Artist and Author--In her Holiday Haunts--Side-lights on the Queen--Norman Macleod--The Queen's appreciation of Tennyson, Dickens, and Livingstone--Letter to Mr Peabody--The Queen's Drawing-room--Her pet Animals--A Model Mistress--Mr Jeaffreson's Tribute--Baron Stockmar--A golden Reign. The Prince-Consort, as we have seen, was accomplished in music and painting, and knew much about many subjects. The Queen is not only an author, but an artist, and takes a great interest in art. To an exhibition under the auspices of the Royal Anglo-Australian Society of Artists, the Queen contributed five water-colour drawings, and a set of proof-etchings by the Prince-Consort. The subjects were the Duke of Connaught at the age of three; the princesses Alice and Victoria of Hesse (1875); portraits of the Princess Royal, now Dowager Empress of Germany, and Prince Alfred. In advanced life, too, the Queen began to study Hindustani. In her _Leaves from Her Journal_ (1869) and _More Leaves_ (1884), and letters printed in the Life of the Prince-Consort, the Queen took the public into her confidence, and afforded a glimpse of the simplicity and purity of the court in our era. In the extracts from her Journals (1842-82), we have homely records of visits and holiday excursions, with descriptions of picturesque scenery, simply and faithfully set down, the writer expressing with directness the feelings of the moment. Deprived by her high rank of friends--as we understand them in ordinary life--Her Majesty seems to have borne an affection for her husband and her offspring even above the common. With her devotion to the late Prince-Consort we are all acquainted; but her books show us that it was an attachment by no means owing any of its intensity to regret. While he yet lived and gladdened her with the sunshine of his presence, there are no words she can use too strong to express her love and admiration for him; and it is easy to see, before it happened, how desolate his loss would leave her. Then the Prince of Wales was always 'Bertie,' and the Princess Royal 'Vicky,' and the family circle generally a group as loving and united--without a trace of courtly stiffness--as was to be found round any hearth in Britain. What the Prince-Consort wrote of domestic servants, seems to have also been the feeling of the Queen: 'Whose heart would fail to sympathise with those who minister to us in sickness, receive us upon our first appearance in the world, and even extend their cares to our mortal remains--who lie under our roof, form our household, and are part of our family?' There is no one, in ever so menial position, about her person, who is not mentioned with kindness and particularity. A footnote annexed to the humble name almost always contains a short biography of the individual, whether wardrobe-maid, groom, or gillie. Thus of her trusty attendant John Brown (1826-83) she writes: 'The same who, in 1858, became my regular attendant out of doors everywhere in the Highlands; who commenced as gillie in 1849, and was selected by Albert and me to go with my carriage. In 1851 he entered our service permanently, and began in that year leading my pony, and advanced step by step by his good conduct and intelligence. His attention, care, and faithfulness cannot be exceeded; and the state of my health, which of late years has been sorely tried and weakened, renders such qualifications most valuable, and indeed most needful in a constant attendant upon all occasions. He has since, most deservedly, been promoted to be an upper servant, and my permanent personal attendant (December 1865). He has all the independence and elevated feelings peculiar to the Highland race, and is singularly straightforward, simple-minded, kind-hearted, and disinterested; always ready to oblige, and of a discretion rarely to be met with. He is now in his fortieth year. His father was a small farmer, who lived at the Bush on the opposite side to Balmoral. He is the second of nine brothers--three of whom have died--two are in Australia and New Zealand, two are living in the neighbourhood of Balmoral; and the youngest, Archie (Archibald), is valet to our son Leopold, and is an excellent, trustworthy young man.' The Queen had that memory for old faces almost peculiar to her royal house, and no sooner did she set foot in the new garden which was being made at Dalkeith, than she recognised Mackintosh there, 'who was formerly gardener at Claremont.' One very pleasing trait about Her Majesty was that, although, as a matter of course, all persons vied in doing her pleasure, she never took any act of respect or kindliness towards her for granted. She made frequent mention of the courteous civilities shown her, just as though she had been in the habit of meeting with the reverse of such conduct. At Dalkeith (the Duke of Buccleuch's, who was her host on more than one occasion), 'everybody was very kind and civil, and full of inquiries as to our voyage;' and 'the Roseberies' (at Dalmeny, where she lunched) 'were all civility and attention.' In her books a healthy interest is shown in all that concerns the welfare of the people. The Queen and the Prince-Consort came to Scotland in 1842 in the _Royal George_ yacht, and, tired and giddy, drove to Dalkeith Palace, where they were guests of the Duke of Buccleuch. The Queen tasted real Scotch fare at breakfast, oatmeal porridge and 'Finnan haddies.' She saw the sights of Edinburgh, and in driving through the Highlands afterwards, had a reception from Lord Breadalbane at Taymouth Castle. The descriptions of her stay at Lord Breadalbane's, and at Lord Glenlyon's in Blair-Athole, are very graphic. 'At a quarter to six, we reached Taymouth. At the gate a guard of Highlanders, Lord Breadalbane's men, met us. Taymouth lies in a valley surrounded by very high, wooded hills; it is most beautiful. The house is a kind of castle, built of granite. The _coup-d'oeil_ was indescribable. There were a number of Lord Breadalbane's Highlanders, all in the Campbell tartan, drawn up in front of the house, with Lord Breadalbane himself, in a Highland dress, at their head, a few of Sir Neil Menzies's men (in the Menzies red and white tartan), a number of pipers playing, and a company of the 92d Highlanders, also in kilts. The firing of the guns, the cheering of the great crowd, the picturesqueness of the dresses, the beauty of the surrounding country, with its rich background of wooded hills, altogether formed one of the finest scenes imaginable. It seemed as if a great chieftain in olden feudal times was receiving his sovereign. It was princely and romantic. Lord and Lady Breadalbane took us up-stairs, the hall and stairs being lined with Highlanders. The Gothic staircase is of stone, and very fine; the whole of the house is newly and exquisitely furnished. The drawing-room, especially, is splendid. Thence you go into a passage and a library, which adjoins our private apartments. They showed us two sets of apartments, and we chose those which are on the right hand of the corridor or anteroom to the library. At eight we dined. Staying in the house, besides ourselves, are the Buccleuchs and the two Ministers, the Duchess of Sutherland and Lady Elizabeth Leveson Gower, the Abercorns, Roxburghes, Kinnoulls, Lord Lauderdale, Sir Anthony Maitland, Lord Lorne, the Fox Maules, Belhavens, Mr and Mrs William Russell, Sir J. and Lady Elizabeth and the Misses Pringle, and two Messrs Baillie, brothers of Lady Breadalbane. The dining-room is a fine room in Gothic style, and has never been dined in till this day. Our apartments also are inhabited for the first time. After dinner, the grounds were most splendidly illuminated--a whole chain of lamps along the railings, and on the ground was written in lamps: "Welcome Victoria--Albert." A small fort, which is up in the woods, was illuminated, and bonfires were burning on the tops of the hills. I never saw anything so fairy-like. There were some pretty fireworks, and the whole ended by the Highlanders dancing reels, which they do to perfection, to the sound of the pipes, by torchlight in front of the house. It had a wild and very gay effect.' [Illustration: Pass of Killiecrankie--'The Queen's View'] Her Majesty drove about daily, enjoying the magnificent scenery, or by the banks of Tay, to see Lord Breadalbane's American buffaloes; while Prince Albert had sport--nineteen roe-deer on the first day, besides hares, pheasants, grouse, and a capercailzie, all which trophies were spread out before the house. Three hundred Highlanders 'beat' for him, while, whenever the Queen (accompanied by the Duchess of Norfolk) walked in the grounds, two of the Highland guard followed with drawn swords. They arrived at a lodge, where 'a fat, good-humoured little woman, about forty, cut some flowers for each of us, and the Duchess gave her some money, saying: "From Her Majesty." I never saw any one more surprised than she was; she, however, came up to me, and said very warmly that my people were delighted to see me in Scotland.' At a later date the Queen revisited Taymouth, where once--'Albert and I were then only twenty-three!'--she passed such happy days. 'I was very thankful to have seen it again,' says she, with quiet pathos. 'It seemed unaltered.' This visit to Scotland was attended with happy results, and made a favourable impression upon both. 'The country,' wrote Prince Albert,' is full of beauty, of a severe and grand character; perfect for sport of all kinds, and the air remarkably pure and light in comparison with what we have here. The people are more natural, and marked by that honesty and sympathy which always distinguish the inhabitants of mountainous countries who live far away from towns.' On the occasion of a visit to Blair-Athole, the Queen wrote of the Pass of Killiecrankie, that it was 'quite magnificent; the road winds along it, and you look down a great height, all wooded on both sides; the Garry rolling below.' On another occasion she wrote: 'We took a delightful walk of two hours. Immediately near the house, the scenery is very wild, which is most enjoyable. The moment you step out of the house, you see those splendid hills all round. We went to the left through some neglected pleasure-grounds, and then through the wood, along a steep winding path overhanging the rapid stream. These Scotch streams, full of stones, and clear as glass, are most beautiful; the peeps between the trees, the depth of the shadows, the mossy stones, mixed with slate, &c., which cover the banks, are lovely; at every turn you have a picture. We were up high, but could not get to the top; Albert in such delight; it is a happiness to see him, he is in such spirits. We came back by a higher drive, and then went to the factor's house, still higher up, where Lord and Lady Glenlyon are living, having given Blair up to us. We walked on to a cornfield, where a number of women were cutting and reaping the oats ("shearing," as they call it in Scotland), with a splendid view of the hills before us, so rural and romantic, so unlike our daily Windsor walk (delightful as that is); and this change does such good: as Albert observes, it refreshes one for a long time. We then went into the kitchen-garden, and to a walk from which there is a magnificent view. This mixture of great wildness and art is perfection. 'At a little before four o'clock, Albert drove me out in the pony-phaeton till nearly six--such a drive! Really to be able to sit in one's pony-carriage, and to see such wild, beautiful scenery as we did, the furthest point being only five miles from the house, is an immense delight. We drove along Glen Tilt, through a wood overhanging the river Tilt, which joins the Garry, and as we left the wood we came upon such a lovely view--Ben-y-Gloe straight before us--and under these high hills the river Tilt gushing and winding over stones and slates, and the hills and mountains skirted at the bottom with beautiful trees; the whole lit up by the sun; and the air so pure and fine; but no description can at all do it justice, or give an idea of what this drive was.' The royal pair mount their ponies, and with only one attendant, a gillie, delight in getting above the world and out of it: 'Not a house, not a creature near us, but the pretty Highland sheep, with their horns and black faces, up at the top of Tulloch, surrounded by beautiful mountains.' The charms of natural scenery, greatly as they were appreciated, required now and then to be relieved by a little excitement, and the Queen and Prince hit upon an ingenious plan of procuring this. They would issue forth from Balmoral in hired carriages, with horses to match, and would drive to some Highland town, and dine and dress at its inn, under assumed names. It was no doubt great fun to Her Majesty to put up with the accommodation of a third-rate provincial inn, where 'a ringleted woman did everything' in the way of waiting at table, and where in place of soup there was mutton-broth with vegetables, 'which I did not much relish.' On one of these expeditions, Her Majesty was so unfortunate as to hit upon the inn at Dalwhinnie as a place of sojourn. 'We went up-stairs: the inn was much larger than at Fettercairn, but not nearly so nice and cheerful; there was a drawing-room and a dining-room; and we had a very good-sized bedroom. Albert had a dressing-room of equal size. Mary Andrews (who was very useful and efficient) and Lady Churchill's maid had a room together, every one being in the house; but unfortunately there was hardly anything to eat, and there was only tea, and two miserable starved Highland chickens, without any potatoes! No pudding, and no _fun_; no little maid (the two there not wishing to come in), nor our two people--who were wet and drying our and their things--to wait on us! It was not a nice supper; and the evening was wet. As it was late, we soon retired to rest. Mary and Maxted (Lady Churchill's maid) had been dining below with Grant, Brown, and Stewart (who came the same as last time, with the maids) in the "commercial room" at the foot of the stairs. They had only the remnants of our two starved chickens!' The ascent of the hill of Tulloch on a pony, the Queen wrote, was 'the most delightful, the most romantic ride and walk I ever had.' The quiet, the liberty, the Highlanders, and the hills were all thoroughly enjoyed by the Queen, and when she returned to the Lowlands it made her sad to see the country becoming 'flatter and flatter,' while the English coast appeared 'terribly flat.' Again the Queen and Prince-Consort were in the West Highlands in 1847, but had dreadful weather at Ardverikie, on Loch Laggan. Not even Osborne, Windsor, or Buckingham Palace proved happier residences than their holiday home at Balmoral. The fine air of the north of Scotland had been so beneficial to the royal family, that they were advised to purchase a house in Aberdeenshire. The Queen and prince took up their autumn residence at Balmoral in September 1848. A few years later, the house was much improved and enlarged from designs by the Prince-Consort. It was soothing to retire thither after a year of the bustle of London. 'It was so calm and so solitary, it did one good as one gazed around; and the pure mountain air was most refreshing. All seemed to breathe freedom and peace, and to make one forget the world and its sad turmoils.' Mr Greville, as clerk of the Council, saw the circle there in 1849, and thought the Queen and prince appeared to great advantage, living in simplicity and ease. 'The Queen is running in and out of the house all day long, and often goes about alone, walks into the cottages, and sits down and chats with the old women.... I was greatly struck with the prince. I saw at once that he is very intelligent and highly cultivated; and, moreover, that he has a thoughtful mind, and thinks of subjects worth thinking about. He seems very much at his ease, very gay, pleasant, and without the least stiffness or air of dignity.' The Queen was in Ireland in 1849, and had a splendid reception. The Queen took possession of the new castle at Balmoral in the autumn of 1855, and a year later she wrote that 'every year my heart becomes more fixed in this dear paradise, and so much more so now, that all has become my dear Albert's own creation, own work, own building, own laying out, as at Osborne; and his great taste, and the impress of his dear hand, have been stamped everywhere.' After building the cairn on the top of Craig Gowan, to commemorate their taking possession of Balmoral, the Queen wrote: 'May God bless this place, and allow us yet to see it and enjoy it many a long year.' In the north country, too, she met with little adventures, which doubtless helped to rally her courage and spirits--a carriage accident, when there was 'a moment during which I had time to reflect whether I should be killed or not, and to think there were, still things I had not settled and wanted to do;' subsequently sitting in the cold on the road-side, recalling 'what my beloved one had always said to me, namely, to make the best of what could not be altered.' What a thoroughly loving, clinging woman's heart the 'Queen-Empress' shows when' she feels tired, sad, and bewildered' because 'for the first time in her life she was alone in a strange house, without either mother or husband.' Some interesting glimpses of the Queen are given in the biography of the late Dr Norman Macleod. This popular divine was asked to preach before the Queen in Crathie Church in 1854--the church that stood till 1893, when the Queen laid the foundation stone of a new one. He preached an old sermon without a note, never looking once at the royal seat, but solely at the congregation. The Sunday at Balmoral was perfect in its peace and beauty. In his sermon he tried to show what true life is, a finding rest through the yoke of God's service instead of the service of self, and by the cross of self-denial instead of self-gratification. 'In the evening,' writes Dr Macleod in his Journal, 'after daundering in a green field with a path through it which led to the high-road, and while sitting on a block of granite, full of quiet thoughts, mentally reposing in the midst of the beautiful scenery, I was aroused from my reverie by some one asking me if I was the clergyman who had preached that day. I was soon in the presence of the Queen and prince; when Her Majesty came forward and said, with a sweet, kind, and smiling face: "We wish to thank you for your sermon." She then asked me how my father was--what was the name of my parish, &c.; and so, after bowing and smiling, they both continued their quiet evening walk alone. And thus God blessed me, and I thanked His name.' The Queen in her Journal remarked that she had never heard a finer sermon, and that the allusions in the prayer to herself and the children gave her a 'lump in the throat.' Dr Macleod was again at Balmoral in 1862 and 1866. Of this visit in May 1862, made after the Queen's bereavement, he reported to his wife that 'all has passed well--that is to say, God enabled me to speak in private and in public to the Queen, in such a way as seemed to me to be truth, the truth in God's sight--that which I believed she needed, though I felt it would be very trying to her spirit to receive it. And what fills me with deepest thanksgiving is, that she has received it, and written to me such a kind, tender letter of thanks for it, which shall be treasured in my heart while I live. [Illustration: Balmoral Castle.] 'Prince Alfred sent for me last night to see him before going away. Thank God, I spoke fully and frankly to him--we were alone--of his difficulties, temptations, and of his father's example; what the nation expected of him; how, if he did God's will, good and able men would rally round him; how, if he became selfish, a selfish set of flatterers would truckle to him and ruin him, while caring only for themselves. He thanked me for all I said, and wished me to travel with him to-day to Aberdeen, but the Queen wishes to see me again.' In his Journal of May 14, he wrote: 'After dinner I was summoned unexpectedly to the Queen's room. She was alone. She met me, and with an unutterably sad expression which filled my eyes with tears, at once began to speak about the prince. It is impossible for me to recall distinctly the sequence or substance of that long conversation. She spoke of his excellences--his love, his cheerfulness, how he was everything to her; how all now on earth seemed dead to her. She said she never shut her eyes to trials, but liked to look them in the face; how she would never shrink from duty, but that all was at present done mechanically; that her highest ideas of purity and love were obtained from him, and that God could not be displeased with her love. But there was nothing morbid in her grief. I spoke freely to her about all I felt regarding him--the love of the nation and their sympathy; and took every opportunity of bringing before her the reality of God's love and sympathy, her noble calling as a queen, the value of her life to the nation, the blessedness of prayer.' On the Monday following the Sabbath services, Dr Macleod had a long interview with the Queen. 'She was very much more like her old self,' he writes, 'cheerful, and full of talk about persons and things. She, of course, spoke of the prince. She said that he always believed he was to die soon, and that he often told her that he had never any fear of death.... The more I learned about the Prince-Consort, the more I agree with what the Queen said to me about him, "that he really did not seem to comprehend a selfish character, or what selfishness was."' It was Dr Macleod's feeling that the Queen had a reasoning, searching mind, anxious to get at the root and the reality of things, and abhorring all shams, whether in word or deed. In October 1866, he records: 'After dinner, the Queen invited me to her room, where I found the Princess Helena and Marchioness of Ely. The Queen sat down to spin at a nice Scotch wheel, while I read Robert Burns to her: "Tam o' Shanter," and "A man's a man for a' that," her favourite. The Prince and Princess of Hesse sent for me to see their children. The eldest, Victoria, whom I saw at Darmstadt, is a most sweet child; the youngest, Elizabeth, a round, fat ball of loving good-nature. I gave her a real hobble, such as I give Polly. I suppose the little thing never got anything like it, for she screamed and kicked with a perfect _furore_ of delight, would go from me to neither father nor mother nor nurse, to their great merriment, but buried her chubby face in my cheek, until I gave her another right good hobble. They are such dear children. The Prince of Wales sent a message asking me to go and see him.... All seem to be very happy. We had a great deal of pleasant talk in the garden. Dear, good General Grey drove me home.' In a letter written in 1867, he expresses himself thus: 'I had a long interview with the Queen. With my last breath I will uphold the excellence and nobleness of her character. It was really grand to hear her talk on moral courage, and on living for duty.' The Queen, on hearing of Dr Macleod's death, wrote: 'How I loved to talk to him, to ask his advice, to speak to him of my sorrows, my anxieties! ... How dreadful to lose that dear, kind, loving, large-hearted friend! I cried very bitterly, for this is a terrible loss to me.' Both the Queen and Prince-Consort have had a hearty appreciation of literary men of eminence and all public benefactors. We have already noted their appreciation of Tennyson. The Queen, after a long interview with Charles Dickens, presented him with a copy of her _Leaves_, and wrote on it that it was a gift 'from one of the humblest of writers to one of the greatest.' In December 1850, Dr Livingstone wrote to his parents: 'The Royal Geographical Society have awarded twenty-five guineas for the discovery of the lake ('Ngami). It is from the Queen.' Before this he had written: 'I wonder you do not go to see the Queen. I was as disloyal as others when in England, for though I might have seen her in London I never went. Do you ever pray for her?' In 1858 Livingstone was honoured by the Queen with a private interview. An account says, 'She sent for Livingstone, who attended Her Majesty at the palace, without ceremony, in his black coat and blue trousers, and his cap surrounded with a stripe of gold lace.... The Queen conversed with him affably for half-an-hour on the subject of his travels. Dr Livingstone told Her Majesty that he would now be able to say to the natives that he had seen his chief, his not having done so before having been a constant subject of surprise to the children of the African wilderness. He mentioned to Her Majesty also that the people were in the habit of inquiring whether his chief was wealthy; and that when he assured them she was very wealthy, they would ask how many cows she had got, a question at which the Queen laughed heartily.' But the Queen had plenty of live-stock too. From an account in the _Idler_ of the Queen's pet animals, we learn that they consist almost entirely of dogs, horses, and donkeys. The following is a list of some of the royal pets: Flora and Alma, two horses fourteen hands high, presented to the Queen by Victor Emmanuel. Jenny, a white donkey, twenty-five years of age, which has been with the Queen since it was a foal. Tewfik, a white Egyptian ass, bought in Cairo by Lord Wolseley. Two Shetland ponies--one, The Skewbald, three feet six inches high; another, a dark brown mare like a miniature cart-horse. The royal herd of fifty cows in milk, chiefly shorthorns and Jerseys. An enormous bison named Jack, obtained in exchange for a Canadian bison from the Zoological Gardens. A cream-coloured pony called Sanger, presented to the Queen by the circus proprietor. A Zulu cow bred from the herd of Cetewayo's brother. A strong handsome donkey called Jacquot, with a white nose and knotted tail. This donkey draws the Queen's chair (a little four-wheeled carriage with rubber tyres and a low step), and has accompanied her to Florence. A gray donkey, the son of the Egyptian Tewfik, carries the Queen's grandchildren. Jessie, the Queen's favourite riding mare, which is twenty-seven years old. A gray Arab, presented to Her Majesty by the Thakore of Morvi. The stables contain eighteen harness horses, most of them gray, and twelve brougham horses ranging from dark brown to light chestnut. Four brown ponies, fourteen hands high, bred from a pony called Beatrice, which Princess Beatrice used to ride. The Royal Mews cover an extent of four acres, and accommodate as many as one hundred horses. The carriage-house contains the post-chaise in which the Queen and the Prince-Consort travelled through Germany seven years after their marriage. The carriages of the household weigh about 15 cwt. each. The royal kennels contain fifty-five dogs. George Peabody, who had given in all about half a million of money towards building industrial homes in London, having declined many honours, was asked what gift, if any, he would accept. His reply was: 'A letter from the Queen of England, which I may carry across the Atlantic and deposit as a memorial of one of her most faithful sons.' The following letter was accordingly received from Her Majesty: WINDSOR CASTLE, _March_ 28, 1866. The Queen hears that Mr Peabody intends shortly to return to America; and she would be sorry that he should leave England without being assured by herself how deeply she appreciates the noble act, of more than princely munificence, by which he has sought to relieve the wants of her poorer subjects residing in London. It is an act, as the Queen believes, wholly without parallel; and which will carry its best reward in the consciousness of having contributed so largely to the assistance of those who can little help themselves. The Queen would not, however, have been satisfied without giving Mr Peabody some public mark of her sense of his munificence; and she would gladly have conferred upon him either a baronetcy or the Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath, but that she understands Mr Peabody to feel himself debarred from accepting such distinctions. It only remains, therefore, for the Queen to give Mr Peabody this assurance of her personal feelings; which she would further wish to mark by asking him to accept a miniature portrait of herself, which she will desire to have painted for him, and which, when finished, can either be sent to him in America, or given to him on the return which she rejoices to hear he meditates to the country that owes him so much. To this letter Mr Peabody replied: THE PALACE HOTEL, BUCKINGHAM GATE, LONDON, _April_ 3, 1866. MADAM--I feel sensibly my inability to express in adequate terms the gratification with which I have read the letter which your Majesty has done me the high honour of transmitting by the hands of Earl Russell. On the occasion which has attracted your Majesty's attention, of setting apart a portion of my property to ameliorate the condition and augment the comforts of the poor of London, I have been actuated by a deep sense of gratitude to God, who has blessed me with prosperity, and of attachment to this great country, where, under your Majesty's benign rule, I have received so much personal kindness, and enjoyed so many years of happiness. Next to the approval of my own conscience, I shall always prize the assurance which your Majesty's letter conveys to me of the approbation of the Queen of England, whose whole life has attested that her exalted station has in no degree diminished her sympathy with the humblest of her subjects. The portrait which your Majesty is graciously pleased to bestow on me I shall value as the most gracious heirloom that I can leave in the land of my birth; where, together with the letter which your Majesty has addressed to me, it will ever be regarded as an evidence of the kindly feeling of the Queen of the United Kingdom toward a citizen of the United States. I have the honour to be Your Majesty's most obedient servant, GEORGE PEABODY. This miniature of the Queen is mounted in an elaborate and massive chased gold frame, surmounted by the royal crown; is a half-length, fourteen inches long and ten wide, done in enamel, by Tilb, a London artist, and is the largest miniature of the kind ever attempted in England. It has been deposited, along with the gold box containing the freedom of the city of London, in a vault in the Institute at Peabody; also the gold box from the Fishmongers' Association, London; a book of autographs; a presentation copy of the Queen's first published book, with her autograph; and a cane which belonged to Benjamin Franklin. We have only tried to draw within a small canvas a portrait of her as 'mother, wife, and queen.' She has herself told the story of her happy days in her Highland home, to which we have already alluded; nor has she shrunk from letting her people see her when she went there after all was changed, when the view was so fine, the day so bright--and the heather so beautifully pink--but no pleasure, no joy! all dead!' But she found help and sympathy among her beloved Scottish peasantry, with whom she could form human friendships, unchilled by politics and unchecked by court jealousies. They could win her into the sunshine even on the sacred anniversaries. One of them said to her, 'I thought you would like to be here (a bright and favoured spot) on his birthday.' The good Christian man 'being of opinion,' writes the Queen, 'that this beloved day, and even the 14th of December, must not be looked upon as a day of mourning.' 'That's not the light to look at it,' said he. The Queen found 'true and strong faith in these good simple people.' It is pleasant, to note that by-and-by she kept the prince's birthday by giving souvenirs to her children, servants, and friends. She who years before, during a short separation from her dear husband, had written, 'All the numerous children are as nothing to me when he is away--it seems as if the whole life of the house and home were gone,' could enter into the spirit of Dr Norman Macleod's pathetic story of the old woman who, having lost husband and children, was asked how she had been able to bear her sorrows, and replied, 'Ah, when _he_ went awa', it made a great hole, and all the others went through it.' As we have already said, the Queen was a genuine ruler, and while at Windsor she had not only a regular array of papers and despatches to go through, but many court ceremonies. In the morning there was a drive before breakfast, and after that meal she read her private letters and newspapers. One of the ladies-in-waiting had previously gone over the newspapers and marked the paragraphs which seemed of most interest to the Queen. Afterwards came the examination of the boxes of papers and despatches, of which there might be twenty or thirty, which sometimes occupied about three hours. The contents were then sorted, and sent to be dealt with by her secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby. When the Queen was robed for a state occasion, such as a Drawing-room, she was sometimes adorned with jewellery worth. £150,000. At other times she wore scarcely any. Drawing-rooms, when ladies were presented and had the honour of kissing the Queen's hand, were held about two o'clock. At a royal dinner-party the Queen arrived last. Having walked round and spoken to her guests, she then preceded them into the royal dining-room, and seated herself with one of her children on either side. She was always punctual. It was polite to allow her to start the conversation; after that, she liked to hear her guests talking. Her own talk was always agreeable, and she was fond of humour and a hearty laugh. The Queen showed herself a model mistress, and also showed an example of industry. At the Chicago Exhibition in 1893 were napkins made from flax spun by Her Majesty, and a straw hat plaited by her. There was, too, a noble human grace about her acts of beneficence. For instance, in erecting an almshouse for poor old women in the Isle of Wight, she retained one tiny room, exactly like the rest, for her own use. It is, we believe, untrue that she ever read in cottages. Her diary is full of references to those who served her, even in the humblest capacities. She attended the funeral service for the father of her faithful servant, John Brown; and when the latter died, she wrote that her loss was irreparable, as he deservedly possessed her entire confidence. Interested in the country people around Balmoral, Her Majesty paid visits to old women, and gave them petticoats. On August 26, 1869, she called on old Mrs Grant, gave her a shawl and pair of socks, 'and found the poor old soul in bed, looking very weak and very ill, but bowing her head and thanking me in her usual way. I took her hand and held it.' She abounded in practical sympathy with all their joys and sorrows. One of the lodge-keepers in Windsor Forest remarked that 'a wonderful good woman to her servants is the Queen.' Her Majesty had come several times to see her husband when down with rheumatic fever, and the princesses often brought her oranges and jellies with their own hands. She trained her children to live in the same spirit: nearly all of the Princess Alice's letters home contained references to domestic friends and messages to be conveyed to them. She wrote in 1865 to the Queen: 'From you I have inherited an ardent and sympathising spirit, and feel the pain of those I love, as though it were my own.' She was always full of kindly consideration for others. Many stories are told of the gracious methods taken by her to efface the pain caused by blunders or awkwardness at review, levee, or drawing-room. Mr Jeaffreson has written: 'Living in history as the most sagacious and enlightened sovereign of her epoch, Her Majesty will also stand before posterity as the finest type of feminine excellence given to human nature in the nineteenth century; even as her husband will stand before posterity as the brightest example of princely worth given to the age that is drawing to a close. Regarded with admiration throughout all time as a beneficent queen and splendid empress, she will also be honoured reverentially by the coming centuries as a supremely good and noble woman.' Nor did the Queen lack for friends upon another level. The old Duke of Wellington, the Iron Duke, the victor of Waterloo, is said to have loved her fondly. If any stranger had seen them together, 'he would have imagined he beheld a fond father and an affectionate daughter laughingly chatting.' She herself recorded her great regard for Dr Norman Macleod, as we have noted, Lady Jane Churchill, and several others. But the devotion which she and the Prince-Consort ever showed to the Baron Stockmar rises to the height of ideal friendship. Stockmar had been the private physician of Leopold, King of the Belgians, in his earlier days, and in the course of events became the trusted adviser of the young Prince Albert. To him the Queen and the prince wrote as only dutiful children might write to the most affectionate and wisest of parents. They sought his advice and followed it. They reared their children to do him honour. What this friend was, may be gathered from what shrewd people thought of him. Lord Palmerston, no partial critic, declared, 'I have come in my life across only one absolutely disinterested man, and that is--Stockmar.' Subtle aphorisms on the conduct of life may be culled, almost at random, from his letters to the royal pair. We can take but one, which, read in conjunction with the lives he influenced, is deeply significant: 'Were I now to be asked,' he wrote as he drew near his seventieth year, 'by any young man just entering into life, "What is the chief good for which it behoves a man to strive?" my only answer would be "Love and Friendship." Were he to ask me, "What is a man's most priceless possession?" I must answer, "The consciousness of having loved and sought the truth--of having yearned for the truth for its own sake! All else is either mere vanity or a sick man's dream."' John Bright once said of the Queen, that she was 'the most perfectly truthful person I ever met.' No former monarch has so thoroughly comprehended the great truth, that the powers of the crown are held in trust for the people, and are the means and not the end of government. This enlightened policy has entitled her to the glorious distinction of having been the most constitutional monarch Britain has ever seen. In 1897 the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria was celebrated, representatives from all parts of the empire and from many foreign countries taking part in a magnificent procession to and from St Paul's Cathedral. The already aged Queen continued to reign for only a few years longer. The new century had hardly dawned when she was stricken down by the hand of death. After a brief illness she passed away at Osborne on 22d January 1901, amidst an outburst of sorrow from the whole civilised world. Next day the Prince of Wales was proclaimed as King Edward VII. On Saturday, 2d February, amid a splendid naval and military pageant, the body of the Queen was borne to St George's Chapel, Windsor, and on Monday buried in the Frogmore Mausoleum beside Prince Albert. CHAPTER X. Summary of Public Events, 1856-93--Civil War in America--Extension of the Franchise--Disestablishment of Irish Church-Education Act of 1870--Wars in China and Abyssinia--Purchase of Suez Canal Shares--Wars in Afghanistan, Zululand, and Egypt--Home Rule Bill--Growth of the Empire and National Progress. We now continue our summary of public affairs. The Crimean War had been finished, and the mutiny had broken out, whilst Lord Palmerston was prime-minister. In 1858 he was obliged to resign his post; but he returned to office next year, and this he held till his death in 1865. Under him there was quiet both in home and in foreign affairs, and we managed to keep from being mixed up with the great wars which raged abroad. Seldom has a premier been better liked than Lord Palmerston. Nominally a Whig, but at heart an old-fashioned Tory, he was first and foremost an Englishman, ever jealous for Britain's credit and security. He was not gifted with burning eloquence or biting sarcasm; but his vigour, straightforwardness, good sense, and kindliness endeared him even to his adversaries. Honestly indifferent to domestic reform, but a finished master of foreign politics, he was of all men the man to guide the nation through the ten coming years, which at home were a season of calm and reaction, but troubled and threatening abroad. Besides the Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny, we had another war with China, as unjust as the opium war of sixteen years before, and quite as successful. In 1856, the Canton authorities seized the crew of a Chinese pirate which carried a British flag. Under strong pressure from British officials, Commissioner Yeh surrendered the crew, but refused all apology, whereupon Canton was bombarded. A twelvemonth later, it was stormed by the British and French allied forces; Yeh was captured, and sent off to die at Calcutta; and in June 1858 a treaty was signed, throwing open all China to British subjects. In a third war (1859-60), to enforce the terms of that treaty, Pekin surrendered, and its vast Summer Palace was sacked and destroyed. In January 1858, an attempt on the life of the Emperor Napoleon was made by Orsini, an Italian refugee, who had hatched his plot and procured his bomb-shells in England. Lord Palmerston therefore introduced a bill, removing conspiracy to murder from the class of misdemeanour to that of felony. The defeat of that bill, as a truckling to France, brought in the second Derby administration, which lasted sixteen months, and in which a professed Jew was first admitted to parliament, in the person of Baron Rothschild. Another Jew, by race but not by creed, Mr Disraeli, was at the time the leader of the House of Commons. His new Reform Bill satisfied nobody; its rejection was followed by a dissolution; and Lord Palmerston returned to office, June 1859. Sardinia had aided France against Russia, and France was now aiding Sardinia to expel the Austrians from Italy. The campaign was short and successful; but rejoice as we might for the cause of Italian unity, the French emperor's activity suggested his future invasion of Britain; and to this period belongs the development, if not the beginning, of our Volunteer army, which, from 150,000 in 1860, increased to upwards of 200,000 in twenty-five years. Still, a commercial treaty with France, on free-trade lines, was negotiated between Louis Napoleon and Mr Cobden; and Mr Gladstone carried it through parliament in the face of strong opposition. Lord John Russell again introduced a Reform Bill, but the apathy of Lord Palmerston, and the pressure of other business, led to its quiet withdrawal. The rejection by the Lords of a bill to abolish the duty on paper seemed likely at one time to lead to a collision between the two Houses. Ultimately the Commons contented themselves with a protest against this unwonted stretch of authority, and the paper-duty was removed in 1861. From 1861 to 1865, a civil war raged in America, between the slave-holding Southern States (the Confederates) and the abolitionist Northern States (the Federals). At first, British feeling was strongly in favour of the Northerners; but it changed before long, partly in consequence of their seizure of two Confederate envoys on a British mail-steamer, the _Trent_, and of the interruption of our cotton trade, which caused a cotton famine and great distress in Lancashire. With the war itself, and the final hard-won triumph of the North, we had no immediate connection; but the Southern cause was promoted by five privateers being built in England. These armed cruisers were not professedly built for the Southerners, but under false pretences were actually equipped for war against Northern commerce. One of them, the _Alabama_, was not merely built in a British dockyard, but manned for the most part by a British crew. In her two years' cruise she burned sixty-five Federal merchantmen. The Federal government protested at the time; but it was not till 1872 that the Alabama question was peacefully settled by arbitration in a conference at Geneva, and we had to pay three millions sterling in satisfaction of the American claims. Other events during the Palmerston administration were a tedious native rebellion in New Zealand (1860-65); the marriage of the Prince of Wales to the Princess Alexandra of Denmark (1863); the cession of the Ionian Isles to Greece (1864); and on the Continent there was the Schleswig-Holstein War (1864), in which, beset by both Prussia and Austria, Denmark looked, but looked vainly, for succour from Britain. As the Reform Bill of 1832 excluded the great bulk of the working classes from the franchise, it was felt by many that it could not be a final measure; and no long time had passed before agitation for further reform had commenced. In the year 1854 the veteran Lord John Russell once more brought the subject before the House of Commons; but the attention of the country was fixed on the war with Russia, and it was not thought a good time to deal with the question of reform. Again, in 1859, the cabinet of Earl Derby brought forward a scheme; but it also failed. In the year 1866, Earl Russell was once more at the head of affairs; and it seemed at one time that the aged statesman would succeed in giving the country a second Reform Bill. After many debates, however, Lord Russell's scheme was rejected, and he resigned. The Earl of Derby next became premier, with Mr Disraeli as leader of the House of Commons. These statesmen succeeded at length in finding a way for settling the vexed question; and the result was a measure which greatly extended the franchise. The new bill gave the privilege of voting to all householders in boroughs who paid poor-rates, without regard to the amount of rent. A lodger qualification of £10 a year was also introduced. In the counties all who paid a rent of not less than £12 were entitled to a vote. Generally speaking, it may be said that previous to 1832 the upper classes controlled the representation; the first Reform Bill gave the franchise to the middle classes; while the second conferred it on a large section of the working classes. Such was the Reform Bill of 1867, which made important changes in our system of election. One of the most pleasing features of this and other reforms which we have effected, is the fact that they have been brought about in a peaceful way. While in France and most other European countries, changes in government have frequently been accompanied by revolution and civil war, we have been able to improve our laws without disturbance and without bloodshed. After the passing of this important act, Mr Gladstone came into power with a large Liberal majority. He had long been one of the foremost orators and debaters of the party. Originally a Conservative, he had become a freetrader with Sir Robert Peel, and for the next few years was a prominent member of the Peelite party. During Lord Palmerston's second administration, he made a most successful Chancellor of the Exchequer. For some years he had represented Oxford University as a Conservative; but at the general election of 1865, he lost his seat owing to the liberal tendencies he had lately shown. Henceforward he became one of the most decided Liberals; and after the retirement of Earl Russell in 1866, he became the leader of that party. [Illustration: William Ewart Gladstone. (From a Photograph by R. W. Thomas.)] Under him many reforms were carried. The Protestant Episcopal Church of Ireland, whose adherents formed only a small minority of the population, was disestablished. Thus at one blow a very important element of the religious difficulty, which had caused so much trouble in Ireland, was removed. A measure was also passed, giving the Irish tenant a greater interest in the soil which he cultivated. Of all the great measures for the benefit of the working classes which have been passed during the present century, none deserves a higher place than the Education Bill of 1870. A great change for the better had been made in the condition of the people. Their food had been cheapened; the conditions under which they performed their daily toil in the factory or the mine had been improved; and their comforts greatly increased. In all these respects their lot compared favourably with that of other nations. But in education the English were still far behind some of their neighbours, and especially the Germans. For thirty or forty years before the passing of the Education Act, a great deal had been done by voluntary effort towards supplying the educational needs of the people in England. The National Society, and the British and Foreign Society, by building schools and training teachers, had done much for the children of our native land. Parliament also had lent its aid, by voting an annual grant towards the expenses of the existing schools. But the population was increasing so rapidly that, in spite of these efforts, there was still a great lack of schools. After all that had been done, it was calculated that there yet remained two-thirds of the juvenile population of the country for whom no provision had been made. An inquiry into the condition of education in some of the large towns showed sad results. In Birmingham, out of a population of 83,000 children of school age, only 26,000 were under instruction; Leeds showed a proportion of 58,000 to 19,000; and so on with other towns. These figures startled men of all parties; and it was felt that not a moment more ought to be lost in providing for the educational needs which had been shown to exist. Accordingly, Mr Forster, the Vice-president of the Council, a statesman whose name will be honourably handed down in connection with this great question, brought in his famous scheme for grappling with the difficulty. Like all great measures, it was noted for its simplicity. It laid down, in the first place, the great principle that 'there should be efficient school provision in every district of England where it was wanted; and that every child in the country should have the means of education placed within its reach.' To carry this principle into effect, it appointed boards of management, or school boards, to be elected at intervals of three years by the ratepayers themselves. The chief duties of these boards were defined to be, the erection of schools in all places where sufficient provision did not already exist; and the framing of bylaws, by which they might compel attendance at school in cases where the parents showed themselves indifferent to the welfare of their children. These were the main features of the bill, which passed through parliament, and speedily became the law of the land. Since the passing of the Education Act, the results achieved by it in England have been most gratifying. The number of children attending school has largely increased; the quality of the instruction has been greatly improved; and in districts which were formerly neglected, excellent school buildings have been erected and fitted up. By means of the excellent education provided in her parish schools Scotland had long held a foremost place among the nations of the world. Yet it was felt that even there the system of education needed improvement. Accordingly, in 1872, school boards were established and other changes in education were made in Scotland. There were other minor but still important changes in other departments. It was provided that the right to hold the position of commissioned or higher officers in the army should be given by open examination, and not be bought as hitherto. All students, without distinction as to religious creed, were admitted to the privileges of the universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Voters were protected in the exercise of their rights by the introduction of the _Ballot_, or system of secret voting. The country now seemed to be tired of reform for a time, and the Gladstone ministry was overthrown. During the period of which we treat, though we had no great war, we had a number of small conflicts. The series of quarrels with China may be said to have terminated with our conquest of Pekin in 1860. In 1869 the conduct of King John of Abyssinia, in unlawfully imprisoning English subjects, compelled us to send an expedition to rescue them, which it successfully accomplished; and in 1873 we were obliged to send another expedition against King Koffee of Ashanti, on the West African coast, who attacked our allies. This expedition was also a complete success, as we forced our foes to agree to a peace advantageous for us. In addition may be recorded the successful laying of the Atlantic cable (1866), after nine years of vain endeavour; the passing of an act (1867), under which British North America is all, except Newfoundland, now federally united in the vast Dominion of Canada, with a constitution like that of the mother-country; and the purchase by government of the telegraph system (1868). On the fall of the Gladstone ministry in 1874, a Conservative one, under Mr Disraeli (afterwards Lord Beaconsfield), came into power, and for some years managed the national affairs. During these years, several important measures affecting the foreign affairs of our empire were carried out. We purchased a large number of shares in the French company which owns the Suez Canal. British ships going to India pass through that canal, and therefore it was considered by our rulers that it would be for our advantage to have a good deal to do with the management of the company. In India, since the suppression of the Mutiny, and abolition of the East India Company, the Queen had the direct rule. She was in 1876 declared Empress of that country. In 1877, Russia went to war with Turkey on questions connected with the treatment of the Christian subjects of the Sultan. Our government was opposed to many things in the conduct of the Russians in the matter, and at one time it seemed very likely that a war between us and them would take place. All matters in dispute, however, were arranged in a satisfactory manner at a Congress held at Berlin in 1878. Then came another Afghan war, its object being the exclusion of Russian influence from Cabul, and such an extension of our Indian frontier as should henceforth render impossible the exclusion of British influence. In September 1878 the Ameer, Shere Ali, Dost Mohammed's son and successor, refused admission to a British envoy: his refusal was treated as an insolent challenge, and our peaceful mission became a hostile invasion. There was some sharp fighting in the passes; but Jellalabad was ours by the end of December, and Candahar very soon afterwards. Shere Ali died early in 1879; and his son, Yakoob Khan, the new Ameer, in May signed the treaty of Gandamak, conceding the 'scientific frontier' and all our other demands. Every one was saying how well and easily the affair had been managed, when tidings reached us of a great calamity--the murder, on 3d September, at Cabul, of our envoy, Sir Louis Cavagnari, with almost all his small escort. The treaty, of course, became so much wastepaper; but no time was lost in avenging the outrage, for after more fighting, Cabul was occupied by General Roberts in the second week of October. The war went on in a desultory fashion, till in July 1880 we recognised a new Ameer in Abdurrahman, heretofore a Russian pensioner, and a grandson of Dost Mohammed. That same month a British brigade was cut to pieces near Candahar; but, starting from Cabul at the head of 10,000 picked troops, General Roberts in twenty-three days marched 318 miles, relieved Candahar's garrison, and won the battle of Mazra. Already our forces had begun to withdraw from the country, and Candahar was evacuated in 1881. A peaceful British mission was undertaken in the autumn of 1893, when various matters regarding the frontier of Afghanistan were dealt with. [Illustration: Earl Roberts. (From a Photograph by Poole, Waterford.)] In 1877 we annexed the Dutch Transvaal Republic; the republic was restored under British suzerainty. In 1879 we invaded the Zulus' territory. On 11th January Lord Chelmsford crossed the Natal frontier; on the 22d the Zulus surrounded his camp, and all but annihilated its garrison. The heroic defence of Rorke's Drift, by 80 against 4000, saved Natal from a Zulu invasion; but it was not till July that the campaign was ended by the victory of Ulundi. The saddest event in all the war was the death of the French Prince Imperial, who was serving with the British forces. He was out with a small reconnoitring party, which was surprised by a band of Zulus; his escort mounted and fled; and he was found next morning dead, his body gashed with eighteen assegai wounds. The Zulu king, Cetewayo, was captured in August, and sent a prisoner to Cape Town. Zululand was divided amongst twelve chieftains; but in 1883, after a visit to England, Cetewayo was reinstated in the central part of his kingdom. It was not so easy to set him up again; in 1884 he died a fugitive, overthrown by one of his rivals. Two very notable men passed away in 1881--Thomas Carlyle, author of _The French Revolution_, and Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Born in 1804, Disraeli entered parliament in 1837, the year of the Queen's accession. His first speech, though clever enough, was greeted with shouts of laughter, till, losing patience, he cried, almost shouted: 'I have begun several things many times, and have often succeeded at last; ay, and though I sit down now, the time will come when you will hear me.' In nine years that time did come. From the hour of his onslaught on Sir Robert Peel in the Corn-Law debate of 22d January 1846, be became the leader of the Tory party. Since the making of the Suez Canal opened a new route to India, we have had a fresh interest in Egypt. In 1882, Egypt was disturbed by troubles which attracted great attention in this country. Through a rising under Arabi Pasha the government was upset, and at Alexandria riots took place, in which Europeans were murdered. Then followed the bombardment of Alexandria by the British fleet. Our forces under Sir Garnet Wolseley defeated the Egyptian army at Tel-el-Kebir, and occupied Cairo, the capital of the country. Arabi Pasha was banished for life, and the authority of the Khedive was restored under British control. We thus maintained peace and order in Egypt; but a great revolt took place in the provinces of the Soudan, which had been conquered by Egypt. An Egyptian army commanded by General Hicks was almost entirely destroyed by the natives under a religious leader called the Mahdi. In these circumstances it was decided to send General Gordon to withdraw the Egyptian garrisons from the Soudan, and to give up that vast country to its native rulers. Gordon made his way to Khartoum, but he found the native revolt more formidable than he expected. He was besieged in that city, and refusing to leave the people to their fate, heroically defended it against great odds for nearly a year. An expedition sent under Wolseley to release him did not arrive till Khartoum had fallen and Gordon was slain (1885). After being defeated in several battles, the forces of the Mahdi were taught that, however brave, they were no match for our troops. When it was determined to reconquer the Soudan the duty was entrusted to Sir Herbert Kitchener, who routed the Khalifa at Omdurman in 1898. During recent years there have also been troubles on our Indian frontier. In 1886 we annexed Burma, which had suffered much misery under a cruel tyrant. But the greatest danger to India lies on the north-western border, where Russia has been making rapid progress. The conquest of Merv by the Russians brought their dominion close to that of our allies, the Afghans, and it became necessary to establish a fixed boundary between them. While this was being done, the Russians came into collision with the Afghans at Penjdeh, and in 1885 inflicted a defeat upon them. As a result of this quarrel, it seemed possible at one time that we might go to war with Russia. We came, however, to an agreement with that power, and as we now have a more settled boundary, we may hope to avoid further conflict on the question. But for many years we have been busy in fortifying our north-western frontier, that we may be ready to defend India against invasion. We have lately seen a vast extension of our empire in Africa. And though the love of gold has been the great motive in our advance into the Dark Continent, our rule is sure to prove a benefit to the native peoples. Vast tracts of land rich in mineral wealth, and well adapted both for pasture and cultivation, have been brought under the sway of Britain. Commerce has been stimulated, and mission stations have been established on almost every lake and river. From Dr Livingstone's advent in Africa in 1841 dates the modern interest in South Africa. He passed away in 1873. But the explorations of Stanley, Baker, Burton, and the operations of the chartered companies in Uganda and Mashonaland have all helped to make the Dark Continent more familiar to the public. At the general election in the spring of 1880, the Liberals had a large majority, and Mr Gladstone again became prime-minister. In accordance with the expectation of the country, he proceeded to make some important changes. It was complained by many that the agricultural labourers had no share in electing members of parliament. A bill was therefore introduced in 1884 to extend to the counties the privilege of voting, which, in 1867, had been granted to householders and lodgers in towns. This bill passed the House of Commons, but the House of Lords refused to pass it, because it was not accompanied by a measure for the better distribution of seats. [Illustration: The Funeral Procession of Queen Victoria. (From a Photograph by Dorrett & Martin.)] Parliament again met in the autumn; and as the bill was a second time carried through the House of Commons, there was for a time the prospect of a contest between the two Houses. To prevent such a result, the leaders of both parties met in consultation, and it was agreed that the bill should be allowed to pass on condition that there should be a better distribution of seats. The main provision of the Redistribution Act, as it was called, was to take the right of electing members from all towns with a population under 15,000, and to merge them in the country districts in which they were situated. In home affairs the Irish question has, during many years, claimed more attention than any other. For some time there had been a great fall in the prices of agricultural produce, and consequently the farmers in Ireland had a difficulty in finding the money to pay their rents. Then followed evictions, which the peasantry resisted by violence. Parliament passed several measures, partly to give relief to the peasantry under the hard times which had fallen upon them, partly with a view to making the law stronger for the suppression of outrages. As these laws did not always meet the approval of the Irish and their leaders in parliament, scenes of violence frequently occurred. The worst act in the unhappy struggle--the murder of Lord Frederick Cavendish and of Mr Burke, in the Phoenix Park, Dublin, in 1882--was the work of a secret society, and received the condemnation of the Irish leaders. For many years there had been growing in Ireland a party which demanded Home Rule--that is, that Ireland should manage her domestic affairs by a parliament of her own at Dublin. At the general election in 1885, 86 members out of 103 returned for Ireland were in favour of Home Rule. In 1886 Mr Gladstone introduced a bill to grant Home Rule to Ireland; but, as many of the Liberals refused to follow him in this change of policy, he was defeated in the House of Commons. In an appeal to the country, he was likewise defeated, and the Marquis of Salisbury became prime-minister, with the support of a combination of Conservatives and Liberal Unionists. The government of Lord Salisbury lasted for six years. It carried several useful measures, among which may be mentioned free education, and the act for establishing county councils both in England and Scotland. At the general election of 1892, Mr Gladstone had a majority; for the fourth time he undertook the duties of premiership, and in 1893 for the second time brought a Home Rule Bill into parliament, which was rejected by the House of Lords on September 8th. Owing to increasing infirmities of age, Mr Gladstone resigned early in 1894, and was succeeded by Lord Rosebery, who carried on the government of the country until defeated in July 1895. Lord Salisbury now formed his third administration, and had to deal with embarrassing situations in connection with the Armenian massacres; the Jameson raid on the Transvaal (1896), which led to a prolonged inquiry in London; a boundary line dispute with Venezuela, which led up to a proposed arbitration treaty with the United States; the Cretan insurrection, and the Greco-Turkish war. There were native wars in West Africa and Rhodesia, while a railway was commenced from Mombasa on the coast, inland to the British Protectorate of Uganda. At the general election in 1900 Lord Salisbury was again returned to power by a large majority. Meanwhile, Britain had lost one of its greatest men. Early in the year 1898 it became known that Mr Gladstone was stricken by a mortal disease. Party feeling was at once laid aside, and the whole nation, as it were, watched with deepest sympathy by the bedside of the dying statesman. After a lingering and painful illness, borne with heroic fortitude and gentle patience, he passed away on the 19th of May. Nine days later he was buried in Westminster Abbey, the last resting-place of so many of England's illustrious dead. The government had to deal with the long and troublesome Boer war in South Africa, 1899-1901. To save it from trouble at the hands of the natives, the Transvaal had been annexed by Britain in 1877. In 1880, however, the Boers rose in revolt, and defeated a number of British troops at Majuba Hill. After this the country was granted independence in internal affairs. Owing to the discovery of gold, thousands of settlers were attracted to the Transvaal, and the injustice done to these Uitlanders, as the new-comers were called, led in time to serious trouble. The Uitlanders complained that though they were the majority in the country, and were made to pay by far the greater part of the taxes, they were denied nearly all political rights. At the close of the year 1895 Dr Jameson made a most unwise raid into the Transvaal, in support of a proposed rising of the Uitlanders to obtain political rights. He was surrounded by the Boers and obliged to surrender. British settlers in the Transvaal were now treated worse than before. Negotiations were carried on between the British government and the Boers, but were suddenly broken off by the latter, who demanded that no more British soldiers should be sent to South Africa. This demand being refused, the Boers, supported by their brethren of the Orange Free State, declared war against Britain, and invaded Natal and Cape Colony in October 1899. Ladysmith, in the north of Natal, was invested by the Boers, the British army there being under the command of General Sir George White. The Boers also besieged Kimberley, an important town, containing valuable diamond-mines, in the north-west of Cape Colony. Farther north a small British garrison was hemmed in at Mafeking, a little town near the Transvaal border. Lord Methuen, with a British column, was sent to the relief of Kimberley, and Sir Redvers Buller, with a strong army, set out to relieve Ladysmith; but both these generals sustained reverses, the former at Magersfontein, and the latter at the Tugela River. Towards the end of December, Lord Roberts, with Lord Kitchener as chief of his staff, was sent out to the Cape as Commander-in-Chief. On the 15th of February, Kimberley was relieved; and shortly afterwards the Boer general Cronje, with his entire army of upwards of four thousand men, surrendered to Lord Roberts at Paardeberg. After several gallant attempts, General Buller finally succeeded in relieving Ladysmith, which had been besieged by the Boers for four mouths. Bloemfontein, the capital of the Free State, was next captured by Lord Roberts; and on the 17th of May, Mafeking was relieved. The brave little garrison of this town, under their able and dauntless leader, Baden-Powell, had endured the greatest privations, and during a siege of seven months had maintained the most marvellously gallant defence of modern times. Before the end of May, Johannesburg surrendered to Lord Roberts; and on the 5th of June he hoisted the British flag in Pretoria, the capital of the Transvaal. About the same time the Orange Free State was annexed to Great Britain under the name of the Orange River Colony; and on the 1st of September the Transvaal was declared British territory. The most striking feature of this war was the loyalty and enthusiasm displayed by the colonies in the cause of the mother-country. Canada, Australia, and New Zealand vied with each other in sending volunteers to fight for and uphold the rights of their fellow-colonists in South Africa, thus giving to the world such an evidence of the unity of the British Empire as it had never before seen. Volunteers from the mother-country, too, rallied round their nation's flag in great numbers, and nobly went forth to maintain her cause on the field of battle. The progress of the nation during the reign of Queen Victoria was marvellous. At the commencement of that period the railway system was only in its infancy. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the country is covered from end to end with a complete network of railways; a journey which, in the old times of stagecoaches, took two or three weeks, being now accomplished in a few hours. The perfection of the railway system has afforded facilities for a wonderfully complete system of postage--the mails being carried to all parts of the kingdom in one night. The rapidity of conveyance is only rivalled by the cheapness to the public. The penny postage scheme adopted in 1839, and since further improved, has conferred untold benefits upon the people. Even more wonderful than the railway is the electric telegraph system, which has, so to speak, annihilated distance. By its means a short message can be sent from one end of the kingdom to the other in a few minutes, at the cost of sixpence. Even the ocean forms no barrier to the operations of this marvellous agency. By means of submarine cables Britain is linked with far-distant lands, and is at once made acquainted with everything that happens there. Owing to the wonderful progress of invention, and the general use of steam-power, enormous strides have been made in all branches of industry. By means of the improvements introduced into our agricultural operations, the farmer is enabled to get through his sowing and reaping more quickly; by the employment of machinery, all branches of our manufactures have been brought to a wonderful state of perfection, and much of the labour formerly done by hand is now executed by steam-power. In commerce, the old system of navigation by means of sailing-vessels is rapidly giving place to the marine engine, and magnificent steamers now traverse the ocean in all directions with the greatest regularity. Amongst great engineering triumphs have been the erection of the Forth Bridge, which was formally declared open for passenger traffic, on 4th March 1890, by the Prince of Wales; the cutting of the Manchester Ship Canal, and the building of such greyhounds of the Atlantic as the _Majestic_ and _Teutonic_, the _Campania_ and _Lucania_, which have crossed the Atlantic in about five and a half days. It is to be deeply lamented that the art of war has, with the aid of invention, flourished not less than the arts of peace. Modern invention has made a total change in military and naval warfare. The artillery and small-arms of to-day are as superior, both in range and precision, to those used on the field of Waterloo, as the 'brown Bess' of that time was superior to the 'bows and bills' of the middle ages. The old line-of-battle ships 'which Nelson led to victory' have given place to huge iron-plated monsters, moved by steam, and carrying such heavy guns, that one such ship would have proved a match for the united fleets of Britain and France at Trafalgar. In matters which are more directly concerned with the welfare of the people, the country made remarkable advances during the reign of Queen Victoria. Political freedom was given to the masses, and many wise laws were passed for improving their social condition. Education became more widely diffused, and a cheap press brought information on all subjects within the reach of the humblest. Our literature was enriched by the contributions of a host of brilliant writers--Macaulay and Carlyle, the historians; Dickens, Thackeray, Lytton, and George Eliot, the novelists, and the poets Tennyson and Browning. But if we have no names of quite equal eminence now living amongst us, we have still a splendid array of talent in all departments of literature, and the production of books, periodicals, and newspapers never was more abundant. The blessings of progress were not confined to Britain alone. The magnificent colonies of Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa abundantly shared in them. The population of the country had more than doubled during that period. The chief increase took place in the metropolis, the manufacturing towns of the north, the great mining districts, the chief seaports, and fashionable watering-places. London had increased enormously in size, and at the close of the reign contained as many inhabitants, perhaps, as the whole of England in the time of Elizabeth. 39603 ---- THE PUBLIC LIFE OF QUEEN VICTORIA. by JOHN MCGILCHRIST. Felt and Dillingham, 455, Broome Street, New York. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. ANCESTRY. Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony, the Protector of Luther--Staunch Protestantism of the Queen's Saxon Forefathers--House of Saxe-Coburg--A Saxon Desperado of the Middle Ages--A Fighting Hero of the Eighteenth Century--The Queen's Grandmother a Woman of Extraordinary Excellence-- Great Alliances in the Marriages of her Uncles and Aunts 1 CHAPTER II. THE GREATEST OF THE MODERN COBURGS. Romantic Career of Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, the Queen's Uncle--His Continuous, Kind, and Fatherly Care of his Orphaned Niece--The Duchy of Coburg held by Napoleon-- Sufferings of the Ducal Family--A Temptation resisted--The Tide turned--Leopold's Popularity in England--Betrothal and Marriage to the Princess Charlotte of Wales 8 CHAPTER III. PARENTAGE AND BIRTH OF QUEEN VICTORIA. How the Princess Victoria came to be Heiress Presumptive to the Throne--Death of the Princess Charlotte--Marriages of the Royal Dukes--Of the Duke of Kent--Birth of the Princess Alexandrina Victoria--Prediction of George IV.--Death of the Duke of Kent--His Character--His Liberal Opinions--Public Condolence with the Widow and Orphan--Early Life of the Duchess of Kent 14 CHAPTER IV. FIRST YEARS OF CHILDHOOD. Old Memories of Kensington Palace--Enlargements of the Structure by William III., Anne, Queen Caroline, and the Duke of Sussex--Maids of Honour--Rank and Beauty in the Gardens-- Wilberforce and the Infant Princess--Victoria at Ramsgate--A Picture of Victoria when Five Years Old--Her Physical Training--Popularity as a Child--Her Youthful Charities--A Narrow Escape from Death--Early Development of Quick Intelligence--Anecdotes--Love of Nature--Proneness to Self-Will--But Counterbalanced by Candour--Waggishness--A Portrait of the Child-Princess by Leigh Hunt 23 CHAPTER V. EDUCATION OF THE PRINCESS VICTORIA. Additional Grant by Parliament for the Maintenance and Education of the Princess--Wise Lessons learned at her Mother's Knee--A Visit to George IV. at Windsor--Assiduous Pursuit of Knowledge--Accession of William IV.--Victoria becomes next in Succession to the Crown--Regency Bill-- Satisfaction of the Good Grandmother at Coburg--Her Death-- Joy of Victoria at the Elevation of her Uncle to the Belgian Throne--Parliamentary Inquiry into the Progress of her Education--Satisfactory Report in Response--Presented at Court--Great Ball on her Twelfth Birthday at St. James's Palace--Court Scandal and Baseless Rumours--The Duchess of Northumberland appointed Governess--The Princess and the Poet Southey 37 CHAPTER VI. THE PRINCESS IN HER TEENS. Visits paid to many parts of England--Love of Cathedrals and Church Music--Trip to North Wales and the Midland Counties-- Visit to a Cotton Mill--To Oxford--Gala Day at Southampton-- Interview with the Young Queen of Portugal--Confirmation of the Princess--Tour to the North--York Musical Festival--At Ramsgate with the King of the Belgians--A Noble Deed at Tunbridge Wells 47 CHAPTER VII. EARLY DAYS OF PRINCE ALBERT. Birth--Melancholy Story of his Mother--Brought up under the Care of his Two Excellent Grandmothers--His Winning Ways as a Child--His Tutor, Florschütz--The Brothers, Ernest and Albert--Visit to Brussels, and its Beneficial Effects--Hard Study--Tour through Germany, &c.--First Visit to England, and Meeting with Victoria--Studies at Brussels--Enters the University of Bonn--Tour to Switzerland and Italy--Public Announcement of Betrothal--Leaves Coburg and Gotha for his Marriage 52 CHAPTER VIII. THE PRINCESS VICTORIA BECOMES QUEEN REGNANT. First Meeting of the Princess Victoria and Prince Albert-- Coming of Age--Festivities on the Occasion--Death of William IV., and Accession of Victoria--The Queen holds her First Privy Council--Her Address--Proclamation as Queen at St. James's Palace--Beautiful Traits of Character displayed by the Queen--Stirring and Gorgeous Scene--Delight of the People at the Queen's Accession 61 CHAPTER IX. THE MAIDEN QUEEN. Removal to Buckingham Palace--First Levée--Dissolves Parliament--Beauty of her Elocution--Splendid Reception by the City of London--Settlement of the Queen's Income--Her Daily Life--Her Admirable Knowledge of, and Devotion to, the Business of the State--Reverence for the Lord's Day 69 CHAPTER X. THE QUEEN CROWNED. Novel Features in the Coronation--Its Cost--Large Amount of Money Circulated--Splendour of the Procession--Enormous Crowds--The Scene within the Abbey--Arrival of the Queen-- The Regalia and Sacred Vessels--Costume of the Queen-- Astonishment of the Turkish Ambassador at the Scene--The Coronation Ceremony--The Queen's Oath--The Anointing--The Crown placed on her Head--The Homage--An Aged Peer--The Queen's Crown--The Illuminations and General Festivities-- Fair in Hyde Park--The Duke of Wellington and Marshal Soult at the Guildhall 75 CHAPTER XI. THE BEDCHAMBER PLOT. Resignation of Lord Melbourne's Cabinet--Sir Robert Peel sent for--Fails to form a Cabinet--His Explanation--The Queen refuses to Dismiss her Ladies of the Bedchamber-- Supported by her late Ministers--Sir Robert Peel's Objections--The Queen will not give way--The Whigs recalled to Power--Public Opinion on the Dispute--The Whig Ministers blamed, and the Queen exculpated 84 CHAPTER XII. COURTSHIP AND BETROTHAL. Desire of the Coburg Relatives for a Marriage between Victoria and Albert--Favourable Impressions mutually made by Victoria and Albert--Prince Albert's Letter on the Queen's Accession--Opposition of King William IV. to the Marriage-- Correspondence between the Cousins--King Leopold Urges on the Marriage--The Queen's Reluctance to become Betrothed-- Her subsequent Regret at this--The Prince craves a definite Determination--His Second Visit to England--Betrothed at Last--Returns to Germany to say Farewell 91 CHAPTER XIII. THE QUEEN WEDDED. Announcement of the Intended Marriage to the Privy Council and Parliament--Parliamentary Settlement of the Prince's Rank, &c.--Annoying Circumstances--The Prince's Protestantism--His Income--Arrival of the Bridegroom-- Receives a National Welcome--The Wedding--Honeymoon Spent at Windsor 100 CHAPTER XIV. EARLY YEARS OF MARRIED LIFE. Difficulties and Delicacy of Prince Albert's Position--Early Married Life--Studies continued--Attempts on the Queen's Life--Courage of the Queen--Birth of the Princess Royal-- Parting from the Whig Ladies of the Bedchamber--Dark Days for England--Birth of the Prince of Wales--The Queen Described by M. Guizot--A Dinner at Buckingham Palace--State Dinner at Windsor 110 CHAPTER XV. THE QUEEN IN SCOTLAND. Christening of the Prince of Wales--Manufacturing Distress-- The Queen's Efforts to alleviate it--Assesses Herself to the Income Tax--Resolves to Visit Scotland--Embarks at Woolwich-- Beacon Fires in the Firth of Forth--Landing on Scottish Soil--A Disappointment--Formal Entry into Edinburgh--Richness of Historical and Ancestral Associations--The Queen on the Castle Rock--A Highland Welcome--Departure from Scotland 126 CHAPTER XVI. WHAT ENGLAND OWES TO PRINCE ALBERT. The Prince's Study of our Laws and Constitution--Two Misconceptions Outlived--His Versatility--His First Speech an Anti-Slavery one--His Appreciation and Judicious Criticism of Art--Scientific Side of his Mind--As an Agriculturist 141 CHAPTER XVII. FOREIGN TRAVEL AND HOME VISITS. Visit to King Louis Philippe at Eu--A Loyal Corporation-- Splendid Reception of the Queen in France--Anecdote of the Queen's Regard for Prince Albert--Visit of the Czar Nicholas--Home Life in Scotland--Visit to Germany-- Illuminations of the Rhine--A Rural Fête at Coburg 149 CHAPTER XVIII. THE QUEEN IN IRELAND. First Visit to Ireland--Rapturous Reception at Cork-- Queenstown so denominated--Enthusiasm at Dublin--Its Graceful Recognition by the Queen--Visit to the Dublin Exhibition--Encouragement of Native Industry--Visit to the Lakes of Killarney--The Whirligig of Time 157 CHAPTER XIX. THE WORLD'S CONGRESS OF INDUSTRY. Prince Albert the Inaugurator of International Exhibitions-- Proposes, Unsuccessfully, his Scheme to the Government--To the Society of Arts, Successfully--First Steps towards Realisation--Objections to be Met--Perseverance of the Prince--The Royal Commission--The Prince's Speech at York-- The Opening Ceremony--The Royal Procession 164 CHAPTER XX. THE WAR CLOUD. Bright Hopes of Peace Dispelled--An Era of War all over the World--The Russian War--The Queen's Visits to the Wounded Soldiers--Presentation of the War Medals--Crimean Heroes--The Volunteer Movement 172 CHAPTER XXI. THE QUEEN IN HER HIGHLAND HOME. The Queen as an Author--"The Early Years of the Prince Consort"--"Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands"--Love for Children of all Ranks--Mountain Ascents on Pony-back--In Fingal's Cave--"The Queen's Luck"-- Salmon-spearing, and a Catastrophe attending it--Erection of a Memorial Cairn--Freedom of Intercourse with Humble Highlanders--Visits to Cottagers--"Mrs. Albert"--Travelling Incognito--Highland Dinners--"A Wedding-Party frae Aberdeen"--A Disguise Detected 186 CHAPTER XXII. THE WIDOWED QUEEN. Unbroken Happiness of the Queen's Life up to 1861--Death of the Duchess of Kent--The Prince Consort slightly Ailing-- Catches Cold at Cambridge and Eton--The Malady becomes Serious--Public Alarm--Rapid Sinking, and Death--Sorrow of the People--The Queen's Fortitude--Avoidance of Court Display--Good Deeds--Sympathy with all Benevolent Actions-- Letter of Condolence to the Widow of President Lincoln--The "Albert Medal"--Conclusion 194 LIFE OF QUEEN VICTORIA. CHAPTER I. ANCESTRY. Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony, the Protector of Luther--Staunch Protestantism of the Queen's Saxon Forefathers--House of Saxe-Coburg--A Saxon Desperado of the Middle Ages--A Fighting Hero of the Eighteenth Century--The Queen's Grandmother a Woman of Extraordinary Excellence--Great Alliances in the Marriages of her Uncles and Aunts. Queen Victoria is, through her mother, descended--and her children are descended by the double line of both their parents--from the great, good, and glorious Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony early in the sixteenth century, who was one of the first to embrace the principles of Luther's Reformation, and whose name still stands out so nobly and brightly as the staunch and courageous protector of the great Reformer. The Ernestine branch of this great Saxon house, from which the Queen and the Prince Consort both derived their descent, have ever, though at great cost and injury to themselves at many periods of their history, remained true to the principles thus early adopted by their common ancestor; and they have ever considered it as the brightest glory of their race, that they can proudly point to this unquestionable fact. When one of the most distinguished members--if, indeed, he was not the most illustrious scion--of this family, the Queen's maternal uncle, Leopold, King of the Belgians, made a journey into Scotland, to allay the pangs of the bereavement which he had suffered in the untimely death of his young wife, the Princess Charlotte, he paid a visit of a few days' duration to Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford. While there, an aged and reverend Scottish divine was presented to the Prince. The clergyman, in the course of the interview, made complimentary reference to this fact in the descent of the Prince. Prince Leopold, in reply, stated that this was the first notice which had been taken of the circumstance in his presence since the day of his first arrival in England, and that he felt more honoured by it than by any other tribute which had been paid to him and his family. [Sidenote: "A GLIMPSE OF SAXON HISTORY."] The curious in such matters, those for whom the minute particularity of authenticated genealogical detail possesses a charm, with which the compiler of these pages acknowledges that he is himself affected, but which it would be unfair to such of his readers as do not share this taste to minister to at excessive length--such we refer to the Reverend Edward Tauerschmidt's "Brief Historical Account of the Dukedom and Ducal House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha." There they will find the full pedigree, with no link wanting, which connects Her Majesty, and equally her first cousin and spouse, by the links of twenty-five generations, with the Saxon Earl Theodoric, or Dideric, of the House of Bucizi, who is recorded to have died in the year of our Lord 982. We content ourselves with proceeding at a leap to the reign of Frederick the Benignant, Elector of Saxony, who was thirteenth in descent from Earl Theodoric, and died in 1464. In a most fascinating article which was contributed by Mr. Carlyle to the January number of the _Westminster Review_ for the year 1855, entitled, "A Glimpse of Saxon History," a most romantic incident of this Elector's reign is narrated with the writer's customary graphic power. This potentate had a "fighting captain" in his employ, by name Kunz von Kaufungen. Fighting for his master, he was captured, and being a warrior of importance, was amerced in the heavy ransom of a sum equal to 2,000 English pounds. This he paid, but expected to be indemnified by Frederick. This expectation, for some reason, was not fulfilled. Kunz, exasperated, swore to be avenged. On the 7th of July, 1455, Kunz entered the town of Altenburg, at the head of a party of thirty men. Having bribed one of the servants to treachery, they obtained admission into the Electoral castle, from which they carried off Frederick's two sons, the Princes Ernest and Albert. The Electress soon discovered her loss, and the desperadoes had not proceeded far on their several ways (they had divided into two bands, each having one of the children), ere they were hotly pursued. Kunz himself headed that moiety of his force who bore with them Ernest, the elder boy and the more valuable hostage. The pursuers caused alarms to be rung from the village spires, and amongst others of the peasantry who were aroused, was a rough charcoal-burner, who, encountering the party of Kunz, "belaboured him with the poking-pole" which he used in his vocation, and to such effect that he vanquished the abductor, rescued the boy, and had the happiness of restoring him to the arms of his agonised mother. When asked, wonderingly and admiringly, how he dared to attack so formidable a foe, he replied to his fair and grateful querist, "Madam, I _drilled_ him soundly with my poking-pole." From that day he was known by no other name than the Driller--_der Triller_. Kunz was consigned to the block, while the Driller, and deliverer, was offered any reward he chose to name. This true man--a mediæval "Miller of the Dee"--asked no other recompense than "only liberty to cut, of scrags and waste wood, what will suffice for my charring purposes." This was at once granted, along with the freehold of a snug farm, and an annual and ample allowance of corn from the barns of the Electors. All was secured to him and his posterity by formal deed, and his descendants to this day enjoy the privileges so valiantly earned by their ancestor four centuries ago. From the two princes so rescued, descended respectively the Ernestine and the Albertine branches of the Saxon house. The Queen is--as her husband was--twelfth in descent from the little Prince Ernest, who became the progenitor of the former line. [Sidenote: THE QUEEN'S SAXON ANCESTORS.] The parent stock had boasted among other meritorious or distinguished representatives the names of Conrad the Great, Otho the Rich, Henry the Illustrious, three Fredericks, dubbed respectively the Serious, the Warlike, and the Benignant; whilst, as disparaging sets-off, either demerit or misfortune was indicated, in the instance of other Electors, by these sobriquets--the Oppressed, the Degenerate, the Severe, and, strangest of all, Frederick-with-the-Wounded-Cheek. This habit of designating the successive Electors by their moral or other peculiarities, or by the incidents or accidents of their careers, was continued but for a few generations of the Ernestine branch of the bifurcated line. It contained a Magnanimous Frederick, and a Fiery Ernest, after whose death, in 1675, this pleasing plan of picturesque designation no longer meets the eye of the student. The chivalrous protection which Frederick the Magnanimous--or the Wise, as he is sometimes also denominated--spread as a buckler over Luther and the Lutherans cost him his birthright. The bigoted Charles V. diverted, in 1547, the Electoral dignity from the Ernestine to the Albertine branch, and the fortunes of the house cannot be said to have been fully restored until the Treaty of Tilsit, in 1807, ratified as its main provisions were by that of Vienna, seven years later. Coming down to more recent times, and to the Queen's more immediate ancestry, we find the old spirit which these brave Saxon princes represented in the stirring mediæval and Reforming days, abundantly maintained in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and notably so on the field of battle, in the great wars with which the names of Frederick the Great, Maria Theresa, Suwarow, and Napoleon are associated. Francis Josias was twenty-second of the line, and the Queen's great-great-grandfather. His great-grandson, the late King Leopold, says of him, that he was "much looked up to." He was a tall and powerful man, but disfigured by having lost an eye at tennis, a game then very popular on the Continent. One of his grandsons, a Prince Frederick Josias, served with distinction in the Seven Years' War, in one of the battles of which he was shot through the hand. He was subsequently employed in high positions by the Empress Maria Theresa, and made a great name for himself against the Turks. Suwarow and he extricated the Emperor Joseph, the son of the Empress, from utter failure, and conquered the Principalities. He afterwards fought against Dumouriez in the Netherlands, and gained the battle of Neerwinden, in 1793, near Tirlemont; "one of the greatest battles of modern history," says his nephew, King Leopold, a most competent authority on the subject. He says that, but for the inaction of the Dutch contingent, and the insane attempt of the Duke of York to conquer Dunkirk, the allies, after this victory, which cleared the Netherlands of the French, might as easily have marched upon Paris as the forces of Wellington and Blucher did after Waterloo. The Queen's grandfather, suffering early in life from exceedingly bad health, was cast in a much less energetic mould, but his character was eminently benevolent and loveable, and he had a knowledge and love of the fine arts, which Prince Albert, in the highest degree of all his descendants, inherited. The Queen's grandmother, who was of the Reuss-Ebersdorff family, was equally warm-hearted, possessed a powerful mind, and "loved her grandchildren most tenderly." We shall have much to say of her in subsequent pages. [Sidenote: THE HOUSE OF SAXE-COBURG.] Of the Queen's aunts, one, after declining many eligible offers in her own princely rank, married Count Mensdorff-Pouilly, a French emigrant of the Revolution, who entered the Austrian service, and became the father of the well-known Austrian statesman, Count Arthur Mensdorff, who was the bosom friend of Prince Albert from his earliest infancy until his untimely death. A second married the reigning Duke of Wurtemburg, and occupied for many years a very influential position in Russia, her husband being brother of the Empress Catherine (the second of that name), and maternal uncle of the Emperors Alexander and Nicholas. The third daughter of the house herself became a Russian Grand Duchess; she was wedded at the age of fifteen to the Grand Duke Constantine. The marriage was an inharmonious one, and in 1802 the young pair agreed to separate. Both husband and wife were acquitted of all blame; Leopold, the brother of the latter, attributes the sad event to "the shocking hypocrisy of the Empress-mother," in the absence of which "things might have gone on." The Queen's mother, who was christened Victoire (or Victoria) Marie Louise, was the youngest of the four sisters. Besides Duke Ernest, the father of Prince Albert, the Queen had two other maternal uncles. One was Frederick George, who married a great heiress, the Hungarian Princess of Kohary. His son became the consort of Donna Maria II. of Portugal; his grandson, the present King of Portugal, is the Queen's first cousin once removed, and the second cousin of her children. Her other uncle was the late King of the Belgians, whose career is a portion of the history of our grandfathers', our fathers', and our own times, and is so intimately associated with the life and fortunes of Her Majesty as to merit separate treatment in a succeeding chapter, and elsewhere incidentally in the course of our narrative. CHAPTER II. THE GREATEST OF THE MODERN COBURGS. Romantic Career of Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, the Queen's Uncle--his Continuous, Kind, and Fatherly Care of his Orphaned Niece--The Duchy of Coburg held by Napoleon--Sufferings of the Ducal Family--A Temptation resisted--The Tide turned--Leopold's Popularity in England--Betrothal and Marriage to the Princess Charlotte of Wales. [Sidenote: PRINCE LEOPOLD OF SAXE-COBURG.] Born in the year 1790, Prince Leopold was a soldier and in the saddle when he was fifteen years of age. In 1805, that war broke out between Napoleon and Austria, in which the power of the Kaiser was so near being destroyed. The health of the Duke Francis, Leopold's father, was fast failing him, and the tremendous sorrows and sufferings inflicted by the victorious French upon Germany, hastened the rapidity of his descent to the grave. Ernest, the eldest son, and Leopold hurriedly left Coburg to join the Russian army in Moravia. Their only other brother was already in an Austrian regiment of Hussars. Ere Leopold could flesh his sword, Austerlitz had been fought and lost, and Austria was thoroughly crippled. He returned to Coburg to witness his father's death. The French were in possession of the town and Duchy, and when they learned that the new Duke was with their Prussian foe, they appointed a military intendant, a M. Vilain--in nature as well as in name, so Leopold afterwards recorded. The Ducal family were reduced to such straits, that they depended for their very sustenance upon the clandestine benefactions of the Governmental subordinates, surlily winked at by their French masters. The Duchess set off on a journey to Warsaw to endeavour to propitiate Napoleon; but she was permitted to proceed no farther than Berlin, as Napoleon hated such visits. She returned baffled to Coburg, which remained "une possession Française." The Peace of Tilsit, among its other provisions, "reintegrated" Coburg; but, through the greed and treachery of Prussia, the stipulated arrangements were never fulfilled. On the ratification of the Peace, Duke Ernest came to Coburg for the first time to assume his Ducal power and dignity. As a matter of policy, Leopold, with other German Princes, now visited Napoleon at Paris, where he was courteously received. On his return from Paris, early in 1808, he nearly died of scarlet fever. After a very tardy and painful recovery, he went, at the end of the year, to the Congress of Erfurth, to which he had been summoned by the Czar Alexander. He tried there to secure to his brother his undiminished territorial possessions, and succeeded in making such a favourable impression upon Napoleon that he would have done so, but for the impolitic excessiveness of his brother's claims, and the apathetic manner in which the Czar supported them. The war with Russia came on, in which he eagerly desired to serve against the French; but Napoleon caused it to be known that if he did so his brother would be held responsible; so he had to abide in inglorious and detested ease. Napoleon made him tempting offers to enter his service, and would have been more incensed at his persistent refusal than he was, but for the friendly intercession of Josephine and Queen Hortense, her daughter, who were both very friendly to the young Prince. Meanwhile he turned his eminent talents for diplomacy to good account. He persuaded Bavaria to return to his brother portions of Coburg territory which that state unjustly held, and removed the galling pain of the Bavarian flag floating over villages within four English miles of the town of Coburg itself. [Sidenote: THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.] In 1812 Napoleon's frightful war with Russia broke out. Napoleon summoned the subject and enfeebled German Princes to Dresden. Duke Ernest was compelled to go, and Leopold also was cited to the gathering, but he went to Vienna, and then to Italy, to keep out of the way. It would have been now most dangerous to decline the French service, and he was determined at all costs not to enter it. "Germany," said he, "was, at the beginning of 1812, in the lowest and most humiliating position; Austria and Prussia sunk to be auxiliaries; everybody frightened and submissive, except Spain, supported by England." But Napoleon's reverses in Russia soon followed, and they electrified all Germany into new courage. The Duke of Coburg posted off to Berlin to endeavour to stimulate the perplexed, vacillating, and timorous Prussian King into manly and decided action. The other brother, Ferdinand, went to Vienna on a similar errand. Leopold hied him to Munich to stir up the Crown Prince of Bavaria, afterwards King Louis. They were all moderately successful, and Leopold hastened to Kalisch, in Poland, being the first German Prince to join the Army of Liberation. He was equally honoured and gratified by being appointed a Major-General by the Czar. He was present at the hard-fought but indecisive battles of Lutzen and Bautzen. There followed an armistice, and a conference at Prague, with a view to a definite settlement. This the Prince attended. He was the only person admitted to the presence of the Emperor of Austria, and spent much of his time with the plenipotentiaries Metternich, Humboldt, Ansted, Gentz, and others. The negotiations broke off, and hostilities were resumed. At the decided defeat which the French general Vandamme sustained, shortly before the crowning victory of Leipsic, Leopold commanded all the allied cavalry, and distinguished himself the more that he was the only general in the field who knew the country. He was present, and in high command, at Leipsic, where Germany was finally freed. After the fight, the Grand Duke Constantine accompanied him to Coburg, visiting the relatives of the wife from whom he was now separated, and who lived and died in retirement in Switzerland. Amongst others they visited the future Duchess of Kent, then Princess of Leiningen, her first husband being still alive. Shortly afterwards Constantine and Leopold rejoined the army in Switzerland, where Leopold tried hard, but ineffectually, to effect a reconciliation between his sister and her husband. Leopold subsequently entered Paris at the head of the cavalry; his eldest brother procured the evacuation of Mayence by its French garrison. The three brothers all met in Paris, from which Leopold proceeded, in the suite of the Czar, to the great triumphant gathering of the Allied Sovereigns in London. Now for the first time he met his future bride, the Princess Charlotte, only child of the Prince Regent, and heir to the throne. His splendid continental career already propitiated her, as it did all the British people, in his favour. The project of a matrimonial union between the gallant young general and the still more youthful princess was warmly taken up by the leading men in power, including Wellington, his brothers, and Castlereagh. The Prince Regent alone was opposed to the project. He was irritated by his daughter's repugnance to the Prince of Orange, who was destined by him to be his son-in-law, and by her recent flight from Carlton House to the residence of her mother. Leopold, however, decidedly succeeded in winning the affections of the lady herself, and the nation was delighted at the project. The Dukes of York and Kent, too, warmly encouraged his suit. On his return home he found that his youngest sister had been unexpectedly left a widow, and he arranged the guardianship and pecuniary affairs of the future mother of England's Queen. At the Congress of Vienna, whither he went to plead the cause of his brother, his amazing sagacity and tact induced the negotiators to make a very satisfactory arrangement of frontier. This he settled, to the great chagrin of Humboldt, the Prussian envoy, who, with the Prussian Court and people generally, seems to have been extremely spiteful towards the little principality, their near neighbour. [Sidenote: A ROYAL MARRIAGE.] Leopold was not at Waterloo--fought so near the capital of his future kingdom. He was posted in Alsace in command of an army of observation, which, of course, was never needed for action. Leopold went alone to Paris, with the leave of the Czar, still animated by the purpose of advancing his brother's pretensions; Prussia having failed to carry out the rectifications of frontier enacted at Vienna the year before. He succeeded in this object, and hopes of the highest nature were engendered about an affair still nearer to his heart. Wellington and Castlereagh treated him with marked and significant deference. And through the kind intervention of the good-hearted and simple-minded Duke of Kent, he received from his ladye-love some pleasant tokens of continued affection and renewed pledges of staunch fidelity. He was strongly recommended to repair to England and renew and prosecute his wooing in person; but he very astutely declined, thinking it unwise to "brave" the Prince Regent. He went, instead, to Vienna, to act as groomsman at the wedding of his brother Ferdinand with the great Hungarian heiress whose love he had won; and from thence to Berlin, persistently to enforce his brother's twice recognised and sanctioned rights. At Berlin he received a welcome invitation to England from the Regent, and a most satisfactory letter of "explanation" from Lord Castlereagh. He arrived in London in February, 1816. Castlereagh at once took him to Brighton, where the Regent was. He received his daughter's wooer most graciously. The old queen and her three daughters posted after Leopold from London, and in a family council the marriage was definitely agreed on. The young couple were married in May, amid the joyful acclamations of the whole nation. CHAPTER III. PARENTAGE AND BIRTH OF QUEEN VICTORIA. How the Princess Victoria came to be Heiress Presumptive to the Throne--Death of the Princess Charlotte--Marriages of the Royal Dukes--Of the Duke of Kent--Birth of the Princess Alexandrina Victoria--Prediction of George IV.--Death of the Duke of Kent--His Character--His Liberal Opinions--Public Condolence with the Widow and Orphan--Early Life of the Duchess of Kent. [Sidenote: MARRIAGE OF THE DUKE OF KENT.] On the 6th of November, 1817, the hopes of the nation, which had so fondly rested upon the happy union between the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold, were fatally blasted by Her Royal Highness's death, shortly after her delivery of a still-born child. Never in our history was a blow felt more deeply and personally by all the nation, than this bereavement. The death of the Princess Charlotte severely and most painfully disappointed the nation in its general expectation with regard to the much desired succession to the throne in the person of herself and her heirs. The Duke of Cumberland, who was hated by all, was the only married younger son of the king, and there was a general desire that the other royal princes, especially the popular and estimable Dukes of Kent and Sussex, should seek out suitable partners. The Duke of Kent rightly felt that the House of Brunswick was dear to the English people, that the nation had a very strong desire that the question of succession should be placed beyond doubt, and that, considering the uncertainty of the chances of life, and of leaving offspring, it was clearly his duty to marry. Indeed, he had already, ere the untimely death of his niece, offered his hand and heart to the widowed Princess of Leiningen. The Princess Charlotte tenderly loved her uncle Kent, who had done so much to promote the attainment of the wishes of her own heart, and she did all she could to promote the marriage of her uncle with the sister of her husband. But the position of the Princess of Leiningen as guardian of her two children occasioned delays; and no unimportant matter was the fact that if she re-married, she would sacrifice a jointure of nearly £5,000 a year, while the Duke of Kent was punished by the Court for his free and outspoken Liberal opinions by being restricted to a very meagre pecuniary allowance from the Tory Parliament. At last, however, all minor difficulties were smoothed over. On the 13th of May, a message was brought down to Parliament, announcing that "the Prince Regent had given his consent to a marriage between the Duke of Kent and Her Serene Highness Mary Louisa Victoria, daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, widow of Enrich Charles, Prince of Leiningen, and sister of Prince Leopold." Of all the royal marriages, this was the one which the heart of the country went most thoroughly along with. The Duke of Kent never disguised--indeed, he openly proclaimed--his attachment to the principles of the popular party; and the fact of the close relationship of his intended wife to Prince Leopold was another strong recommendation. The marriage was celebrated, first according to the Lutheran rites in Germany, on the 29th May, 1818, and, on the 13th of July following, by the Archbishop of Canterbury; the Prince Regent, on the latter occasion, giving away the bride. In the same summer, the Dukes of Clarence and Cambridge had married. The Duke of Sussex, whose affections and sympathies were otherwise engaged, declined to contract a foreign alliance; but he took the liveliest interest in the marriage of his favourite brother Kent, as he also did in the future welfare and prosperity of his niece. [Sidenote: CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCESS VICTORIA.] After the English marriage, the young couple sojourned for a brief period at Claremont, the residence which had been selected by the Princess Charlotte, and which Prince Leopold continued to occupy. They then, guided chiefly by motives of economy, for their means were very small, travelled on the Continent, from which they returned for the accouchement of the Duchess. Both prospective parents were desirous that their child should be "born a Briton." They arrived at Dover on the 23rd of April, 1819, and on the 24th of May the Princess Alexandrina Victoria was born at Kensington Palace. She was born in the presence of the Dukes of Sussex and Wellington, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Earl Bathurst, Mr. Canning, Mr. Vansittart, and the Bishop of London. The Duke of Kent wept for joy, and the fact that his infant was a daughter did not in the least degree diminish his delight. The Duchess rapidly recovered, and the beauty and symmetry of the infant Princess were spoken of with admiration by all who had an opportunity of observing her. Shortly after this happy event, the Duke of Kent attended a drawing-room, from which, and similar Court ceremonies, the estrangement between himself and the Regent had for some time kept him away. His brother was most affable, and invited him to dine the next day, when he predicted that his little niece would be Queen some time. This certainly seemed improbable shortly afterwards, for Clarence, who was nearer in succession than Kent, became the father of two daughters by his wife, Adelaide. But they both died young, thereby opening the succession to the child of the Duke of Kent, and verifying the Regent's prophecy. The child was christened with great privacy, on the 24th of June, in the Palace of Kensington. The royal gold font was fetched from the Tower, and fitted up in the grand saloon of the palace. Under the direction of the Lord Chamberlain, the draperies were removed from the Chapel Royal, St. James's. The Archbishop of Canterbury, assisted by the Bishop of London, administered the holy office; the Prince Regent, the members of the Royal Family, and other illustrious visitors were present. The sponsors were the Prince Regent, the Czar Alexander (represented by the Duke of York as proxy), the Queen Dowager of Wurtemberg (represented by the Princess Augusta), and the Duchess Dowager of Coburg (represented by the Duchess of Gloucester). A brilliant evening party filled the saloons of the happy parents. The Duke and Duchess still made Claremont their chief home. But the winter of 1819-20 set in with unusual severity, and they went to Sidmouth, in the hope of escaping its trying severity. From Sidmouth the Duke made an excursion to visit Salisbury Cathedral, where he caught a slight cold. On his return to Sidmouth it became alarming, and the Duchess sent off in haste to her brother, who was visiting at Lord Craven's. Soon after his arrival, the Duke breathed his last. While his cold still slightly affected him, he had gone for a long walk, on the 13th of January, with Captain Conroy, and had his boots soaked through with wet. He neglected to change his boots and stockings until he dressed for dinner, being attracted by the smiles of his infant princess, with whom he sat for some time playing. Before night he had a sensation of cold and hoarseness, but the doctors were not alarmed, and merely prescribed mild medicaments and a good night's rest. But the symptoms of fever rapidly increased, and, in spite of much blood-letting, he died ten days from the date of the recurrence of his cold. He met his death with pious resignation. The Duchess was most indefatigable in her attentions, and personally performed all the offices of the sick-bed. For five successive nights she never took off her clothes, and she struggled to prevent his seeing the agony of her apprehensions, never leaving the bed-side but to give vent to her bursting sorrow. The presence of her brother was a great comfort to her, both before and after the moment of death. It was fortunate, indeed, that Leopold was in this country, "as the poor Duke had left his family deprived of all means of existence." So did Leopold himself testify many years afterwards. [Sidenote: THE DUKE OF KENT.] The Duke of Kent, although unpopular in his youth on account of his strictness as a military disciplinarian, became in later days much beloved. His stature was tall, and his appearance noble and manly. His manner was engaging, and his conversation animated. He possessed an exact memory, varied information, a quick and masculine intellect. In many of his tastes and habits he closely resembled his father. He was an early riser, and a close economist of time; temperate in eating; though fond of society, indifferent to wine; a kind master, punctual correspondent, and exact man of business; a steady friend, and an affectionate brother. He was peculiarly exempt in his youth from those extravagances and vices with which the names of some of his brothers were so painfully associated. He was in his early life, which he spent in active and laborious military service, a pattern of prudence, economy, and industrious habits. He incurred no unnecessary expenses, and made few debts, although his annual allowance was only £1,000 for some years after he had attained his majority. He delighted in books, education, charity, and the promotion of all useful arts, and was a model son, husband, and father. He was a staunch and uncompromising advocate of those liberal opinions which it is so well known that his daughter inherits, which she displayed so unreservedly early in her reign, but the prominent expression of which prudence and constitutional restraints convinced her that it was advisable to keep in the background, as her mind grew and ripened. The Duke of Kent's political views will be gathered from the following extract from a speech at a banquet, in which he replied to the toast of the junior members of the Royal Family:--"I am a friend of civil and religious liberty, all the world over. I am an enemy to all religious tests. I am a supporter of a general system of education. All men are my brethren; and I hold that power is only delegated for the benefit of the people. These are the principles of myself and of my beloved brother, the Duke of Sussex. They are not popular principles just now; that is, they do not conduct to place or office. _All_ the members of the Royal Family do not hold the same principles. For this I do not blame them; but we claim for ourselves the right of thinking and acting as we think best, and we proclaim ourselves, with our friend Mr. Tierney, 'members of His Majesty's loyal Opposition.'" These words give a precise and definite idea of the character of this clear-headed, good-hearted, shrewd, practical, and unpretending man. Prince Leopold accompanied his widowed sister and the little orphan from Sidmouth to Kensington Palace. The weather was most severe, and the journey a trying one. The Houses of Parliament remembered, with respectful solicitude, the widowed and isolated state of the Duchess. Both Houses voted addresses of condolence. That from the Commons was presented by Lords Morpeth and Clive. She appeared in person, though unable to suppress her grief, with the infant Victoria in her arms, to receive the deputation. She presented the babe to the deputed Members, and pointed to her as the treasure to whose preservation and improvement she was resolved to dedicate her best energies and fondest love. The interview was exceedingly touching. A true woman, the Duchess could not conceal the intensity of her widowed grief; but that did not overshadow her maternal affection, and she recognised and spoke courageously of her duties, her responsibilities, and her high resolves. Public feeling and national anxiety accompanied her into her domestic privacy, and all classes of society took the deepest interest in all her movements. [Sidenote: THE DUCHESS OF KENT.] The Queen, indeed, owes much to her mother, who lived long enough to see her daughter's grandchildren. The Duchess of Kent had been brought up under the immediate care and superintendence of her illustrious mother, whose character we have already described. She had shared the youthful lessons of her brother Leopold--a source, doubtless of great intellectual profit. In 1802, when she was but sixteen, much against her own wish, and only in compliance with the entreaties of her beloved father--who wished to see his only surviving daughter married, in such troublesome times, ere the end of his precarious and sickly life came--she became the wife of the Prince of Leiningen, a man eight-and-twenty years her senior. The union was most inappropriate and unwise. Her husband was repugnant in person and manners. He failed either to secure her confidence or contribute to her happiness. Yet she fulfilled her duties as a wife and mother in so exemplary a manner, from her marriage to her husband's death, in 1814, that the breath of slander never sullied her fair fame. Indeed, by the purity of her life, the manner in which she discharged her maternal duties, and the graceful suavity of her manners, she did much to ennoble the character of the House of Leiningen, which her husband had done much to lower. Her marriage with the Duke of Kent was one of unmistakable affection, and was a very happy one. Their tastes were similar; but her meekness and tact had a beneficial influence in mitigating a certain stern and abrupt brusqueness which he partly inherited from his father, and partly derived from the camps and garrison towns in which his youth was spent. The simplicity and tender unaffectedness of her manners--a peculiarity distinctive of the highest class of well-bred German women--and her fascinating combination of gentleness with gaiety, not only won and bound, by daily increasing ties, the affections of her husband, but of all those who had the good fortune to become personally acquainted with her admirable life and disposition. CHAPTER IV. FIRST YEARS OF CHILDHOOD. Old Memories of Kensington Palace--Enlargements of the Structure by William III., Anne, Queen Caroline, and the Duke of Sussex--Maids of Honour--Rank and Beauty in the Gardens--Wilberforce and the Infant Princess--Victoria at Ramsgate--A Picture of Victoria when Five Years old--Her Physical Training--Popularity as a Child--Her Youthful Charities--A Narrow Escape from Death--Early Development of Quick Intelligence--Anecdotes--Love of Nature--Proneness to Self-will--But Counterbalanced by Candour--Waggishness--A Portrait of the Child-Princess by Leigh Hunt. The infancy, girlhood, and budding womanhood of the Princess Victoria were chiefly spent at the Royal Palace of Kensington. It was her mother's fixed residence, but the family were much at Claremont, where the Queen testifies that she spent the happiest days of her childhood. There were frequent trips made, too, to various watering-places; and, as the Princess grew in years, visits were paid at the country houses of some of the nobility. Leigh Hunt, in his exquisite book of gossip entitled "The Old Court Suburb," thus happily describes the more salient and prominent features of the somewhat sombre region of the Queen's up-bringing:-- In vain we are told that Wren is supposed to have built the south front, and Kent (a man famous in his time) the east front. We can no more get up any enthusiasm about it as a building, than if it were a box or a piece of cheese. But it possesses a Dutch solidity; it can be imagined full of English comfort; it is quiet; in a good air; and, though it is a palace, no tragical history is connected with it: all which considerations give it a sort of homely, fireside character, which seems to represent the domestic side of royalty itself, and thus renders an interesting service to what is not always so well recommended by cost and splendour. Windsor Castle is a place to receive monarchs in; Buckingham Palace to see fashion in; Kensington Palace seems a place to drink tea in: and this is by no means a state of things in which the idea of royalty comes least home to the good wishes of its subjects. The reigns that flourished here, appositely enough to this notion of the building, were all tea-drinking reigns--at least on the part of the ladies; and if the present Queen does not reign there, she was born and bred there, growing up quietly under the care of a domestic mother; during which time, the pedestrian, as he now goes quietly along the gardens, fancies no harsher sound to have been heard from the Palace windows than the "tuning of the tea-things," or the sound of a pianoforte. [Sidenote: KENSINGTON PALACE.] The associations of Kensington Palace are almost entirely with the earlier Hanoverian reigns; the later Georges neglected it. Rumour hath it that this royal domain originated in the establishment of a nursery for the children of Henry VIII. If it were so, Elizabeth and Victoria must have been brought up on the same spot; but the tradition is not well supported. Its first ascertained proprietor was Heneage Finch, Speaker of the House of Commons at the accession of the First Charles, who built and occupied only a small nucleus of the present structure, which was enlarged from time to time by most of its successive occupants, but with no pretension, and without much plan. From the second Earl of Nottingham, the grandson of Finch, William III. bought the house and grounds. The latter he enlarged to the extent of twenty-six acres. To these Anne added thirty, and to these in turn Queen Caroline, wife of George II., added three hundred. The house had been the while proportionately growing. Its last expansion was contributed by the Duke of Sussex. The gardens were pedantically squared to Dutch uniformity by William of Orange, and the semblance of a Court which he held in this Palace was correspondingly gloomy and dismal. The most singular visitor ever received by William was the Czar Peter, who drove hither _incognito_ in a hackney coach, on his arrival in London, and was afterwards entertained here with some slight show of state. In Anne's time, the palace and gardens were little livelier than in William's. The Queen hedged herself in behind absurd _chevaux-de-frise_ of etiquette, and the court chroniclers of the period record little else than eating and drinking. Swift and Prior, Bolingbroke and Marlborough, Addison and Steele, nevertheless, lent occasional gleams of brightness and dignity to the otherwise sombre scene. The most fascinating and memorable association of Kensington Palace is in connection with the Courts of the first two Georges, and of the son of the latter, Frederick Prince of Wales. These associations are specially connected with the bevies of frolicsome, and sometimes frail, maids of honour, who now live in the pages of Pope and Gay, of Hervey and Walpole. Chief among them was the gay, sprightly, and irresistible Molly Leppell, who resisted, in a manner equally indignant and comical, the degrading overtures of the coarse-souled George II. She married Hervey, the most effeminate and egregious dandy of his time. Chesterfield thus toasted her in a ballad on the beauties of the Court;-- Oh! if I had Bremen and Varden, And likewise the Duchy of Zell, I'd part with them all for a farden, To have my dear Molly Leppell. Caroline of Anspach, consort of Frederick, Prince of Wales, introduced the habit of promenading in gorgeous costume in the gardens, first on Saturday, then on Sunday, afternoons. By degrees the quality were admitted as well as the royal family and their immediate attendants. The liberty was gradually extended to the general public. Hence it was that Kensington Gardens became in time as open to all comers as are the royal parks. These gorgeous promenades ceased with the commencement of the last malady of George III. It was in allusion to the stately train of attendant beauties who accompanied the Princess Caroline of Wales, that Tickell wrote-- Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread, Seems from afar a moving tulip bed, Where rich brocades and glossy damasks glow, And chintz, the rival of the showery bow. Here England's Daughter, darling of the land, Sometimes, surrounded with her virgin band, Gleams through the shades. She, towering o'er the rest, Stands fairest of the fairer kind confess'd; Form'd to gain hearts that Brunswick's cause denied, And charm a people to her father's side. With the death of George II., the glory departed from Kensington. No future English King favoured or frequented it. George III. never resided in the Palace, and it was altogether too dull and homely for his eldest son. He was willing enough that his bookish brother Sussex, and his steady brother Kent, should abide in it; and, as one writer puts it, depicting the "first gentleman in Europe" in a light far from pleasing, but for the use of which we fear there was too much foundation--"He was well content to think that the staid-looking house and formal gardens rendered the spot a good out-of-the-way sort of place enough, for obscuring the growth and breeding of his niece and probable heiress, the Princess Victoria, whose life, under the guidance of a wise mother, promised to furnish so estimable a contrast to his own." [Sidenote: WILBERFORCE AND THE PRINCESS.] It was in the rooms, rich with such varied associations as those, some few of which we have cited, and surrounded by the remarkable collection of pictures, chiefly by Byzantine and early German painters--that England's future Queen grew up from babyhood to womanhood. Amongst the very earliest notices of the infant Princess is the following, which we cite from a letter written by Wilberforce to his friend, Hannah More, on the 21st July, 1820. He says:-- In consequence of a very civil message from the Duchess of Kent, I waited on her this morning. She received me with her fine animated child on the floor by her side, with its playthings, of which I soon became one. She was very civil; but, as she did not sit down, I did not think it right to stay above a quarter of an hour; and there being but a female attendant and footman present, I could not well get up any topic, so as to carry on a continued discourse. She apologised for not speaking English well enough to talk it; but intimated a hope that she might talk it better and longer with me at some future time. She spoke of her situation [this was, probably, in reference to the cold treatment of her and hers by George IV.], and her manner was quite delightful. Four years later, the Duchess and the little Princess paid one of many visits to Ramsgate: and it would appear that the Duchess of Kent had already succeeded in being able to talk English "better and longer" with Wilberforce "at some future time;" for an eye-witness, who was familiar with all the group, witnessed the following scene. It was a fine summer day: too warm anywhere but on the shore of the sea, the breeze from which sufficiently moderated the temperature. A little girl, with a fair, light form, was sporting on the sands in all the redolence of youth and health. Her dress was simple--plain straw bonnet, with a white riband round the crown, a coloured muslin frock, and "as pretty a pair of shoes, on as pretty a pair of feet, as I ever remember to have seen from China to Kamschatka"--so testifies the authority from whom we quote. The child had two companions--her mother and William Wilberforce. The latter looked as lovingly on the child as did her mother. His kindly eye followed with tender interest her every footstep, and he was evidently meditating on the great destiny which was in store for her, when her mother, less meditative, more concerned with the affairs of the present, suddenly observed that her daughter had got her shoe's wetted by a breaker. She waved her hand, and Victoria, obedient to the signal, at once rejoined her mother and her friend. Perhaps another motive might have been at work in the mother's breast; for immediately the child had joined the elders, Wilberforce took her hand in both of his, and addressed to her some kindly words, doubtless of excellent counsel, for the blue eyes of the girl looked fixedly at her venerable instructor, and the devoted mother glanced from one to the other, evidently interested and affected by the contrast. Wilberforce was no wearisome restrainer of the buoyancy of youth; a few minutes later, he and his young companion were standing at the margin of the tide, watching the encroachments of each new breaker, and the dexterity with which a pet Newfoundland dog brought bits of stick out of the waves. [Sidenote: MORAL TRAINING.] During the earliest years of her childhood, Victoria does not seem to have been harassed with book-learning--a most wise and excellent omission. In 1823, the Dowager Duchess of Coburg wrote to her daughter--"Do not yet tease your little puss with learning; she is so young still." The Queen's mother followed the good advice; it was the cultivation of the heart of her child at which she first strove. Above everything, any approach to pride or hauteur was discouraged. The convictions equally with the natural temperament of the Duchess, led her to regard such a quality as specially to be avoided. She was trained to be courteous, affable, lively, and to put social inferiors perfectly at their ease. In her juvenile sea-side and other excursions, it was constantly observed by every one that the faces of the bathing-women, and others of the same class, whose services were needed, lighted up with genuine, unaffected gladness whenever the young Princess appeared. The following little picture deserves to be reproduced, without tampering with the colours of its portrayer:--"As she proceeded up the High Street from the sands, there sat on the low step of a closed shop an aged Irishwoman, pale, wan, dejected, sorrowful, her head bent forward, and whilst all nature was gay, she looked sickly, sad, and famishing. Whether she was too depressed to beg, or too exhausted at that moment to make the effort, I cannot tell, but she asked for no alms, and even looked not at the passers-by. The young Princess was attracted by her appearance, and spoke to the Duchess: 'I think not,' were the only words I heard from her mamma; and, 'Oh, yes, indeed!' was all I could catch of the youthful reply. I have no doubt the Duchess thought the old woman was not in need of relief, or would be offended by the offer of alms; but the Princess had looked under her bonnet, and gained a better insight into her condition. There was a momentary pause; the Princess ran back a few steps most nimbly, and with a smile of heartfelt delight placed some silver in the hands of the old Irishwoman. Tall and stately was the poor creature, and as she rose slowly with clasped hands and riveted features, she implored the blessing of Heaven on the 'English lady.' She was so taken by surprise by this unexpected mark of beneficence on the part of she knew not whom, that she turned over her sixpences again and again, thanked the Virgin, as well as the 'young lady,' a thousand times, and related to those who stopped to hear her exclamations, the 'good luck' that had come upon her." [Sidenote: THE QUEEN'S CHILDHOOD.] While still not a year old, and ere her father's death, the intensity of interest which the people took in the safety and welfare of the Princess had been strongly displayed in the universal satisfaction which was expressed at her providential escape from being wounded, if not killed, in consequence of some boys shooting at birds near the temporary residence of the Duke at Sidmouth. Some of the shots penetrated the window of the nursery, and passed very near the child's head. This universal interest became yet deeper, when, after the lapse of two or three years, both of the daughters of the Duke of Clarence having died, and there being no probability of any issue in the line of either the Dukes of York or Clarence, she became the eventual successor to the throne, in the event of the deaths of these two elder brothers of her father. It was now learned with delight that she passed through the ordinary maladies of childhood favourably, and that her recovery from them was speedy. The public had ample opportunities afforded them of observing her growing and healthful strength; and all commented with pleasure upon the circumstance that she was not kept secluded from the view and observation of the people, that her rides and walks were generally in public, that she was growing up towards maturity in the sight of the nation, and as the child of the country. It was further a matter of great general rejoicing that those who were selected, even from the earliest period, to surround her person were of the most irreproachable character, and that moral worth was sought for in her preceptors even more than brilliant attainments. It is especially worthy of notice that the Duke and Duchess of Clarence, their hearts not being made in the slightest degree callous or soured by their own melancholy bereavements and the disappointment of their fondest hopes, formed and displayed for their niece a sincere and warm attachment. They took from the very first the warmest interest in all her vicissitudes and illnesses; and when they became King and Queen their elevated positions only seemed to increase the warmth of their regard, and the copious flow of their practical kindness. It was, therefore, no wonder that when, under Providence, Victoria became Queen she treated the Queen Dowager with most unequivocal respect and esteem, regarding her suggestions with deference, and her wishes with loving compliance. Spite of many sinister rumours, the Princess grew up strong and vigorous. Her mother was especially careful to fortify her constitution, and so to prepare it to encounter the hard work and manifold anxiety which are the inevitable lot of a British sovereign. Many there were--some of them with ends of their own to gain--who kept prophesying that "the daughter of the Duke of Kent would never attain her legal majority;" or, that "she would never marry;" again, that "she could never become the mother of a family." Much alarm was caused by these prognostications. For one thing was above all others ardently desired by the nation--that the Duke of Cumberland, who stood next in succession after the Princess, should never become King of England. Even if he had not been an object of something more than suspicion, it was universally desired that England should never again (after King William's death) be united with Hanover under one monarch. But as facts became known by degrees about the Princess, as her healthy face and agile frame became familiar in London, and in many parts of the land, the apprehensions died away, and the "frail, delicate, sickly child," whose fabricated ailments had been made the subject of so much sham sympathy, was looked upon as a fabulous invention. [Sidenote: LEARNING TO READ.] It soon became known that her physical and mental characteristics were of a nature directly the opposite of what had been so industriously reported. She was extremely active, and had a healthy love of sports and games. She had an inquiring mind, not only restless in the pursuit, but clear in the comprehension of knowledge. She soon developed, too, much decision of character. Seemingly incapable of fatigue, she was the first to begin, and the last to leave off, a study, a romp, a game, a new duty, and equally eager to resume an old occupation. This peculiarity, it was gladly observed, was an inheritance from her father; but her mother also set her a congenial example of industry and perseverance. Such stories as the following were gleefully passed throughout the land from lip to lip. While she was learning her alphabet, she, doubtful of the utility of being so tormented, ejaculated--"What good this?--what good this?" She was told that "mamma could know all that was contained in the great book on the table because she knew _her_ letters, whilst the little daughter could not." This was quite enough, and the young acolyte of the alphabet cried out, "I learn, too--I learn, too--very quick." And she did become rapidly mistress of her letters. Her mother sought to teach her to be satisfied with simple pleasures, and here she was a most apt pupil. Once, when she was so young that she could not express what she felt, she dragged her uncle Clarence to the window to observe a beautiful sunset. To her uncle Leopold, too, she was constantly pointing out objects of natural beauty, on which he invariably improved the opportunity by giving her prompt and clear explanations of the phenomena which evoked her admiration. Her engrossing passion, indeed--as was that of her future husband--was for cabinets of natural history, menageries, museums, &c. For pictures she had an equal love, and one of the first acquirements in which she became proficient was sketching from nature. Perhaps the greatest danger she incurred, and the one which her mother had to take the greatest pains to avert, was the likelihood that her independent decision of character, which she derived from the Hanoverian half of her ancestry, might degenerate into stubbornness and self-will. But her natural sense of justice, and ready openness to clear conviction, proved an admirable counterpoise. With peculiar ingenuousness of character, she unreservedly admitted an error the very instant she perceived it. Once, for example, when on a visit to Earl Fitzwilliam, a bosom friend of her father, the party were walking in the grounds, and she had run on in advance. An under-gardener cautioned her not to go down a certain walk, as, said he, in his provincial dialect, the rain had made the ground "slape." "Slape! slape!" cried she, rapidly, and in the true George III. style; "and pray, what is 'slape?'" "Very slippery, miss--your Royal Highness--ma'am," replied he. "Oh! that's all," she replied; "thank you," and at once proceeded. She had not advanced many yards, when she came down heavily to the ground. The Earl had been observing all that had passed, from a few yards' distance, and he cried out, "There! now your Royal Highness has an explanation of the term 'slape,' both theoretically and practically." "Yes, my lord," she somewhat meekly said, "I think I have. I shall never forget the word 'slape.'" On a similar occasion, when cautioned not to frolic with a dog whose temper was not very reliable, she persisted in doing so, and he made a snap at her hand. Her cautioner ran solicitously, believing that she had been bitten. "Oh, thank you! thank you!" said she. "You're right, and I am wrong; but he didn't bite me--he only warned me. I shall be careful in future." [Sidenote: JUVENILE ANECDOTES.] The following incident shows that at least on some occasions a keen spirit of waggishness entered strongly into her self-will. When first she took lessons on the piano, she objected strongly to the monotonous fingering, as she had formerly done to A B C. She was, of course, informed that all success as a musician depended upon her first becoming "mistress of the piano." "Oh, I am to be mistress of my piano, am I?" asked she. To that the reply was a repetition of the statement. "Then what would you think of me if I became mistress at once?" "That would be impossible. There is no royal road to music. Experience and great practice are essential." "Oh, there is no royal road to music, eh? No royal road? And I am not mistress of my pianoforte? But I will be, I assure you; and the royal road is this"--at the same time closing the piano, locking it, and taking the key--"There! that's being mistress of the piano! and the royal road to learning is, never to take a lesson till you're in the humour to do it." After the laugh which her joke had provoked in herself and others had subsided, she at once volunteered to resume the lesson. We cannot more fitly conclude this chapter, ere we proceed to travel an important stage further in our attempt to trace the youthful days of the Queen, than by presenting a picture of her, as she appeared at this period of her life to the genial eyes of Leigh Hunt, to whom we have been already indebted at the commencement of this chapter:-- We remember well the peculiar kind of personal pleasure which it gave us to see the future Queen, the first time we ever did see her, coming up a cross path from the Bayswater Gate, with a girl of her own age by her side, whose hand she was holding, as if she loved her. It brought to our mind the warmth of our own juvenile friendships, and made us fancy that she loved everything else that we had loved in like measure--books, trees, verses, Arabian tales, and the good mother who had helped to make her so affectionate. A magnificent footman, in scarlet, came behind her, with the splendidest pair of calves, in white stockings, that we had ever beheld. He looked somehow like a gigantic fairy, personating, for his little lady's sake, the grandest footman he could think of; and his calves he seemed to have made out of a couple of the biggest chaise-lamps in the possession of the godmother of Cinderella. As the Princess grew up, the world seemed never to hear of her except as it wished to hear--that is to say, in connection with her mother; and now it never hears of her but in connection with children of her own, and her husband, and her mother still [this was written in 1855], and all good household pleasures and hospitalities, and public virtues of a piece with them. May life ever continue to appear to her what, indeed, it really is to all who have eyes for seeing beyond the surface--namely, a wondrous fairy scene, strange, beautiful, mournful too, yet hopeful of being "happy ever after," when its story is over; and wise, meantime, in seeing much where others see nothing, in shedding its tears patiently, and in doing its best to diminish the tears around it. CHAPTER V. EDUCATION OF THE PRINCESS VICTORIA. Additional Grant by Parliament for the Maintenance and Education of the Princess--Wise Lessons learned at her Mother's Knees--A Visit to George IV. at Windsor--Assiduous Pursuit of Knowledge--Accession of William IV.--Victoria becomes next in succession to the Crown--Regency Bill--Satisfaction of the good Grandmother at Coburg--Her Death--Joy of Victoria at the Elevation of her Uncle to the Belgian Throne--Parliamentary Inquiry into the Progress of her Education--Satisfactory Report in Response--Presented at Court--Great Ball on her Twelfth Birthday at St. James's Palace--Court Scandal and Baseless Rumours--The Duchess of Northumberland appointed Governess--The Princess and the Poet Southey. The time had now arrived when, in the opinion, not only of the private friends of the Duchess of Kent, but of the Ministers of the Crown, it was held that a more liberal provision should be made for the increasing cost of the training of the Princess, than the very moderate annual allowance which the Duchess of Kent had as yet received. This matter was formally brought before Parliament on the occasion of the Princess attaining her sixth birthday. Up to this date, and for some little time subsequently to it, King George IV. seems to have hardly paid the slightest heed to his niece and ultimate successor. On her fifth birthday, Prince Leopold, who throughout filled a true father's place, gave a banquet in her honour, at which most of the members of the English Royal Family, and the Prince Leiningen, son of the Duchess of Kent and half-brother of Victoria, were present. On this occasion, the child was much admired for her frankness, quickness, and talent, but especially for her deep attachment to her mother. Her mother took occasion to impress upon her the consideration that such attentions as those which were then shown her were rendered in the hope that she would cultivate the qualities and graces which alone could make her a worthy and acceptable ruler of the British empire. "It is not you," said she, "but your future office and rank which are regarded by the country; and you must so act as never to bring that office and that rank into disgrace or disrespect." And when the Duchess took her child to see for the first time the statue which had just been erected at the top of Portland Place to her father's memory, she was careful to make her know and feel that "dear papa's likeness was placed there, not merely because he was a prince, but because he was a good man, was kind to the poor, caused little boys and girls to be taught to read and write, helped to get money from good people to cure the sick, the lame, the blind, the deaf, and did all he could to make bad people good." In May, 1825, the sixth birthday of the Princess arrived. It became desirable, not merely to extend the sphere of her knowledge, but to introduce her to society at unavoidable expense; and, when she appeared in public and took trips in the country, to surround her with some of the splendour which properly belonged to her position. Accordingly, Lord Liverpool, the Premier, presented a Message from the King, requesting that some provision should be made for the Princess. His lordship spoke in the highest terms of the Duchess of Kent; eulogised her for having supported and educated her daughter without making any application to Parliament; and demonstrated, that her education must, from that date, be much more wide and costly. He proposed an additional grant of £6,000 per annum to the Duchess, to continue throughout the minority of her daughter. The House of Lords cordially acquiesced in the proposal. In the Lower House, Mr. Brougham, although uniting mother and daughter in one common eulogy, objected to the amount proposed. Mr. Hume supported him, suggesting an annuity increasing from year to year; but, on a division, the original proposal was carried by a majority of fifty. [Sidenote: GEORGE IV. AND THE PRINCESS VICTORIA.] Only after this formal act of national recognition does it appear that the King deigned to turn his personal attention in the direction of his niece. The year after, we find the Duchess of Coburg writing to her daughter, and referring to the fact that she had seen by the English papers, that "His Majesty, Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent, and the Princess Victoria, went on Virginia Water." "The little monkey," she writes, "must have pleased him. She is such a pretty, clever child." It was reported at the time that the King, on the occasion of this visit to Windsor, shared the general delight at the intelligence and sprightliness of his charming little niece. He caused her to dine in state with him, and when he asked her what tune she would like the band to play during dinner, she courteously and naïvely replied, "God save the King." The years intervening until 1830 were passed in almost complete quietude and seclusion by the Princess; her education being now most assiduously pursued. The year 1830 made an important difference in the position of the Princess. By the death of George IV., the Duke of Clarence became King, and--the Duke of York having died in 1827--she now stood next in direct succession to the throne. In the last month of the year a Regency Bill was passed, of which these were the chief provisions:--In the event of Queen Adelaide bearing a posthumous child, Her Majesty should be guardian and Regent during the minority. If that event should not occur, the Duchess of Kent was to be guardian and Regent during the minority of her daughter, the Princess Victoria, the heiress-presumptive. That Princess should not marry while a minor, without the consent of the King; or, if he died, without the consent of both Houses. When the Report of the Regency Bill was brought up, Lord Lyndhurst moved and carried a clause to the effect that in case the Duchess of Kent should marry a foreigner in the lifetime of His Majesty, but without his consent, she should, by that act, forfeit all pretensions to the Regency. The Duke of Buckingham, in his "Courts and Cabinets of William IV. and Victoria," thus remarked on this proviso:-- The position of the Princess attracted towards her Royal Highness the solicitude and sympathy of all classes of the people. A proper consideration of her chance of succeeding to the throne showed that there was much at stake, and the bitter disappointment caused by the untimely fate of the last female heiress presumptive, gave deeper feeling to the interest with which she was regarded. It was desirable that her youth should be, as much as possible, watched over to protect it from all evil contingencies, and though there could not be a better guardian for the Princess than the one nature had provided her with, the anxiety of a nation demanded precautions that, under other circumstances, would have been considered totally unnecessary. We can now (1861) afford to smile on the jealous affection with which Her Royal Highness was fenced round thirty years ago. [Sidenote: THE QUEEN'S GRANDMOTHER.] The satisfactory settlement of the Regency question gave great satisfaction to the good grandmother at Coburg. She wrote to her daughter, on receipt of the news-- I should have been sorry if the Regency had been given into other hands than yours. It would not have been a just return for your constant devotion and care to your child, if this had not been done. May God give you wisdom and strength to do your duty, if called upon to undertake it. May God bless and protect my little darling!--If I could but once see her again! The print you have sent to me is not like the dear picture I have; the quantity of curls hide the well-shaped head, and make it look too large for the lovely little figure. It was not fated that the Duchess of Coburg should ever see her granddaughter again; she died within a twelvemonth of writing the above. Her latest letters to her daughter were characterised by a peculiar warmth of affection for the Princess. Writing in the summer of 1830, on the occasion of Victoria's birthday, she said-- My blessings and good wishes for the day which gave you the sweet Blossom of May! May God preserve and protect the valuable life of that lovely flower from all the dangers that will beset her mind and heart! And when the news of the death of George IV. reached her, she wrote-- God bless Old England, where my beloved children live, and where the sweet Blossom of May may one day reign! May God yet for many years keep the weight of a crown from her young head, and let the intelligent, clever child grow up to girlhood, before this dangerous grandeur devolves upon her! England owes a deep debt of gratitude to this excellent and intelligent woman, for to her we are indebted for that training of her daughter, which fitted that daughter to train in turn, for us and for our advantage, Queen Victoria. An event of considerable influence upon the well-being and happiness of the Queen we must not omit to chronicle, ere we pass onwards in the course of our narrative. Prince Leopold had been designated by the great guaranteeing Powers as the ruler of the newly emancipated state of Greece. He was prepared to accept the position. This distressed his niece, who had been brought up under his kindly tutelage from her birth; but circumstances which it does not concern our purpose to dwell upon, induced Leopold to break off the Greek negotiation. Shortly after, to the great delight of Victoria, he was nominated by the Powers, and accepted by his future subjects, as King of the Belgians. This ensured his being constantly comparatively near to his niece. How frequent were his visits to England, as long as his life lasted, no resident in London needs to be informed; up till within the last few years, his face was almost as familiar in the parks as those of the members of the Queen's own family. He often appeared in London suddenly, and without announcement, having been summoned, it was generally believed, on such occasions, to consult with the Queen on some point of imminent moment. Such summonses he always responded to with instant alacrity. [Sidenote: ABSURD RUMOURS.] In the year 1831, the public became anxious to know how the education of the heiress-presumptive to the throne progressed; what was the nature of her studies, and which she preferred and most diligently pursued. Prompt, responsive, and satisfactory statements were rendered. It appeared that since the accession of King William, her tuition had been almost entirely entrusted to English teachers. Mr. Amos instructed her in the principles of the English Constitution, Mr. Westall in drawing; she had made considerable progress in Latin, and could read Horace with fluency. It was further stated that her love of music was enthusiastic, and that it was the orchestral rather than the dramatic attraction that caused her to frequent the theatres so much as she did. It was remarked that, on the occasion of the coronation of William IV., which took place on the 8th of September, neither the Princess nor her mother were present. Their absence was explained by the announcement, that the health of the Princess rendered a sojourn in the Isle of Wight necessary. Prudent persons held that, even had it been otherwise, her tender years and peculiar position rendered her absence preferable to her presence. She was but twelve years old, and it was commonly stated that only a year before had it been deemed wise _fully_ to make her aware of the regal destiny which was before her. Gossip-mongers--a whole host of whom circulated the most absurd rumours about the Princess from her most tender years until long after she had become Queen--alleged that the real reason of her absence was the fact that her proper place in the ceremony was not assigned to her. The real truth we believe to have been as follows. Since the accession of her uncle Clarence, Victoria had been plunged into a round of gaiety which did not at all comport either with her years or a certain fragility of health, which now for a short time succeeded the fine animal power and spirits of the years preceding. She had been presented at the first drawing-room held by Queen Adelaide, the most magnificent that had been held since the presentation of Charlotte, Princess of Wales, on the occasion of her marriage. This was her first appearance in state. She arrived with her mother, attended by the Duchess of Northumberland, Lady Charlotte St. Maur, Lady Catherine Jenkinson, the Honourable Mrs. Cust, Lady Conroy, the Baroness Lehzen, Sir J. Conroy, and General Wetherall. Her dress was made entirely of articles manufactured in Great Britain, and consisted of a simple, modest, and becoming blonde frock. She was the great object of interest present, stood on the left of the King, and contemplated the _élite_ of her future subjects with a dignified amiability which charmed every one. On her twelfth birthday, in the same year, she was overwhelmed with presents; amongst others, two beautiful ponies, presented by the Duchess of Gordon, which became especial pets. The Queen gave a juvenile ball in her honour, which Queen Victoria has often talked of in later times, as the scene which of all others made the deepest impression on her childish imagination. Spite of all this, and of the notorious and profuse kindness with which the King and Queen Adelaide had always treated her, many were found to believe that they were jealous of, and meant to slight her. The truth was, that the Duchess of Northumberland, who, at the suggestion of the King himself, had been appointed to the high and important office of governess to the Princess, began to be alarmed at the consequences of so much festivity and excitement. She objected to her frequent attendance at drawing-rooms, and also recommended absence from the fatiguing coronation ceremony. [Sidenote: THE PRINCESS AND SOUTHEY.] The selection of this lady for the important office which she filled was a wise one, and the public judgment approved it. She possessed great personal attractions, mental powers of unusual range, and the highest rank. The appointment was by no means a nominal one, or one merely of state. Her visits to Kensington Palace were constant, and she frequently remained there all day. On one occasion, while her Grace was instructing her pupil, Southey called, and was greeted by the Princess and the _gouvernante_ very warmly. He conversed for some time with the ladies; first on poetry, then on history. He afterwards used to state with pride, that the Princess told him that she read his prose and poetical compositions with equal delight. The "Life of Nelson" especially charmed her. "That," she said, "is a delightful book indeed; and I am sure I could read it half a dozen times over." The gossip-mongers also alleged that the Duchess endeavoured to give a political bias to the education of the Princess. Some uneasiness was created at this. But when the matter was properly inquired into, it was ascertained that, neither in the selection of books to be studied, nor in the remarks made upon their text, was the slightest party colour given to the education of the royal pupil of the Duchess. It was while under the care of this lady that the Princess acquired her well-known admirable horsemanship. To Fozard, the best riding-master of the day, was entrusted her tuition in riding. She soon became distinguished by the ease of her carriage, and her truly royal air and demeanour. This was a common subject of admiring remark by distinguished foreigners; amongst others, by Count Orloff, to whom, in 1832, the Duchess of Kent gave a splendid banquet. The Princess, after she was removed from the active care of the Duchess of Northumberland, gave the best proof of her gratitude and sense of the services she had rendered her, by keeping up with her Grace a constant epistolary correspondence. Wherever she went, in the many tours through England which she made while passing through her teens, she wrote letters to the Duchess describing whatever interested and instructed her in what she saw. This correspondence was really a voluntary continuation of her education. CHAPTER VI THE PRINCESS IN HER TEENS. Visits paid to many parts of England--Love of Cathedrals and Church Music--Trip to North Wales and the Midland Counties--Visit to a Cotton Mill--To Oxford--Gala Day at Southampton--Interview with the Young Queen of Portugal--Confirmation of the Princess--Tour to the North--York Musical Festival--At Ramsgate with the King of the Belgians--A Noble Deed at Tunbridge Wells. In the year subsequent to the coronation of King William, the Duchess of Kent and her daughter spent much time in making visits to various parts of England. We have already seen that they were in the Isle of Wight at the date of the coronation. The same year, they spent some time at Worthing, and visited Lord Liverpool and his daughters at Buxted Park, whence they proceeded to Malvern, where their liberal relief of distress caused them to be much beloved. While at Malvern, they visited the cathedral at Worcester. Cathedrals were especial favourites with the Princess, and Church music gratified her as much as ecclesiastical architecture. To the public institutions of the cathedral cities which she visited she was an invariable benefactress, and willingly beggared herself of all her pocket-money that she might be the better able to meet the demands of art, science, literature, and poverty upon her benevolence. This year they also visited Hereford and Bath, and were magnificently entertained by the Earls Somers and Beauchamp, at Eastnor Castle and Maddresfield Court. [Sidenote: AN AUTUMNAL TOUR.] In 1831, they sojourned for a time at Claremont, in the Isle of Wight, and at Weymouth. The next year chronicled a more extensive autumnal tour than any hitherto undertaken. To North Wales they repaired first. Having seen its romantic beauties, they reached the ancient city of Chester on the 17th of October and on entering the cathedral were respectfully received and courteously addressed by the Bishop. The Duchess of Kent thus replied to the welcome of the Prelate:--"I cannot better allude to your good feeling towards the Princess than by joining fervently in the wish that she may set an example in her conduct of that piety towards God, and charity towards man, which is the only sure foundation either of individual happiness or national prosperity." From Chester they proceeded to Eaton Hall, the palatial residence of the Grosvenors and thence to Chatsworth, the still more splendid abode of the Cavendish family. From Chatsworth they went to Belper, where they examined the cotton mills of the Messrs. Strutt, and were most cordially received by the numerous factory hands. Mr. James Strutt, by means of a model, explained to the Princess the several processes of cotton-spinning, which she listened to with keen attention and ready apprehension. The Queen retained a lively and fragrant recollection of this visit; and, years after, she created the son of her _cicerone_ a peer, by the title of Lord Belper. The week following they visited Hardwicke Hall, Chesterfield, and Matlock. Thence they proceeded to Shugborough, the seat of the Earl of Lichfield. Their next honoured entertainer was the Earl of Shrewsbury, at Alton Towers. While there, they visited Lichfield Cathedral and graciously received congratulatory addresses from the clergy and corporation. Their next stage was the seat of Lord Liverpool, who was one of the staunchest friends of the Duchess of Kent, of whom his daughter, Lady Catherine Jenkinson, was one of the Ladies-in-waiting. Proceeding homewards, they honoured with successive visits Earl Powis, the Hon. R. H. Clive, M.P., the Earls of Plymouth and Abingdon. From the seat of the latter they went to Oxford, which city they entered with an escort of yeomanry. The Vice-Chancellor presented an appropriate address in the Theatre, which was crowded with the celebrities of the University. The Duchess of Kent made the following answer:-- We close a most interesting journey by a visit to this University, that the Princess may see, as far as her years will allow, all that is interesting in it. The history of our country has taught her to know its importance by the many distinguished persons who, by their character and talents, have been raised to eminence by the education they have received in it. Your loyalty to the King, and recollection of the favour you have enjoyed under the paternal sway of his house, could not fail, I was sure, to lead you to receive his niece with all the disposition you evince to make this visit agreeable and instructive to her. It is my object to insure, by all means in my power, her being so educated as to meet the just expectation of all classes in this great and free country. Their Royal Highnesses returned to Kensington on the 9th of November. In 1833, the rambles of mother and daughter did not extend beyond the south coast; Portsmouth, Weymouth, and the Isle of Wight being the respective halting-places. While residing at Norris, East Cowes, they attended the ceremony of opening the new landing-pier at the fast rising port of Southampton. A steamer towed the Royal yacht from Cowes into Southampton Water, where were waiting a deputation, representing the corporation of the town, in an eight-oared barge, with one of the town-sergeants standing with the silver oar in the leads. The deputation having stated the object of the day's ceremonial, the Duchess of Kent replied to the effect that she desired her daughter early to become attached to works of utility. They were then rowed ashore, amid the cheers of 25,000 spectators, and entertained at luncheon; subsequently, being requested to name the pier, the Duchess designated it the "Royal Pier." Countless festivities followed in the evening, and "the townspeople were almost as proud of the presence of the Princess, as of the completion of their pier." [Sidenote: THE PRINCESS AND A WIDOWED ACTRESS.] The year 1834 was that in which the Princess was confirmed. This holy rite was administered by the Archbishop of Canterbury, in the Chapel Royal, St. James's, in July. Next month, mother and daughter visited Tunbridge Wells; the month following they went northwards, visited the Archbishop of York at Bishopsthorpe, and attended the grand musical festival in his cathedral. On their homeward route, they were entertained by the Earls of Harewood and Fitzwilliam, and the Duke of Rutland; passed some time with the King and Queen of the Belgians, at Ramsgate, and finally visited the Duke of Wellington at Walmer Castle. An incident which occurred during their stay at Tunbridge, must not be omitted from our biography. The husband of one of the actresses in the small theatre of the place died, leaving an impoverished wife, who was just about to become a mother. The fact came to the knowledge of the Princess, and she applied to her mother for aid. She at once gave £10 to her daughter, who added an equal sum from her own purse; she became her own almoner, hastened to the afflicted woman, conversed with her, and continued to make inquiries about her condition. Nor did this end her care. When she came to the throne, three years later, she at once sent to the poor woman a kindly intimation that an annuity of £40 would be paid to her for life. Another series of visits, and renewed intercourse with the much-loved uncle and his young Orleanist wife at Ramsgate, filled the autumnal months of 1835. CHAPTER VII. EARLY DAYS OF PRINCE ALBERT. Birth--Melancholy Story of his Mother--Brought up under the Care of his two Excellent Grandmothers--His Winning Ways as a Child--His Tutor, Florschütz--The Brothers, Ernest and Albert--Visit to Brussels, and its Beneficial Effects--Hard Study--Tour through Germany, &c.--First Visit to England, and Meeting with Victoria--Studies at Brussels--Enters the University of Bonn--Tour to Switzerland and Italy--Public Announcement of Betrothal--Leaves Coburg and Gotha for his Marriage. [Sidenote: THE INFANT COUSINS VICTORIA AND ALBERT.] Albert, the second son of Duke Ernest I. of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, and his wife, the Princess Louise, daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Gotha-Altenburg, was born at the Rosenau, a charming summer residence belonging to the Duke, about four miles from Coburg, on the 26th of August, 1819. His mother is described as handsome, though of very diminutive proportions, fair, with blue eyes; and her son Albert, whom she idolised, closely resembled her. She was clever and entertaining; yet her marriage was an unhappy one, and a separation took place by mutual consent in 1824, after which date the Duchess never saw her children. Two years later the separation was turned into a divorce. The Prince never forgot her, but spoke of her to his dying day with much tenderness, and the very first gift which he ever made to the Princess Victoria was a little pin which his mother had given him. Not until the Prince was almost a young man did his mother die. When she died her race became extinct, save in the persons of her two sons. Many years later, her remains were brought to Coburg, and laid in the family mausoleum beside the Duke and his second wife. This mausoleum was not completed until 1860, in which year Queen Victoria deposited a votive wreath on the tomb of the mother of her husband. Prince Albert's paternal grandmother, the Duchess Dowager of Coburg, in writing to her daughter, the Duchess of Kent, announcing Albert's birth, lauded his beauty, and--little thinking how the fortunes of the two infant cousins were to be intertwined hereafter--thus concluded her communication:--"How pretty the _May Flower_ (the Princess Victoria, born the preceding May) will be when I see it in a year's time. Siebold cannot sufficiently describe what a dear little love it is. Une bonne fois, adieu! Kiss your husband and children." Siebold was an accoucheuse who had attended at the births of both the children. On the 19th of September the Prince was christened, and thus named:--Francis Charles Augustus Albert Emmanuel. The young Prince seems to have been adored as a child by all, whether relatives or others, who came in contact with him. "He leads captive," said his fond mother, when he was two years old, "all hearts by his beauty and gentle grace." After the sad separation of his father from his mother, the Prince was brought up largely under the care of his father's mother, whom the Queen describes, from personal recollection, as "a most remarkable woman, with a most powerful, energetic, almost masculine mind, accompanied with great tenderness of heart, and extreme love for nature." Of an evening she used to tell to her two grandchildren, Ernest and Albert, the stories of Sir Walter Scott's novels, and, when they were old enough, employed them in writing letters to her dictation. She fondly described Albert, when he was not yet two years old, by the pet, diminutive name, "Alberinchen." And she says--"With his large blue eyes and dimpled cheeks, he is bewitching, forward, and quick as a weasel. He can already say everything." The step-maternal grandmother of the Prince too, second wife of his maternal grandfather, was sensible, kindly, and good, and took an interest in the children by no means inferior to that displayed by their own grandmother. With the former lady they spent very much of their time in their early years, at Gotha, and at her mansion in the vicinity of that town. When Albert was not yet four years old he, with his brother, was removed to the care of a tutor, Herr Florschütz, who most admirably discharged his duties, which he continued to fulfil until his pupils had become young men. With the assistance of masters for special subjects, he conducted the whole of their early educational training, and continued to control their studies until they left the University of Bonn. The two brothers, spite of the difference of about a twelvemonth in their ages, pursued all studies in common, and the closest brotherly love and amity united them from first to last. [Sidenote: BOYHOOD OF PRINCE ALBERT] The younger Prince was not nearly so robust as his brother, but his intellect was more vigorous, and his force of will decidedly greater; "he always held," said his uncle Leopold, "accordingly, a certain sway over his elder brother, who rather kindly submitted to it." The Princes were not much, in their early years, with their father, who was much from home, especially when settling the junction of the duchy of Gotha with his own of Coburg. The former he succeeded to partly in right of his wife, and partly by a mutual compact of exchange of territory, entered into with other reigning princes of the old Saxon stock. This period was passed by the Princes at Rosenau, with their tutor, varied by visits to the mansions of the two grandmothers. In a memorandum drawn up by Count Arthur Mensdorff, cousin of the Prince, he describes the young Albert when about ten years of age, at which period the cousins contracted a friendship which lasted unimpaired until the Prince's death. His disposition was mild and benevolent; nothing could make him angry, except anything unjust or dishonest. He was never wild or noisy, and his favourite study was natural history. He was a good mimic, and had a keen sense of the ludicrous; but he never pushed a joke to the extent of hurting one's feelings. His moral purity was as conspicuous as the meekness of his disposition. In November of 1831, the Princes suffered a great bereavement in the death of their admirable grandmother, the Duchess Dowager of Coburg; she died in the arms of her two eldest sons. She had, from an early period, formed the wish that a marriage should be contracted between her two grandchildren, Albert and Victoria. In 1832, the young Princes, in their turn, accompanied their father in a journey to visit their uncle, King Leopold. This was a most important event in the Prince's life; for, though the visit was of but short duration, the spectacle which he then saw, of a nation which had freed itself, and worked out its own destiny, had the strongest effect upon his mind and conscience, which thence grew in attachment to liberal principles. His deeply-rooted love of art, too, received a strong stimulus from the splendid architectural and artistic treasures of the old Belgian city. On his return from Brussels, being now about thirteen years old, he became remarkably studious, and vigorously set himself to the pursuit of an unusually comprehensive circle of subjects. The only recreation which he pursued with vigour was deer-stalking, and this most beneficially promoted the robustness of a frame as yet distinguished by delicacy. On Palm Sunday, 1835, he was confirmed, and his heart seems, at and from this period, to have come under the influence of religious convictions of peculiar depth and sincerity, though of singular freedom from all traces of bigotry. The confirmation of the Princes was immediately followed by a series of visits to various of their imperial, regal, princely, and noble relatives and friends throughout Germany and the provinces on the Danube. They visited in succession Mecklenburg, Berlin, Dresden, Prague, Vienna, Pesth, and Ofen. In May, 1836, the Princes came to England, on a visit to their aunt Kent. It was on this occasion that Albert and Victoria first met. On his return to the Continent from this his first and most gratifying visit to England, the Duke of Coburg placed Albert and his elder brother for a time under the care of their uncle at Brussels. A private house was taken for them, in which they pursued their studies under Dr. Drury, an English clergyman, who had been appointed their tutor. This gentleman recorded this testimony of his pupil, when, shortly afterwards, he was removed from his tutelage, and before any idea was entertained about his distinguished future position:--"His attainments are various, and solid too; his abilities are superior; his disposition amiable; his conduct unexceptionable; and, above all, his belief in, and his attachment to, the Protestant religion is sincere." [Sidenote: PRINCE ALBERT AT COLLEGE.] In the summer following (1837) the two brothers were entered as students of law, or, more correctly, of jurisprudence (_juris studiosi_), at the University of Bonn, the Oxford of Germany in respect to the high rank of some of its students, and standing in the very first place in point of intrinsic efficiency. The tutor Florschütz still accompanied the young men; and they benefited by the prelections of such men as Fichte, Perthes, and Augustus Schlegel. Prince Albert studied classics, mathematics, mental philosophy, political economy, history, and statistical science. In the last subject he had been well grounded at Brussels by the distinguished M. Quetelet, who formed the highest opinion of his pupil's powers and assiduity. He had, besides, private tutors for music and drawing, in both of which arts he was already well advanced. In the second stage of his curriculum his studies were specially devoted to jurisprudence and civil history. While at Bonn he displayed at once a talent for poetry and a benevolent heart, by the publication for the benefit of the poor of a collection of songs, which his brother set to meritorious musical accompaniments. He visited only among his princely fellow-students, and at the houses of the professors. His brother and he, though they occasionally gave courtly entertainments to their friends, lived in private a temperate and frugal life. He assiduously sought out the society of _savans_ and men of letters, especially loving to associate with Professors Welcker and Schlegel. The latter, though he detested the ordinary run of "princelings," was quite charmed by Albert, of whom he thought and spoke most highly. The Prince kept only three academical terms, and finally left the University, in September, 1838, leaving golden opinions everywhere behind him. Not the least hearty of his eulogists in after years was Peter Stamm, an hotel-keeper, who acted as gamekeeper to him on his shooting excursions, and who for years after pointed to English visitors the portrait of Prince Albert in his sitting-room, his eyes the while brimming over with glad tears. The University, after his marriage, conferred upon him the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws, and in the diploma pointed reference was made to his "summæ fortunæ magnitudinem ac gravitatem, summâ comitate, amabilique morum suavitate et humanitate." The winter of 1838-9 was passed by the Prince in a tour through Switzerland and Italy. After pursuing his journey as far as Naples, and omitting no locality of interest on the way, he came home by way of Vienna, and returned to the Castle of Ehrenberg in the summer of 1839. It has been stated that he found, on the wall of his room, a miniature of Queen Victoria, by Chalon, which she had sent to him as a gift in his absence; but we have not discovered any very reliable authority for the anecdote. In August, having completed his twentieth year, he was formally declared of age. He inherited from his mother landed estates amounting to £2,400 yearly value. These lands, we have reason to believe, he transferred to his brother upon the formal announcement of his engagement to Queen Victoria, subject only to pensions and allowances to certain persons who had belonged to his modest household. [Sidenote: PRINCE ALBERT'S BETROTHAL.] On the 8th of December, 1839, his betrothal was formally and publicly announced at Coburg. In the morning the Ducal family, with the Court officials, attended Divine service in the chapel of the Castle; in the afternoon, in the presence of the same dignitaries, with the deputies of the Duchies of Coburg and Gotha, the Chief Minister formally read the announcement of the betrothal; the while the booming of cannon from the fortress announced the tidings to the people of the town and the neighbouring country. About three hundred persons in all were present at the ceremony within the Castle, including bearers of congratulatory addresses, not only from the two duchies, but from Austria, Prussia, Hesse, Saxony, and other German states. From the report of an English gentleman of high social position, who was present on this important occasion, we extract, in conclusion, these fuller details:-- When the Minister (Baron de Carlowitz) had read the proclamation, the Duke embraced his son, and the Duchess next imprinted a kiss upon his forehead, while in every eye might be read the heartfelt wish that all the parents' fondest, proudest hopes might be fully realised. More than one hundred and sixty persons partook of the hospitalities of the Duke's table, in the "Riesen Saal," or "Giant's Hall," and a more sumptuous or splendid entertainment could not be imagined. The loud and cordial cheers which the health of England's Queen called forth, and which burst out with an enthusiasm which all the forms of etiquette and courtly ceremony could not restrain, were almost too affecting; and when the band struck up "God save the Queen," the tears of joy flowed freely. I must not omit to mention a circumstance characteristic of the Prince. By his order, the people were admitted into the "Riesen Saal," to see the assembled company. Peasants from the hills, old and young, walked about without the smallest restraint, to their evident enjoyment; and their hearty exclamations--the blessings they invoked on their beloved Prince and his august parents--were a more eloquent and stirring panegyric than volumes could express. To describe the universal attachment of all classes to the Prince were impossible. I have never heard other than the most enthusiastic praise--not one dissenting voice from one end of Thuringia to the other. If I have remarked the personal beauty of the Prince, the general reply has been, "Ah! yes, he is certainly handsome, but so good; he is truly a most amiable prince, as good as he is handsome." Persons attached to his suite, and the older members of the Court, cannot speak of him without tears, and are quite distressed at the thought of his leaving his native land.... On the 28th of December the Prince, accompanied by his father, quitted his paternal residence for a short sojourn at Gotha; and as he bade a last adieu to the stately castle of Ehrenberg, the abode of his fathers, and the happy scene of his infancy, the tenderest emotions of his nature for a moment almost overwhelmed him. A few days prior to his departure, a ball was given him by the nobles, at which he was received by twelve young ladies, attired in white, and wearing fresh-gathered roses; the Philosophic Society gave him a serenade, and all classes joined in affectionate expression of sympathy in their young Prince's feelings on this momentous occasion. Lord Viscount Torrington and Colonel the Honourable Charles Grey, who were charged with the two-fold mission of investing the Prince with the insignia of the Order of the Garter, and escorting him and his suite to England, arrived at Gotha early in January, 1840, and the investiture took place on the 24th, with imposing ceremony. The jewels, which were of diamonds and of rare workmanship, were a present from the Queen. After a series of hospitable festivities in honour of the English envoys, Prince Albert set out for England on the 28th of the month. CHAPTER VIII. THE PRINCESS VICTORIA BECOMES QUEEN REGNANT. First Meeting of the Princess Victoria and Prince Albert--Coming of Age--Festivities on the Occasion--Death of William IV., and Accession of Victoria--The Queen holds her First Privy Council--Her Address--Proclamation as Queen at St. James's Palace--Beautiful Traits of Character displayed by the Queen--Stirring and Gorgeous Scene--Delight of the People at the Queen's Accession. The marriage of Prince Albert with the Princess Victoria was desired, if not planned, by certain of their common relatives, especially the Duchess Dowager of Coburg and her son Prince Leopold, almost from the period when the cousins were in their cradles. After his betrothal, the Prince himself told the Queen that his mother, who died in 1831, wished earnestly that he should marry her. He first saw his future wife in the month of May, 1836, when he and his brother came to England on a visit to their aunt. He greatly enjoyed this visit to England, and the youthful guests were treated by the authorities and the inhabitants of the metropolis with the utmost courtesy and attention. They were sumptuously entertained at Windsor by the King and Queen Adelaide, and were conducted to all the great sights of the town by their aunt and cousin. On the 24th of May, 1837, the Princess Victoria having attained her eighteenth year, was declared legally of age, according to the provisions of a recent Act of Parliament. Amongst the first to congratulate her on the happy event was Prince Albert. This happy day was kept as a general holiday, and the night made brilliant by an illumination. It was celebrated with demonstrations of excessive joy at Kensington. At six o'clock in the morning the union-jack was hoisted on the steeple of the old church, as also on the green sward opposite the Palace. That edifice was surmounted by a splendid flag of pure white silk, on which was inscribed, in letters of ethereal blue, the single word "Victoria." From the houses of the principal inhabitants in the High Street waved a profusion of other flags. The gates of the Gardens were thrown open at six o'clock for the admission of the public; and it having got wind the previous evening that a serenade would be performed at seven o'clock, at which hour Victoria first drew breath eighteen years before, the portion of the Gardens next the Palace was thronged by an assemblage of well-dressed persons, including several ladies. Congratulatory addresses and innumerable presents--amongst the latter, a splendid piano from the King--poured in from all quarters. At night a magnificent ball in honour of the occasion was given at St. James's Palace. During these festivities, although it was known that the King's health was seriously enfeebled, no one imagined that within a month from the attainment of her majority the young Princess would become Queen of England. The anniversary of Waterloo was always a great day with King William. The Duke of Wellington, in consideration of the declining state of the King's health, proposed not to have the usual banquet at Apsley House; but, the day before, William, sent a message desiring that the banquet should take place, and wishing the host and guests a pleasant day. By two o'clock on the morning of the 20th he was no more. [Sidenote: ACCESSION TO THE THRONE.] Shortly after the demise of the Sovereign, three carriages, conveying the Primate, the Earl of Albemarle and Sir Henry Halford, the Royal physician, started from Windsor, and arrived at Kensington Palace shortly before five o'clock. The doors were thrown open before them, and in the early morning sunshine stood the Queen of England and her mother, prepared for the news, and ready to receive them. At nine o'clock, Lord Melbourne, the Premier, arrived at the Palace, and had an interview of half an hour with his new mistress. Before noon came the Lord Mayor and other members of the Corporation. Next to appear was the Duke of Cumberland. Miss Martineau thus describes the quick succession of incidents which now crowded one upon the other with rapid haste:-- On the meeting of the princes, peers, and other councillors, they signed the oath of allegiance; and the first name on the list was that of Ernest, King of Hanover. The Queen caused them all to be sworn in Members of the Council, and then addressed them; after which they issued orders for the Proclamation of Her Majesty. If the millions who longed to know how the young Sovereign looked and felt could have heard her first address, it would have gone far to satisfy them. The address was, of course, prepared for her; but the manner and voice were her own, and they told much. Her manner was composed, modest, and dignified; her voice firm and sweet; her reading, as usual, beautiful. She took the necessary oaths, and received the eager homage of the thronging nobility without agitation or any awkwardness. The declaration contained an affectionate reference to the deceased King; an assertion of her attachment to the constitution of the country, and of her intention to rule in accordance with it; a grateful allusion to her mother's educational care of her; an avowal that, under circumstances of such eminent responsibility as hers, she relied for support and guidance in Divine Providence, and a pledge that her life should be devoted to the happiness of her people. The Ministers returned into her hands, and received again, the seals of their respective offices; the stamps in official use were ordered to be altered, as also the prayers of the Church which related to the Royal Family; the Proclamation was prepared and signed by the Privy Councillors, and the Queen appointed the next day, Wednesday, for the ceremony. The first use of the Great Seal, under the new reign, was to authenticate the official Proclamation, which was gazetted the same evening. During the whole morning, carriages were driving up rapidly, bringing visitors eager to offer their homage. What a day of whirl and fatigue for one in a position so lonely, at such tender years. How welcome must have been the night, and the quiet of her pillow, whatever might be the thoughts that rested upon it. The next morning she appeared "extremely pale and fatigued," and no wonder, for she had passed through a day which could never be paralleled. The following is the text of her Majesty's speech delivered on this occasion to the Privy Council:-- The severe and afflicting loss which the nation has sustained by the death of His Majesty, my beloved uncle, has devolved upon me the duty of administering the Government of this empire. This awful responsibility is imposed upon me so suddenly, and at so early a period, that I should feel myself utterly oppressed by the burden, were I not sustained by the hope that Divine Providence, which has called me to this work, will give me strength for the performance of it, and that I shall find, in the purity of my intentions, and in my zeal for the public welfare, that support and those resources which usually belong to a more mature age and longer experience. I place my firm reliance upon the wisdom of Parliament, and upon the loyalty and affection of my people. I esteem it also a peculiar advantage that I succeed to a sovereign whose constant regard for the rights and liberties of his subjects, and whose desire to promote the amelioration of the laws and institutions of the country, have rendered his name the object of general attachment and veneration. Educated in England, under the tender and affectionate care of a most affectionate mother, I have learned from my infancy to respect and love the constitution of my native country. It will be my unceasing study to maintain the reformed religion as by law established, securing, at the same time, to all the full enjoyment of religious liberty; and I shall steadily protect the rights, and promote to the utmost of my power the happiness and welfare of all classes of my subjects. [Sidenote: PROCLAMATION AS QUEEN.] The next day, the 21st of June, the Queen was publicly proclaimed, under the title of Alexandrina Victoria I.; but since that day she has disused the Russian name bestowed upon her by her Muscovite godfather, preferring to retain simply "Victoria." The Queen arrived at the Palace at ten o'clock, where she was received by most of the members of the Royal Family, the Officers of the Household, and Ministers of State. Long before ten all the avenues to the Palace were crowded, every balcony, window, and housetop being crammed with the better class of spectators. The space in the quadrangle in front of the window where Her Majesty was to appear, was crowded with ladies and gentlemen, and even the parapets above were filled with people. At ten o'clock the guns in the Park fired a salute, and immediately after the Queen made her appearance at the window of the tapestried ante-room adjoining the audience chamber, and was received with deafening cheers--cheers all the more hearty that her appearance was a surprise, for few had known that she was to be there present. She was dressed in deep mourning, with a white tippet, white cuffs, and a border of white lace under a small black bonnet, which was placed far back on her head, exhibiting her light brown hair simply parted in front. She viewed the proceedings with intense interest, standing during the whole rehearsal of the Proclamation; and although she looked pale and fatigued, she returned the repeated rounds of cheers with great grace and dignity. All were touched to very tenderness of soul by the pale face, wet with tears, calm and simply grave, the gravity being enhanced by the plain black dress and bands of brown hair, giving an aspect of Quaker-like neatness. On either side stood Lords Melbourne and Lansdowne, in their state dresses and blue ribbons, and close to her was her mother, who was dressed similarly to the Queen. In the court-yard were Garter King-at-Arms, with Heralds and Pursuivants in their robes of office, and eight Officers-of-Arms on horseback, bearing massive silver maces; Sergeants-at-Arms, with their maces and collars; the Sergeant-Trumpeter, with his mace and collar; the trumpets, drum-major and drums, and Knights Marshal and men. On Her Majesty showing herself at the Presence Chamber window, Garter Principal King-at-Arms, having taken his station in the court-yard under the window, accompanied by the Duke of Norfolk as Earl Marshal of England, read the Proclamation, containing the formal and official announcement of the demise of King William IV., and of the consequent accession of Queen Alexandrina Victoria to the rule of these realms. The Proclamation was brief, and to the point:-- Whereas it hath pleased Almighty God to call to His mercy our late Sovereign Lord, King William IV., of blessed memory, by whose decease the Imperial Crown of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland is solely and rightfully come to the High and Mighty Princess Alexandrina Victoria, we therefore, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of this Realm, being here assisted with these of his late Majesty's Privy Council, with numbers of other principal gentlemen of quality, the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and citizens of London, do now hereby with one voice and consent of tongue, proclaim that the High and Mighty Princess Alexandrina Victoria is now, by the death of our late Sovereign William IV., of happy memory, become our only lawful and rightful Liege Lady, Alexandrina Victoria I., Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, ... to whom we acknowledge all faith and constant obedience, with all humble and hearty affection, beseeching God, by whom Kings and Queens do reign, to bless the Royal Princess Alexandrina Victoria with long and happy years to reign. God Save the Queen. [Sidenote: THE QUEEN AND THE DUKE OF SUSSEX.] At the termination of this Proclamation, the band struck up the National Anthem, and a signal was given for the Park and Tower guns to fire, in order to announce the fact of the Proclamation being made. Amid the booming of the guns, the air was rent with cheers by those within the area, which were taken up by the tens of thousands outside. The enthusiasm of the comparative few who could see Victoria rose to rapture when, the moment she was proclaimed Queen, she turned round, threw her arms round her mother's neck, and wept without restraint. And when her loved uncle, the Duke of Sussex, presented himself, the day before, to take the oath of allegiance, and was about to kneel in her presence to kiss her hand, she gracefully prevented him, kissed his cheek affectionately, and said, "Do not kneel, my uncle, for I am still Victoria, your niece." The feelings of gratification with which the people welcomed the accession of Victoria cannot be depicted in terms too strong. To most, the course of years seemed very short during which they had been eagerly watching the growth and training of the Princess. It seemed--at least, to all but the young--but a matter of yesterday that the newspapers had informed them of the birth of the Royal babe; of the Duke of Kent's illness: how he had come home from a walk with wet boots, and, "beguiled by the smiles of his infant Princess," had played with her, instead of changing his clothes, and thus caught the cold of which he died. And here she was now, a woman, and the sovereign ruler of a hundred million of souls. All they had heard of her was favourable. Sinister rumours and alarms there had been, but they had been dissipated and dispersed like the morning's mist before the rising god of day. Her morals were pure, her conduct spotless, and in all arts and accomplishments she had been carefully trained. From her earliest days she had been abroad in all weathers; having been often seen, when it was stormy, on a windy common, with a warm cloak and thick boots. She kept early hours, and was so exactly and proverbially punctual, that it was mentioned as a marvel that she once had to apologise for being half a minute late in an appointment. She had never been known to exceed her pocket-money in her personal expenditure, or to be sixpence in debt--an extraordinary novelty in a descendant of George III. In the first year of her reign the people were delighted to find that she had paid her father's debts, including considerable sums advanced by his warm friends, Lords Fitzwilliam and Dundas. Next she paid her mother's debts--debts unavoidably contracted, as she knew and acknowledged, on her account. She provided with royal munificence for the whole family of the late sovereign, and honoured them with courtesies and kindnesses, which almost obliterated the pain arising from their dubious position. Yet she lived within her income, and paid as she purchased. CHAPTER IX. THE MAIDEN QUEEN. Removal to Buckingham Palace--First Levée--Dissolves Parliament--Beauty of her Elocution--Splendid Reception by the City of London--Settlement of the Queen's Income--Her Daily Life--Her admirable Knowledge of, and Devotion to, the Business of the State--Reverence for the Lord's Day. Greatly to the regret of the inhabitants of Kensington, the Queen, with her mother, took her final departure from the abode where she was born, and in which she had spent so many happy days, and proceeded to Buckingham Palace, on July 13th. The Queen, on this occasion, looked pale, and her countenance had a very natural, and easily accounted for, aspect of deep regret. Immediately afterwards she held a Court Levée. It was, of course, thronged by her loyal subjects who had the privilege of entrée; but there was no appearance of fatigue in her face, voice, or manner, and the day passed off with spirit and brilliancy. She seemed to have acquired (so say the court chroniclers of the period), if possible, increased grace and dignity. She wore a rich lama dress, her head glittered with diamonds, and her breast was covered with the insignia of the Garter and other orders. A pair of embroidered velvet slippers covered feet which, resting on the cushion, were observed and admired by all as "exquisitely small." On the 17th of July she went in state to the House of Lords to dissolve the Parliament, in accordance with constitutional usage and enactment on the demise of the Crown. After thanking both Houses for their expressions of condolence on the death of her uncle, and for the zeal and assiduity with which they had discharged their duties, especially for their efforts to mitigate the severity of the penal code, she concluded by saying:-- I ascend the throne with a deep sense of the responsibility which is imposed upon me; but I am supported by the consciousness of my own right intentions, and by my dependence upon the protection of Almighty God. It will be my care to strengthen our institutions, civil and ecclesiastical, by discreet improvement wherever improvement is required, and to do all in my power to compose and allay animosity and discord. Acting upon these principles, I shall, upon all occasions, look with confidence to the wisdom of Parliament and the affections of my people, which form the true support of the dignity of the Crown, and ensure the stability of the Constitution. The admirable manner in which the speech was read--her singularly musical voice being heard, without the slightest appearance of effort, in every corner of the House of Lords--was the subject of the admiration of all who heard it. It was, indeed, known that she was a fine singer, and frequently entertained her mother's guests by singing to them, her mother accompanying her on the piano; nevertheless, the lucidity of her tones, and the entire absence of any discomposure to disturb them, surprised every one, and no one more so than her mother. [Sidenote: STATE VISIT TO THE CITY.] The Queen went in great state to the City on Lord Mayor's Day, November 9. This royal entry was one of the greatest sights which had ever been beheld in the City. The Queen, looking remarkably well, magnificently attired in pink satin shot with silver, was greeted with deafening cheers from a crowd far denser than any she had ever seen, along her whole route from Marlborough House (her temporary residence until Buckingham Palace was completed for her occupation) to the Guildhall. The houses along the thoroughfares by which the cavalcade passed were hung with bright-coloured cloths, with green boughs, and with what flowers the earth could afford at the late season of the year. Flags and heraldic banners darkened the dim November light across the Strand, Fleet Street, and Cheapside; and every pedestal that could be improvised supported a bust of Queen Victoria. At Temple Bar the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, mounted on artillery horses from Woolwich, each of the steeds being held by the head by the soldier who was accustomed to bestride him, awaited their distinguished guest. The Lord Mayor, dismounting and taking the City Sword in his hand, delivered the keys, which were graciously returned, while more vociferous cheers than ever rent the air. On which, the Lord Mayor, re-mounting and holding the City Sword aloft, rode before Her Majesty through the City, the cortége of mounted Aldermen following her carriage. The open space before St. Paul's was occupied by hustings, crowded by the Liverymen of the City Companies and the Christ's Hospital boys. One of these, in conformity with an old usage, having presented an address to the Queen, and the whole of the boys having sung "God save the Queen," the procession went on its way. At the Guildhall, which, with all its adjacent chambers, was sumptuously fitted up, a loyal address was read by the Recorder, and suitably acknowledged. After this came a sumptuous banquet, from which Her Majesty retired, to see on her way back the whole line of the route brilliantly illuminated. The first message which the Queen sent to Parliament when it re-assembled, was a truly characteristic one: it asked for a suitable provision for her royal mother. This provision was loyally made, and in the same short winter session her own civil list was settled. William IV. had enjoyed a civil list amounting to £510,000, while, from the accession of George III. to the death of his eldest son, it had been fixed at £1,030,000. Her Majesty's civil list was fixed at £385,000 per annum, and her privy purse, being the only sum over which she had complete personal control, and from which her private charities had to be disbursed, was fixed at £60,000. Out of the £385,000 the calculation, based by order of Parliament upon the accounts of the late reign, was that £131,260 would go for salaries of the Household, from the Master of the Horse and Mistress of the Robes, down to the humblest scullion and stable-helper; and £172,500 in tradesmen's bills. During the early days of her maiden reign, the Queen rose at eight, occupied a remarkably short time in dressing, and then discharged such routine business as signing despatches until the breakfast hour, which was invariably a quarter before ten. At that hour, she without fail sent one of her attendants to _invite_ the Duchess of Kent to breakfast. From the day of her ascending the throne, to remove the slightest ground for suspicion as to any undue influence, the strictest etiquette was preserved between mother and daughter; the former never approaching the latter unless specially summoned, and carefully abstaining from conversing about the business of the State. Twelve o'clock was the time appointed for conferences with her Ministers. After the usual complimentary salutation, she at once proceeded to the business of the day. If a document were handed to her, she read it without comment, and no remark passed her own lips or those of the Ministers present, until its perusal was concluded. After retiring from the Council-room, the interval was passed until dinner in riding or walking. At dinner, the first Lord-in-waiting took the head of the table; opposite to him, the chief Equerry-in-waiting. Her Majesty's chair was half way down on the right, the various guests being seated according to their ranks. Next to Her Majesty, on the right hand, was the nobleman of highest degree; next to him, the Duchess of Kent, and so on. On Her Majesty's left, the same rule was observed, the Baroness Lehzen, who acted as Secretary to the Queen, being always near her. The Queen left the table early for the drawing-room, where her musical tastes were regaled almost invariably, and her own proficiency very frequently displayed. [Sidenote: REVERENCE FOR SUNDAY.] The following incident, which was made public during the first year of the Queen's reign, made a very pleasing impression upon the well-conditioned portion of the public. A certain noble Minister arrived at Windsor at a late hour on Saturday night. On being introduced, he said, "I have brought down for your Majesty's inspection some documents of great importance; but, as I shall be obliged to trouble you to examine them in detail, I will not encroach on the time of your Majesty to-night, but will request your attention to-morrow morning." "To-morrow morning?" repeated the Queen; "to-morrow is Sunday, my lord." "True, your Majesty, but business of the State will not admit of delay." "I am aware of that," replied the Queen, "and, as your lordship could not have arrived earlier at the Palace to-night, I will, if those papers are of such pressing importance, attend to their contents after church to-morrow morning." So to church went the Queen and the Court, and to church went the noble lord; when, much to his surprise, the discourse was on the duties and obligations of the Christian Sabbath. "How did your lordship like the sermon?" asked the Queen. "Very much indeed, your Majesty," replied the nobleman. "Well, then," retorted Her Majesty, "I will not conceal from you that, last night, I sent the clergyman the text from which he preached. I hope we shall all be improved by the sermon." The Sunday passed without a single word being said relative to the State papers, and at night, when Her Majesty was about to withdraw--"To-morrow morning, my lord, at any hour you please," said the Queen, turning to the nobleman--"as early as seven, my lord, if you like, we will look into the papers." The nobleman said that he could not think of intruding on Her Majesty at so early an hour; he thought nine o'clock would be quite soon enough. "No, no, my lord," said the Queen; "as the papers are of importance, I wish them to be attended to very early. However, if you wish it to be nine, be it so." And accordingly, the next morning at nine, Her Majesty was seated ready to receive the nobleman and his papers. CHAPTER X. THE QUEEN CROWNED. Novel Features in the Coronation--Its Cost--Large Amount of Money Circulated--Splendour of the Procession--Enormous Crowds--The Scene within the Abbey--Arrival of the Queen--The Regalia and Sacred Vessels--Costume of the Queen--Astonishment of the Turkish Ambassador at the Scene--The Coronation Ceremony--The Queen's Oath--The Anointing--The Crown placed on her Head--The Homage--An Aged Peer--The Queen's Crown--The Illuminations and general Festivities--Fair in Hyde Park--The Duke of Wellington and Marshal Soult at the Guildhall. The great event of the year 1838 was the Coronation, which took place on the 28th of June. It was conducted after the abridged model of that of the Queen's immediate predecessor. The Coronation of George IV. had cost £243,000; that of William IV., £50,000. The charges on the occasion of the crowning of Queen Victoria amounted to about £70,000. This slight excess over the cost of the last Sovereign's solemn investiture with regal power was explained by the Chancellor of the Exchequer as having been in no sense occasioned by any part of the ceremonial peculiarly connected with the Sovereign, but it had been incurred with a view of enabling the great mass of the people to participate in this national festivity. The great novelty on the occasion was the omission of the walking procession of all the estates of the realm, and the banquet in Westminster Hall, with the feudal services attendant thereon. Many of the upper classes grumbled not a little at these omissions; but the general public were more than proportionately gratified. For in lieu of the disused ceremonies, a public procession through the streets was substituted. This enabled all to witness the splendid pageant, and induced a very large private expenditure and circulation of money. It was estimated that no less than £200,000 were paid for the use of windows and other positions of vantage in the line of the procession. The price of single seats ranged from five shillings to ten guineas; and the Duke of Buckingham, in his "Courts and Cabinets of William IV. and Victoria," alleges that single windows in Pall Mall and St. James's Street produced no less than £200. Persons of distinction behaved with a becoming liberality and splendour. Marshal Soult, the old opponent of Wellington, who specially represented on the occasion the Court of the Tuileries, and who was received by the crowds with great enthusiasm, appeared in a splendid state carriage that had been used by the Prince of Condé. The Russian Ambassador purchased for £1,600 a similar chariot, which had already done the same duty for the Duke of Devonshire, at St. Petersburg, on a like occasion. Another diplomat gave £250 for the loan for the day of a vehicle befitting his rank; while many more had to content themselves with carriages whose normal function it was to minister to the state of the civic magnates, and which were hastily repainted and decorated for the auspicious occasion. The day was one of the brightest on which the Queen, with her proverbial good fortune in this respect, has ever appeared amongst her subjects. At early morn, the first rays of the blazing Midsummer sun slanted down through the windows of Westminster Abbey upon the jewels of whole rows of peeresses, and the illuminations which turned night into day remained in full magnificence until the dawn of the succeeding morning. At dawn, a salvo of artillery from the Tower caused all the population to be astir, and the population was on this day increased by the importation of four hundred thousand visitors. The behaviour of the enormous multitude which first lined the streets and then spread itself over the town, was beyond all praise. Courtesy and mutual forbearance were conspicuous, and no accident or offence occurred to mar the pleasing impressions of the ceremonial. [Sidenote: ORDER OF THE PROCESSION.] The route of the procession was as follows:--From Buckingham Palace, up Constitution Hill, along Piccadilly, St. James's Street, Pall Mall, Cockspur Street, Charing Cross, Whitehall, and Parliament Street, to the great west door of Westminster Abbey. The most novel feature of the procession was the carriages of the Foreign Ambassadors, to which we have already alluded, with their jägers in gorgeous or grotesque uniforms. These came in the order in which they had arrived on their special missions to this country; the carriages of the regular resident Ambassadors came in their ordinary order of precedence. Next followed the members of the Royal Family, the Duchess of Kent preceding the carriages of the surviving sons of George III. To the Queen's Barge Master, with forty-eight watermen, succeeded twelve of the Royal carriages, containing the Ladies and Gentlemen of the Household. Next came mounted, three and three, the high functionaries of the Army. And after Royal huntsmen, yeomen, prickers, marshalmen, foresters, and a host of other minor functionaries--the whole of the mounted Household Troops being here and there interspersed at intervals in the cavalcade--came the grand state coach, containing Her Majesty the Queen, with the Duchess of Sutherland, Mistress of the Robes. On either side of the carriage rode Lord Combermere, Gold Stick in Waiting, and the Earl of Ilchester, Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard. The Earl of Albemarle, as Master of the Horse, and the Duke of Buccleuch, as Captain-General of the Royal Scottish Archers, rode behind. A squadron of Life Guards brought up the rear. Meanwhile, within the Abbey, a painful sleepiness had oppressed those who had sat so many hours in cramped positions; many of them in galleries perched up high under the roofs of the aisles. Suddenly, a burst of music, rushing among the arches and ringing from the roof, aroused and entranced all, who peered eagerly down upon the procession of small figures; the central one looking the slightest and most fragile of all. At half-past eleven, the Queen reached the door of the Abbey, where she was received by the great officers of State, the noblemen bearing the Regalia, and the bishops carrying Patina, Chalice, and Bible. Having retired to her Robing-room, the procession formed and proceeded towards the altar, which was laden with magnificent gold plate, and beside which stood St. Edward's Chair. Besides the elements which are common to all great English regal processions, and which it is, therefore, not requisite to recapitulate, the Regalia, which only appear on such occasions, were thus distributed:--St. Edward's Staff, the Golden Spurs, the Sceptre with the Cross, the Curtana, and two Swords of Investiture, were borne respectively by the Duke of Roxburgh, Lord Byron, Duke of Cleveland, Duke of Devonshire, Marquis of Westminster, and Duke of Sutherland. The coronets of the princes of the blood were borne by noblemen; their trains by knights or peers' sons. Next came the Earl Marshal, Duke of Norfolk, with his staff, Lord Melbourne with the Sword of State, and the Duke of Wellington, with his staff, as Lord High Constable; the Dukes of Richmond, Hamilton, and Somerset bore the Sceptre and Dove, St. Edward's Crown, and the Orb; the Bishops of Bangor, Winchester, and London carried the Patina, Chalice, and Bible. The Queen, who was supported on one side by the Bishop of Bath and Wells, on the other by the Bishop of Durham, wore a royal robe of crimson velvet, furred with ermine and broidered with gold lace. She wore the collars of her orders, and on her head a circlet of gold. Eight peers' daughters bore her train, most, if not all of them, old friends of her happy childish tours to the mansions of the aristocracy, and distinguished by their personal attractions. About fifty ladies of rank, occupying various positions in the household, succeeded, and the procession was concluded by Officers of State and Yeomen of the Guard. [Sidenote: THE CORONATION.] The chief and most picturesque incidents in the Coronation ceremony must be briefly narrated. The Queen looked extremely well, and "had a very animated countenance;" but perhaps the splendid attire of some of the foreign ambassadors attracted more attention than even the Sovereign to whose court they were accredited. The costume of the Prince Esterhazy was by far the most gorgeous; his dress, even to his boot-heels, sparkled with diamonds. The Turkish Ambassador seemed specially bewildered at the general splendour of the scene: for some moments he stopped in astonishment, and had to be courteously admonished to move to his allotted place. As the Queen advanced slowly to the centre of the choir, she was received with hearty plaudits, and the musicians sang the anthem, "I was glad." At its close, the boys of Westminster School, privileged of old to occupy a special gallery, chanted "Vivat Victoria Regina." On this the Queen moved to a chair, midway between the Chair of Homage and the altar; and there, after a few moments' private devotion, kneeling on a fald-stool, she sat down, and the ceremony proper began. First came the "recognition." The Archbishop of Canterbury, accompanied by some half-dozen of the greatest civil dignitaries, advanced and said, "Sirs, I here present unto you Queen Victoria, the undoubted Queen of this realm; wherefore, all you who have come this day to do your homage, are you willing to do the same?" On this, all Her Majesty's subjects present shouted, "God Save Queen Victoria!" the Archbishop turning in succession to the north, south, and west sides of the Abbey, and the Queen doing the same. The bishops who bore them, then placed the Patina, Chalice, and Bible on the altar; the Queen, kneeling, made her first offering, a pall, or altar-cloth, of gold. The Archbishop having offered a prayer, the Regalia were laid on the altar; the Litany and Communion services were read, and a brief sermon preached, by various prelates. The preacher was the Bishop of London, and his text was from the Second Book of Chronicles, chapter xxxiv., verse 31--"And the king stood in his place, and made a covenant before the Lord, to walk after the Lord, and to keep his commandments, and his testimonies, and his statutes, with all his heart, and with all his soul, to perform the words of the covenant which are written in this book." After the sermon, the Queen swore--the Archbishop of Canterbury putting the oath--that she would maintain the law and the established religion. Then Her Majesty--the Sword of State being carried before her--went to the altar, and laying her right hand upon the Gospel, said, kneeling, "The things which I have here-before promised, I will perform and keep. So help me, God!" Having kissed the book, and signed a transcript of the oath presented to her by the Archbishop, she knelt upon her fald-stool, while the choir sang, "Veni, Creator, Dominus." [Sidenote: THE HOMAGE OF THE PEERS.] Now, sitting in King Edward's Chair, four Knights of the Garter holding the while over her head a canopy of cloth of gold, her head and hands were anointed by the Archbishop of Canterbury; after which he said his prayer, or blessing, over her. In quick succession followed the delivery of the Spurs, Sword of State, &c. The Dean of Westminster, having taken the crown from the altar, handed it to the Archbishop, who reverently placed it on the Queen's head. This was no sooner done, than there arose from every part of the edifice a tremendous shout--"God save the Queen!" accompanied with lusty cheers and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs. At the same moment, the Peers and Peeresses put on their coronets, the Bishops their caps, and the Kings of Arms their crowns; the trumpets sounded, the drums were beat, and volleys fired from the Tower and Park guns. After the Benediction and Te Deum, the Queen was "enthroned," or "lifted," as the formulary has it, from the chair in which she had first sat into the Chair of Homage, where she delivered the sceptre, &c., to noblemen, while she received fealty of her more distinguished subjects. The Archbishop first knelt and did homage for himself and all the spiritual peers; next came the Princes of the blood, who merely touched the crown, kissed her left cheek, swore the oath of homage, and retired without kneeling; then the Peers in succession came--seventeen dukes, twenty-two marquises, ninety-four earls, twenty viscounts, and ninety-two barons. Each Peer knelt bareheaded, and kissed Her Majesty's hand. Lord Rolle, who was upwards of eighty, stumbled and fell in going up the steps; the Queen at once stepped forward, and held out her hand to assist him. While the Peers were doing homage, the Earl of Surrey, Treasurer of the Household, threw silver coronation medals about the choir and lower galleries; and when the homage was completed the Members of the House of Commons, who occupied a special gallery, indicated their loyalty by giving nine lusty cheers. It was almost a quarter to four when the procession came back along the nave. The return cavalcade along the streets was even more attractive than that of the morning, for the royal and noble personages now wore their coronets, and the Queen her crown. The crown was especially admired. That which had been made for George IV. weighed upwards of seven pounds, and as it was considered too heavy for the Queen, a new one was constructed by Messrs. Rundell and Bridge, of less than half the weight. It was formed of hoops of silver, covered with precious stones, over a cap of rich blue velvet, surmounted with a ball enriched by diamonds. Amongst its other gems was a large heart-shaped ruby, which had been worn by the Black Prince; this was set in front. [Sidenote: CORONATION FESTIVITIES.] In the evening the Queen entertained a hundred guests to dinner at Buckingham Palace, and at a late hour witnessed from the roof the fireworks in the Green Park. At Apsley House, the Duke of Wellington gave a ball, to which two thousand guests were invited. All the Cabinet Ministers gave state dinners. A fair was held in Hyde Park on the day of the coronation--Thursday--and until the end of the week. The area allotted comprised nearly one-third of the Park. On Friday, the Queen visited the fair, which was studded with theatres, refreshment booths, and stalls for the sale of fancy articles. The illuminations and fireworks gave great satisfaction, as did the fact that the whole of the theatres were opened gratuitously at the Queen's express desire. Among other festivities, at home and abroad, which succeeded and were held in honour of the coronation of Victoria, may be mentioned a grand review by Her Majesty in Hyde Park; a magnificent banquet at the Guildhall, at which the old Waterloo antagonists, Wellington and Soult, were toasted in combination; the feasting of 13,000 persons on one spot at Cambridge; the laying of the first stone of the St. George's Hall, at Liverpool, and at Leghorn of an English Protestant Church; and a great public dinner, in Paris, presided over by Sir Sidney Smith, the hero of St. Jean d'Acre. CHAPTER XI. THE BEDCHAMBER PLOT. Resignation of Lord Melbourne's Cabinet--Sir Robert Peel sent for--Fails to Form a Cabinet--His Explanation--The Queen Refuses to Dismiss her Ladies of the Bedchamber--Supported by her late Ministers--Sir Robert Peel's Objections--The Queen will not give way--The Whigs recalled to Power--Public Opinion on the Dispute--The Whig Ministers blamed, but the Queen exculpated. In April, 1839, Lord Melbourne's administration, which had been rapidly losing its once great popularity, obtained only the small and nominal majority of five, in a very important matter connected with the government of Jamaica. The Ministers accordingly tendered their resignations early in May, and Her Majesty was graciously pleased to accept them. As usual under such circumstances, the Parliament was prorogued for a few days. After the lapse of a week, the Houses re-assembled, and Lord John Russell, who had been the Whig leader of the House, immediately rose and said that since he had last addressed them, Sir Robert Peel had received authority from Her Majesty to form a new Administration, and that the attempt of the Right Honourable Baronet having failed, Her Majesty had been graciously pleased to permit that gentleman to state the circumstances which had led to that failure. On her accession, the Queen had left the selection of the Ladies of the Household entirely to her uncle Sussex, and Lord Melbourne--the one of whom had been a Whig all his life, and the other, though but a comparatively recent convert, was the head of the Whig party. They had somewhat indiscreetly selected at least all the important female members of the Household, those to whom a young girl would be likely to look up confidingly for information and guidance, from the ranks of the Whig aristocracy. On Tuesday, the 29th of May, the resignations of the Melbourne Cabinet were announced to Parliament. The next day, at two o'clock, in answer to her summons, Sir Robert Peel waited upon the Queen. She had first sent for the Duke of Wellington, but he recommended his former lieutenant and future leader as premier. The Queen, with characteristic truthfulness, which was none the less admirable that it was too girlishly outspoken to be judicious, or at all in accordance with the spirit of the constitution, at once greeted Sir Robert with an avowal that she was much grieved to part with her late Ministers, whose conduct she entirely approved. This was rather an awkward beginning. Nevertheless, he proceeded with the formation of his Cabinet, and the next day submitted a list of names to the Queen, including the Duke of Wellington, Lords Lyndhurst, Aberdeen, Ellenborough, Stanley, Sir James Graham, and Mr. Goulburn. As to the Household, he had hardly thought about it, and indeed he said he did not know who constituted the female part of it. He took the Red Book to learn who they were, and was at once struck with the completeness of the arrangements for surrounding the Queen with the nearest relations of the Whig Ministers. For example, he afterwards put this point most strongly to the House:-- Sir, let me take that particular question on which my difficulty would arise. Who can conceal from himself that my difficulties were not Canada; that my difficulties were not Jamaica; that my difficulties were Ireland? (ironical cheers). I admit it freely, and thank you for the confirmation of my argument which these cheers afford. And what is the fact? I, undertaking to be a Minister of the Crown, and wishing to carry on public affairs through the intervention of the present House of Commons, in order that I might exempt the country from the agitation, and, possibly, the peril of a dissolution--I, upon that very question in a minority of upwards of twenty members. A majority of twenty-two had decided in favour of the policy of the Irish Government [that is, of the Irish policy of Lord Melbourne]. The chief members of the Irish Government, whose policy was so approved of, were the Marquis of Normanby, and the noble lord opposite, the member for Yorkshire [Lord Morpeth, afterwards the Earl of Carlisle]. By whom are the chief offices in the Household at this moment held? By the sister of Lord Morpeth [the Duchess of Sutherland], and the wife of the Marquis of Normanby. But the question is--Would it be considered by the public that a Minister had the confidence of the Crown, when the relatives of his immediate political opponents held the highest offices about the person of the Sovereign? My impression decidedly was that I should not appear to the country to be in possession of that confidence; and that impression I could not overcome; and upon that impression I resolved to act. Who were my political opponents? Why, of the two I have named, one, the Marquis of Normanby, was publicly stated to be a candidate for the very same office which it was proposed I should fill--namely, the office of Prime Minister. The other noble lord has been designated as the leader of this House; and I know not why his talents might not justify his appointment, in case of the retirement of his predecessor. Is it possible--I ask you to go back to other times; take Pitt, or Fox, or any other Minister of this proud country, and answer for yourselves this question--is it fitting that one man shall be the Minister, responsible for the most arduous charge that can fall to the lot of man, and that the wife of the other--that other his most formidable political enemy--shall, with his express consent, hold office in immediate attendance on the Sovereign? Oh no! I felt it was impossible--I could not consent to this. Yes, feelings more powerful than reasoning on those precedents told me that it was not for my own honour or the public interests that I should consent to be Minister of England. The public interests may suffer nothing by my abandonment of that high trust; the public interests may suffer nothing by my eternal exclusion from power; but the public interests would suffer, and I should be abandoning my duty to myself, my country, and, above all, to the Queen my sovereign, if I were to consent to hold power on conditions which I felt to be--which I had the strongest conviction were--incompatible with the authority and with the duty of a Prime Minister. [Sidenote: THE QUEEN AND SIR ROBERT PEEL.] Sir Robert had informed Her Majesty that he did not propose any change in the offices in question below the grade of Ladies of the Bedchamber. He took it for granted that the ladies who held higher offices would save him any appearance of want of courtesy by voluntarily resigning. Ere this, however, had been stated, the Queen having expressed a desire that her own and her mother's old friend, Lord Liverpool (who, it may be remarked, was of the Tory party), should be appointed to some office, Sir Robert at once requested the Queen's permission to offer him the office of Lord Steward, or any other which he might select. The only other names which he submitted to her were those of Lords Ashley (now Shaftesbury), and Sydney. So far all was well. But when he went on to say that he was most ready to apply a similar principle to, and consult Her Majesty's wishes in, the selection of her ladies, the Queen remarked that she should reserve all these appointments, and indeed did not intend to make any present change. In a subsequent interview with the Duke of Wellington, the Queen reiterated the same desire and intention. Meanwhile, after her interviews with Peel and Wellington, Her Majesty sent for Lord John Russell, and put the direct question to him, Was she right in her determination? He at once replied that she was right; on which she naïvely asked him to support her now, as she had supported the Cabinet of which he had been a member. Lord John having consulted Lord Melbourne, they called their ex-colleagues together, and advised the Queen to send the following note to Sir Robert Peel, which she did:-- Buckingham Palace, May 10, 1839. The Queen, having considered the proposal made to her yesterday by Sir Robert Peel, to remove the Ladies of her Bedchamber, cannot consent to adopt a course which she conceives to be contrary to usage and repugnant to her feelings. On receipt of this, Sir Robert Peel, acting in perfect concert with the Duke of Wellington, communicated with Her Majesty in a remarkably courteous letter, of which this was the concluding and decisive paragraph:-- Having had the opportunity, through your Majesty's gracious consideration, of reflecting upon this point, he humbly submits to your Majesty that he is reluctantly compelled, by a sense of public duty and of the interest of your Majesty's service, to adhere to the opinion which he ventured to express to your Majesty. He trusts he may be permitted, at the same time, to express to your Majesty his grateful acknowledgments for the distinction which your Majesty conferred upon him, by requiring his advice and assistance in the attempt to form an Administration, and his earnest prayers that whatever arrangements your Majesty may be enabled to make for that purpose, may be most conducive to your Majesty's personal comfort and happiness, and to the promotion of the public welfare. [Sidenote: WELLINGTON AND LORD MELBOURNE.] It was generally believed at the time, as Sir Archibald Alison himself confesses, that Peel did not regret this royal rebuff; for "he was by no means sanguine," says the Tory historiographer, "as to the success of his mission, nor annoyed at the failure of the attempt to fulfil it." The _pro_ and _con_ were put with equal terseness and skill by Lord Melbourne and the Duke of Wellington. The words of the latter were:--"It is essential that the Minister should possess the entire confidence of Her Majesty, and with that view should exercise the usual control permitted to the Minister by the Sovereign in the construction of the Household. There is the greatest possible difference between the _Household of the Queen Consort and the Household of the Queen Regnant_--that of the former, who is not a political personage, being comparatively of little importance." Lord Melbourne, on the other hand, thus justified the advice which his Royal Mistress had received from him and adopted:--"I frankly declare that I resume office unequivocally and solely for this reason, that I will not abandon my Sovereign in a situation of difficulty and distress, and especially when a demand is made upon Her Majesty with which, I think, she ought not to comply--a demand inconsistent with her personal honour, and which, if acquiesced in, would render her reign liable to all the changes and variations of political parties, and render her domestic life one constant scene of unhappiness and discomfort." The public at large, even those who thought her _action_ wrong, accorded to the Queen sympathy rather than blame. It was well known that she had been dexterously surrounded by the wives and sisters and daughters of the great Whigs, and that on these ladies all her ardent and girlish affections were bestowed. This made the people all the more angry that the male heads of the Whig houses now gave her unconstitutional advice. Not only her youth and inexperience, but the very warmth of the affection which she had displayed, and, above all, the fact that she was the chief sufferer on the occasion, all pleaded for her. Indeed, it may be said that the quickly-forgotten "Bedchamber Plot" rather endeared the Sovereign to her subjects than otherwise. Both of her uncles who preceded her on the throne had been exceedingly capricious and disloyal to their ministers. Under these reigns there was a constant sense, in the breasts of ministers and in the breasts of the people, of the precariousness of the existence of even the most popular cabinets. It certainly cannot be said that in the early summer of 1839 Lord Melbourne's cabinet was popular. Nevertheless, though the ministers were blamed, the people were charmed by the Queen's ingenuousness, bravery, and steadiness of attachment. It is but just to state that on every future occasion of the change of an Administration, the Queen has, without the slightest demur, conceded the point, the consideration of which we now dismiss. And with the transparent candour of her nature, Her Majesty has caused it to be made known that the Prince Consort had much to do with producing this result. CHAPTER XII. COURTSHIP AND BETROTHAL. Desire of the Coburg Relatives for a Marriage between Victoria and Albert--Favourable Impressions mutually made by Victoria and Albert--Prince Albert's Letter on the Queen's Accession--Opposition of King William IV. to the Marriage--Correspondence between the Cousins--King Leopold urges on the Marriage--The Queen's Reluctance to become Betrothed--Her subsequent Regret at this--The Prince craves a definite Determination--His Second Visit to England--Betrothed at last--Returns to Germany to say Farewell. We have already seen that the marriage of Prince Albert with his cousin was strongly desired by their common relatives from a very early period of their lives. It was the "ardent wish" of their grandmother, and she freely communicated that wish to her son and daughter, Prince Leopold and the Duchess of Kent. There are strong indications that the astute King Leopold never lost sight of this end from the date of his mother's death in 1831. Soon after the visit of the brothers to their "aunt Kent" in 1836, the rumour began to prevail in England that Prince Albert was the _fiancé_ of the future Queen. The idea, however, was premature. So we know on the Queen's authority, who has caused it to be stated that "nothing was then settled." In the letters which the Prince sent to his father and others, during his stay at Brussels and elsewhere, immediately after his first visit to England, he made frequent reference to the general impressions thence derived, and especially to his young cousin. Of such allusions, this is a fair specimen:--"A few days ago I received a letter from aunt Kent, enclosing one from our cousin. She told me I was to communicate its contents to you, so I send it on with a translation of the English. The day before yesterday I received a second and yet kinder letter from my cousin, in which she thanks me for my good wishes on her birth-day. You may easily imagine that both these letters gave me great pleasure." And when the news of the death of King William and the accession of Victoria arrived, he informed his father, on the authority of his uncle Leopold, that the new reign had commenced most successfully (this, perhaps, in allusion to the anticipated attempt at a _coup d'état_ by the Duke of Cumberland), that his cousin Victoria had shown astonishing self-possession, although English parties were violently excited, and that the Duchess of Kent had found strenuous support against "violent attacks in the newspapers." This last statement we have, however, good reasons for saying had reached the young Prince in a somewhat exaggerated form; we mean, so far as the "violence" of the attacks was concerned. To the Queen herself the Prince wrote a letter, consolatory in her bereavement, and congratulatory on her accession. This was the first letter which he sent her written in English. He prayed Heaven to assist her now that she was "Queen of the mightiest land in Europe," with the happiness of millions in her hand, and asked her "to think sometimes of her cousins in Bonn [where they were then pursuing their University studies], and to continue that kindness you favoured them with till now." [Sidenote: RUMOURS ABOUT MARRIAGE.] On the accession of the Queen, the rumour of her marriage with Prince Albert became ten times more prevalent. The judicious King Leopold thought it wise, for a time at least, to discourage this expectation, and to withdraw the attention of the English from the Prince. Hence it was that he counselled those journeys into Austria, South Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, in which we have already traced the steps of the Prince. This was chiefly dictated by the distracted state of parties in England, which the King of the Belgians thought it better to permit time to allay ere the matrimonial project was brought specifically forward. "United as all parties are," wrote Prince Albert to his father, from the inspiration of his uncle, "in high praise of the young Queen, the more do they seem to manoeuvre and intrigue with and against each other. On every side there is nothing but a network of cabals and intrigues, and parties are arrayed against each other in a most inexplicable manner." Whilst making his "grand tour," the Prince kept up an occasional correspondence with his cousin. From Switzerland he sent her an album of the places which he visited, from the top of the Rigi a dried Alpine rose, and from Ferney an autographic scrap of Voltaire, which he received from an old servant of the great philosopher. By the early part of 1839, the tour was concluded, and we find the Prince once more at Brussels with his uncle. Leopold now spoke to him more fully and definitely than he had hitherto done about his prospects in life and the state of his affections. It very clearly appears that the marriage with the Queen had been gradually becoming more and more an understood thing. It appears equally clear that the Queen was averse, as yet, to committing herself to a distinct and final engagement. She was willing to marry, but wished to defer the contraction of the union. She thought both herself and her cousin too young; and the interests of her people, rather than any personal backwardness, influenced her wish that both she and her husband should be older ere they became man and wife. She regretted afterwards this delay, and felt that the harassments of the Bedchamber Plot and other still more painful incidents which we have thought it preferable not to rake up and reproduce in these pages, would have been borne by her with more equanimity had she had the natural protection of a husband six months or a year ere the date of her marriage. It was probably this postponement of any definite settlement that occasioned Prince Albert's absence from England at the Coronation, in June, 1838. His father was invited, and received at the hands of his niece the honour of the Order of the Garter. The Dowager Duchess of Gotha was very proud of this, and proud also to recollect that her son-in-law possessed the noblest knightly order of Christendom, which her own father of Hesse-Cassel, and her father-in-law of Gotha, had also worn and treasured. [Sidenote: OBJECTIONS TO THE MARRIAGE.] In more than one quarter the marriage, which all members of the Coburg family felt to be so eligible, and in which their feelings were so much involved, met with a considerable amount of opposition. By a curious coincidence, a Prince of Orange had been the suitor favoured by George IV. for the hand of his daughter; but she selected the man of her own choice--Leopold, a Coburg Prince. And a Prince of Orange (nephew of the rejected aspirant to the hand of the Princess Charlotte) was the man thought by William IV., as long as he lived, to be the best future husband of his niece and successor; and his niece, too, selected, like her cousin Charlotte, as the man of her choice, a Prince of the House of Coburg. King William did all in his power to discourage the attachment between Victoria and Albert. He was so strongly set against this match that he did all that he could even to prevent Prince Albert's visit to England in 1836; and although he never spoke to his young niece on the subject himself, she afterwards learned that he had devised no fewer than five matrimonial alternatives for her selection--that of the late Prince Alexander of the Netherlands always having the preference and priority. In justice to the memory of King William it must, however, be stated that the Dowager Queen Adelaide afterwards told her niece that her uncle would never have striven to control or restrain her affections if he had had any idea that they had been strongly bestowed in any particular quarter. It was in the early part of 1839, that King Leopold first wrote seriously to his niece on the subject--about the same time that we have seen that he made a similar verbal communication to his nephew. He received a favourable response from both, but with this difference, that the lady craved an indefinite delay. This idea of delay the Prince dealt with in a very honest and manly manner. He had, he said, no objections to postponement; but, nevertheless, thought he had a fair right, if he were to keep himself free, and thereby be compelled to decline any other career or line of life which might open itself out to him, to have some definite assurance or understanding that the engagement would be without doubt contracted. This concession, however, the equally natural bashfulness of the Queen would not suffer her to make. However, all came right in the end, and the Queen has very candidly confessed in her riper years, that if she had known as a girl what she afterwards learned as a woman, that she even seemed to be _playing_ with her somewhat undemonstrative but not the less devoted lover, she would not have exacted the semi-sacrifice which the Prince's self-respect caused him to feel uneasy at, but to which the true courtesy of his nature induced him to submit. He _did_ wait till 1839, but the Queen afterwards learned that he came to England in that year prepared to declare that, in the case of further postponement, he must decline to consider himself bound in any way for the future. [Sidenote: FIRST MEETING WITH PRINCE ALBERT.] In October, 1839, Prince Albert, with his brother, set out from Brussels to England, to urge his final suit. Ere leaving Germany, he had spent a very pleasant time with his cousin, Count Albert Mensdorff, who was doing military duty with the garrison of Mayence. They then made a short journey together, in the course of which the one cousin confided the great secret to the other. "During our journey," writes the Count, "Albert confided to me, under the seal of the strictest confidence, that he was going to England to make your acquaintance, and that if you liked each other you were to be engaged. He spoke very seriously about the difficulties of the position he would have to occupy in England, but hoped that dear uncle Leopold would assist him with his advice." The Princes--Albert bearing with him a shrewd and significant letter to the Queen from King Leopold--arrived at Windsor on the 10th of October, where they were cordially received by their cousin and aunt. The Queen was much struck with the greatly improved appearance of the Prince, in the interval of three years since she had last seen him. Gay and festive entertainments had been arranged in their honour immediately upon their arrival. The Queen became more and more charmed with her cousin, and within a week after his arrival, she informed her Premier, Lord Melbourne, that she had made up her mind to the marriage. In reply, he indicated his own perfect satisfaction, and added that the nation was getting anxious that its sovereign should be married; and then he said, in a kindly way, "You will be much more comfortable; for a woman cannot stand alone for any time, in whatever position she may be." The following we present, without professing either to confirm or question its accuracy, but simply as being the commonly-received report, at the time, of the manner in which the engagement was finally effected between the parties directly interested:-- The Prince, in his turn, played the part of a royal lover with all the grace peculiar to his house. He never willingly absented himself from the Queen's society and presence, and her every wish was anticipated with the alacrity of an unfeigned attachment. At length Her Majesty, having wholly made up her mind as to the issue of this visit, found herself in some measure embarrassed as to the fit and proper means of indicating her preference to the Prince. This was a perplexing task, but the Queen acquitted herself of it with equal delicacy and tact. At one of the Palace balls she took occasion to present her bouquet to the Prince at the conclusion of a dance, and the hint was not lost upon the polite and gallant German. His close uniform, buttoned up to the throat, did not admit of his placing the Persian-like gift where it would be most honoured; so he immediately drew his penknife and cut a slit in his dress in the neighbourhood of his heart, where he gracefully deposited the happy omen. Again, to announce to the Privy Council her intended union was an easy duty in comparison to that of intimating her wishes to the principal party concerned; and here, too, it is said that our Sovereign Lady displayed unusual presence of mind and female ingenuity. The Prince was expressing the grateful sense which he entertained of his reception in England, and the delight which he experienced during his stay from the kind attentions of royalty, when the Queen, very naturally and very pointedly, put to him the question upon which their future fates depended: "If, indeed, your Highness is so much pleased with this country, perhaps you would not object to remaining in it, and making it your home?" No one can doubt the reply. [Sidenote: THE BETROTHAL.] The day after the Queen's communication to her Premier, she caused an intimation to be conveyed to her lover that she desired to see him in private. The Prince at once waited upon her, and after a few minutes' general conversation, the Queen told him why she had sent for him, and modestly but plainly said that she was quite willing now to undertake the bond of betrothal. Of course, there was only one possible response, and the Prince joyously wrote the next day to his trusty friend and tried counsellor, Baron Stockmar, "on one of the happiest days of his life, to give him the most welcome news." The betrothal was at once communicated to Prince Ernest, to King Leopold, and to the Duke of Coburg. From these and other relatives to whom the news, as yet to be kept a family secret, was sent, the warmest felicitations quickly poured in. Leopold wrote, commending Albert in the highest terms, and emphatically congratulating Victoria on having secured an unmistakably good husband, concluding with the prayer, "May Albert be able to strew roses without thorns on the pathway of life of our good Victoria!" The Queen had intended to make her first formal announcement of her intended marriage to her Parliament; but on second thoughts, she altered her resolve, and selected her Privy Council as the first official recipients of the tidings. Of course, the Ministers had been already confidentially informed of the Queen's purpose; and they strongly counselled an early union, and both Queen and Prince acquiesced in the proposal. After happy and rapturous days of undoubted and now freely-acknowledged attachment, the Princes returned to Germany, on the 14th of November, after a visit lasting just five weeks; Ernest to return to his military duties, Albert to say farewell to friends and fatherland, ere finally returning to the region of his new life and love. CHAPTER XIII. THE QUEEN WEDDED. Announcement of the intended Marriage to the Privy Council and Parliament--Parliamentary Settlement of the Prince's Rank, &c.--Annoying Circumstances--The Prince's Protestantism--His Income--Arrival of the Bridegroom--Receives a National Welcome--The Wedding--Honeymoon spent at Windsor. On the day after the departure of the Princes, the Queen wrote letters to the Queen Dowager, and the other members of the Royal Family, informing them of her intended marriage, and received kind letters in return from all. A few days later she and her mother came from Windsor to Buckingham Palace, where Lord Melbourne submitted the draft of the proposed Declaration to the Privy Council. His Lordship told the Queen that the Cabinet had unanimously agreed that £50,000 would be an appropriate annual allowance for the Prince, and that they anticipated no Parliamentary opposition to that amount. He also stated that there had been a stupid attempt to make it out that he was a Roman Catholic, and that "he was afraid to say anything about his religion," and accordingly had not touched upon it in the Declaration. This turned out, as we shall see, a very unwise omission; it actually gave colour and consistency to the absurd report. [Sidenote: ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE BETROTHAL.] On the 23rd of November, eighty-three members of the Privy Council met in Buckingham Palace. Precisely at two the Queen entered. She evinced much natural agitation, but was considerably reassured by a kindly and paternal look from her staunch friend, Lord Melbourne; whereupon she read the Declaration, which ran thus:-- I have caused you to be summoned at the present time in order that I may acquaint you with my resolution in a matter which deeply concerns the welfare of my people, and the happiness of my future life. It is my intention to ally myself in marriage with the Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. Deeply impressed with the solemnity of the engagement which I am about to contract, I have not come to this decision without mature consideration, nor without feeling a strong assurance that, with the blessing of Almighty God, it will at once secure my domestic felicity and serve the interests of my country. I have thought fit to make this resolution known to you at the earliest period, in order that you may be apprised of a matter so highly important to me and to my kingdom, and which, I persuade myself, will be most acceptable to all my loving subjects. The moment the Queen had read the Declaration, Lord Lansdowne rose and asked, in the name of the Council, that "this most gracious and most welcome communication might be printed." Leave was granted, and Her Majesty left the room, the whole ceremony having occupied only two or three minutes. The Duke of Cambridge followed his niece into the ante-room, and warmly congratulated her. The Declaration appeared in the next _Gazette_, whence it was copied into all the newspapers, and was joyfully read and received over the whole land. There were now important questions to be settled, in Parliament, in the Council, and by the exercise of the Royal prerogative, as to the future rank and station of the Prince. Such were--Should he be made a peer? as had been the last consort of an English Queen, Prince George of Denmark, the husband of Queen Anne, of whom the only good thing that can be said is, that he accidentally made Arbuthnot, Pope's great friend and fellow-labourer, his Court physician. The idea of being made a peer was strenuously, sensibly, and successfully resisted by the Prince. Then there were the practical questions of his naturalisation, the selection of his Household, his position in the scale of precedence, and his income. So far as the Prince legitimately could and did meddle with the solution of these knotty points, he showed, when necessary, great sagacity, and a firmness very wondrous in one so young. From the very moment of his betrothal, he regarded himself as the custodian and guardian of his future wife's, rather than his own, independent position and unfettered dignity. It was not himself, but the husband of the Queen on behalf of whom he took a firm line. The Queen wished to give her husband precedence next after herself. Some difficulty was experienced in procuring the consent of the Royal Dukes, but at last their scruples were removed. Only the King of Hanover stubbornly held out, and the Duke of Wellington, in the House of Peers, declined on behalf of his party to consent. The proposal was, therefore, withdrawn from Parliament, but shortly after the Queen conferred a patent of precedence by the exercise of her own prerogative. On a similar matter of dispute, it was not until the Prince himself had pointed out the unaccountably overlooked precedent of the privilege as enjoyed by Prince Leopold in the life-time of the Princess Charlotte, that Garter King-at-Arms could be induced to withdraw his opinion adverse to Prince Albert quartering the Royal Arms of England with his own. In the matter of his Household, the Prince's own admirable judgment solved the difficulty with the clear adroitness of honest simplicity. He stipulated that considerations of party should have nothing to do with these appointments; that they should be filled by men of undoubted probity and purity of character; and he indicated his decided wish that they should be men of some kind of eminence; either very rich, very clever, or men who had deserved well of their country in the field of science or of arms. These wishes, to the Prince's considerable annoyance, were not all closely followed out. [Sidenote: ANNOUNCEMENT TO PARLIAMENT.] The Queen was tremendously cheered when, in January, 1840, she went to open Parliament, and no doubt was left in her mind as to the thorough popularity of the proposed union. The announcement of her intention contained in the Speech was a virtual repetition of that already made to the Council. From both sides of both Houses she was personally congratulated, and her choice approved, but the Duke of Wellington strongly objected to the omission of the statement that the Prince was a Protestant, with some shrewdness attributing its absence to Melbourne's reluctance to irritate his Irish Catholic supporters. The Duke at the same time repeated again and again his own perfect personal conviction in the thorough fidelity of the Prince to the historic and heroic Protestantism of his race. Lord Brougham spoke on this point, and very pertinently: "I may remark," he said, "that my noble friend (Lord Melbourne) is mistaken as to the law. There is no prohibition as to marriage with a Catholic. It is only attended with a penalty, and that penalty _is merely the forfeiture of the Crown_." In spite of this, a sentence asserting the fact of the Prince's Protestantism was, at the Duke of Wellington's instance, inserted in the Address agreed to in answer to the Speech from the Throne. There remained only the question of the Prince's annuity. Ministers proposed £50,000. A very large majority negatived a proposal by Mr. Hume to reduce it to £20,000. But the Tory leaders supported a proposal of Colonel Sibthorpe's to reduce it to £30,000, and by a considerable majority this was carried. The Queen, and her uncle Leopold, were extremely angry at the time at what they conceived to be the personal slight conveyed in this fact. But the Queen, under the wise and placable guidance of the Prince, afterwards learned to attribute it to the then heat of party rancour, still unallayed after the Bedchamber dispute; and the Prince at an early period of his residence in England contracted warm and abiding friendships with many of the men who had most strongly resisted Ministers on each of the above contested points. On the 28th of January, Prince Albert, accompanied by Lord Torrington and Colonel (now General) Grey, who had been sent to invest him with the insignia of the Garter and conduct him in due state to England, set out from Gotha, as we have already seen at a previous page. He was also accompanied by his father and brother. After a passing visit to King Leopold at Brussels, they were met at Calais by Lord Clarence Paget, who commanded the _Firebrand_, and escorted the distinguished visitors to the shores of England, at which they arrived on the 6th of February. After magnificent and most hearty receptions at Dover and Canterbury, they reached Buckingham Palace in the afternoon of Saturday, the 8th of February, where the Prince found his bride standing with her mother at the door, ready to be the first to meet and to greet him. Half an hour later, the Lord Chancellor administered the oath of naturalisation, and the Prince became a subject of Queen Victoria. A grand dinner to the Prince, the Ministers, and the great officers of State succeeded in the evening. The next day the Prince drove out, amid the cheers of immense crowds, to pay formal visits to all the members of the Royal Family. [Sidenote: THE WEDDING.] Monday, the 10th, was the day appointed for the wedding, which was magnificently celebrated in the Chapel Royal of St. James's Palace. On the morning of that day a larger crowd assembled in St. James's Park and its approaches than had been collected together in the metropolis since the rejoicings at the visit of the Allied Sovereigns in 1814. Not even the extreme inclemency of the weather abated either the patience or enthusiasm of the multitude. After the ladies and gentlemen of the Households of the Queen and the Prince had been driven along the Mall from the palace of residence to the palace of state, and the carriages which conveyed them had returned, the bridegroom was notified that all was in readiness for his departure. He set out, dressed as a British field-marshal, and with all the insignia of the Garter, the jewels of which had been a personal present from the Queen, having on one side his father and on the other his brother, both in military uniforms. He entered his carriage amid tremendous cheers, and the enthusiastic waving of handkerchiefs by a bevy of ladies privileged to stand in the grand lobbies of the palace, and was escorted to the chapel by a squadron of the Life Guards. On the return of the carriages which carried the Prince and his company, Her Majesty was in turn apprised that all was in readiness for her departure. She, too, was enthusiastically received, "but her eye was bent principally upon the ground." In the same carriage with the Queen rode the Duchesses of Kent and Sutherland. It was noticed as she drove along that she was extremely pale, and looked very anxious, though two or three incidents in the crowd caused her to smile. On her arrival at her palace of St. James's, the Queen was conducted to the Presence Chamber, where she remained with her maids-of-honour and trainbearers, awaiting the Lord Chamberlain's summons to the altar. Meanwhile, the colonnade within the palace, along which the bridal procession had to pass and repass, had been filled since early morn by the élite of England's rank and beauty. Each side of the way was a parterre of white robes, white relieved with blue, white and green, amber, crimson, purple, fawn, and stone colour. All wore wedding favours of lace, orange-flower blossoms, or silver bullion, some of great size, and many in most exquisite taste. Most of the gentlemen were in court dress; and the scene during the patient hours of waiting was made picturesque by the passing to and fro in various garbs of burly yeomen of the guard, armed with their massive halberts, slight-built gentlemen-at-arms, with partisans of equal slightness; elderly pages of state, and pretty pages of honour; officers of the Lord Chamberlain, and officers of the Woods and Forests; heralds all embroidery, and cuirassiers in polished steel; prelates in their rochets, and priests in their stoles, and singing boys in their surplices of virgin white. Within the chapel, in which the altar was magnificently decorated and laden with a profusion of gold plate, four state chairs were set, varying in splendour according to the rank of the destined occupants, respectively for Her Majesty, Prince Albert, the Queen Dowager, and the Duchess of Kent. The Archbishops of Canterbury and York, and the Bishop of London, having taken their places within the altar-rails, a flourish of trumpets announced the procession of the bridegroom. As the Prince passed along, the gentlemen greeted him with loud clapping of the hands, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs with at least equal enthusiasm. [Sidenote: THE BRIDESMAIDS.] In a few minutes the procession of the bride was announced by trumpets and drums. It was of six or seven times the numerical strength of the bridegroom's, and the beauty of the twelve bridesmaids, all daughters of peers of the three highest grades, was specially commended. The Duchess of Cambridge led by the hand her then child-daughter, the Princess Mary, "and the mother of so beautiful a child was certainly not to be seen without much interest." The Duchess of Kent appeared "disconsolate and distressed;" while the Duke of Sussex, who was to give away the bride, was "in excellent spirits." The Queen herself looked "anxious and excited, and paler even than usual." She was dressed in a rich white satin, trimmed with orange-flower blossoms. She wore a wreath of the same, over which was a veil of rich Honiton lace, worn so as not to conceal her face. She wore as jewels the Collar of the Order of the Garter, with a diamond necklace and earrings. The bridesmaids were the Ladies Adelaide Paget, Sarah Villiers, Frances Cowper, Elizabeth West, Mary Grimston, Eleanor Paget, Caroline Lennox, Elizabeth Howard, Ida Hay, Catherine Stanhope, Jane Bouverie, and Mary Howard. After the conclusion of the marriage rite, the Queen hastily crossed to the opposite side of the altar, and kissed the Queen Dowager, who was standing there. She then took Prince Albert's hand, and passed down the aisle. On the return to Buckingham Palace, it was observed that the Prince, still retaining the Queen's hand in his own, whether by accident or design, held it in such a way as to display the wedding-ring, which was more solid than is usual in ordinary weddings. When the Queen had been led into the palace by her husband, it was observed that her morning paleness had entirely passed off, and that she entered her own halls with an open, joyous, and slightly flushed countenance. After the wedding breakfast the young couple departed, at a quarter before four, for Windsor, amid the cheers of the undiminished multitude. Her Majesty's travelling dress was a white satin pelisse, trimmed with swansdown, with a white satin bonnet and feather. As the cortége passed rapidly up Constitution Hill, the Queen bowed in return to the cheers of her applauding subjects with much earnestness of manner. When the Queen and Prince arrived at Windsor, they found the whole town illuminated, and received a rapturous welcome from the citizens and the Eton boys, all wearing favours. [Sidenote: THE WEDDING-CAKE.] We shall conclude this chapter, which we shall not desecrate by devoting to any other deity than Hymen, by a brief description of the Queen's wedding-cake, which, fortunately for our enterprise, we have succeeded in disinterring from the contemporary records. It was described by an eye-witness as consisting of all the most exquisite compounds of all the rich things with which the most expensive cakes can be composed, mingled and mixed together with delightful harmony by the most elaborate science of the confectioner. It weighed 300 pounds, was three yards in circumference, and fourteen inches in depth. On the top was a device of Britannia blessing the bride and bridegroom, who were dressed, somewhat incongruously, in the costume of ancient Rome. At the foot of the bridegroom was the figure of a dog, intended to denote fidelity; at the feet of the Queen a pair of turtle-doves. A host of gamboling Cupids, one of them registering the marriage in a book, and bouquets of white flowers tied with true-lovers' knots, completed the decorations. CHAPTER XIV. EARLY YEARS OF MARRIED LIFE. Difficulties and Delicacy of Prince Albert's Position--Early Married Life--Studies continued--Attempts on the Queen's Life--Courage of the Queen--Birth of the Princess Royal--Parting from the Whig Ladies of the Bedchamber--Dark Days for England--Birth of the Prince of Wales--The Queen described by M. Guizot--A Dinner at Buckingham Palace--State Dinner at Windsor. The Queen was now married to the husband of her choice. "It is that," said Lord Melbourne to her, "which makes your Majesty's marriage so popular, as they know it is not for state reasons." A few months after the wedding-day, the Prince wrote to an old college associate--"I am very happy and contented." After the wedding, the young couple stayed for four days at Windsor, reading, riding, walking together, and giving small dinner parties in the evening. They then returned to Buckingham Palace, where a large crowd had collected to welcome them, and fairly commenced the common duties of their married life. At first it would appear that jealousies, in quarters which need not be specified, prevented the Prince taking his proper position as the head of his home and household. He wrote to his friend, Prince Löwenstein, in May, 1840--"I am only the husband, not the master in the house." But the common sense of the Queen, and the dignity of the Prince, soon set this matter to rights. When urged that she, as being Sovereign, must be the head of the house, she quietly rejoined that she had sworn to obey, as well as love and honour, her husband, and that she was determined to keep all her bridal troth. She communicated all foreign despatches to him, and frequently he made annotations on them, which were communicated to the Minister whose department they affected. He had often the satisfaction of discovering that the Minister, though he might say nothing on the subject, nevertheless acted upon his suggestions. His correspondence to Germany soon bore a very different tone and complexion. To use his own words, and slightly expand them, he "endeavoured to be of as much use to Victoria as possible." The Queen now, having received the approval of the Duke of Wellington, whom she consulted as a confidential friend, for the first time put her husband in his proper place, by giving him, by Royal Letters Patent, to which Parliamentary sanction is not required, rank and precedence next to herself, except in Parliament and the Privy Council. [Sidenote: EARLY MARRIED DAYS.] Frequent levées, and "dinners followed by little dances," formed the chief amusements of the young couple in the earliest stage of their married life. They went much, too, to the play, both having an especial relish for and admiration of Shakespeare. The Queen, although now a married woman, by no means neglected useful or solacing and refining studies. She took singing lessons from Lablache, and frequently sang and played with the Prince, sometimes using the piano, sometimes the organ as accompaniment. They went to Claremont, the Queen's favourite youthful haunt, to celebrate her birthday, and continued to do so, even after the purchase of Osborne, until 1848, when Claremont was given as a residence to the ex-Queen of the French. Both Queen and Prince were extremely glad to get away from the smoke and grime of London. In fact, these constituted a peculiar source of physical oppression to both; and they were always glad to retire to the rural quiet and seclusion of Claremont. [Sidenote: THE QUEEN SHOT AT.] The first alarming incident of the Queen's wedded life occurred on the 10th of June, 1840. In her first early days of maiden queenhood, she had been annoyed by madmen wanting to marry her. On more than one occasion her saddle-horse was attempted to be stopped in the Park by one of such maniacs, as she was attended by an equerry; and in two instances similar attempts were made by innocent lunatics to force their way into Windsor Castle, in each case armed with nothing more deadly than a proposal of marriage. But what we are about to narrate was a much more serious matter. There is no denying the fact, that, after the first two years of her reign, the Queen was, for a time, by no means so popular as she had been. Her ministers were eminently unpopular, and to no slight extent she shared their unpopularity. Appalling distress prevailed, and Chartism and other more dangerous forms of sedition were rife. The poor asked how so much money could be spent on the Queen's hospitable entertainments, while they were starving; and inquired how it was that the name of Lord Melbourne, who should be supposed to have work enough to do looking after the affairs of the distressed nation, should appear in the newspapers almost every day as attending some of Her Majesty's banquets. Occasionally during the summer she was received in public in silence, and once or twice, in theatres and elsewhere, disagreeable cries were heard. More than once during this and one or two succeeding years, pistol-shots were fired at her. We select one, and the first attack upon her, as a type of the others. A youth named Oxford, some seventeen or eighteen years of age, either a fool or a madman, fired two pistol-shots at her, as she and her husband were driving in a phaeton up Constitution Hill. He was at once arrested, and it being impossible to assign any conceivable cause for the act, he was declared insane, and doomed to incarceration for life. Neither the Queen nor the Prince were injured, and both showed the utmost self-possession. Perhaps the best proof of her bravery on the occasion of this outrage, as it was an unquestionable proof of her tenderness of heart, was the fact that within a minute or two after the shot of Oxford had been fired, she had the horses' heads turned towards her mother's house, that her mother should see her sound and uninjured, ere an exaggerated or indiscreetly communicated report of the occurrence could reach her. Immediately after, she drove to Hyde Park, whither she had been proceeding before the outrage occurred, to take her usual drive before dinner. An immense concourse of persons of all ranks and both sexes had assembled, and the enthusiasm of her reception almost overpowered her. Prince Albert's face, alternately pale and flushed, betrayed the strength of his emotions. They returned to Buckingham Palace attended by a most magnificent escort of the rank and beauty of London, on horseback and in carriages. A great crowd of a humbler sort was at the Palace gates to greet her, and it was said that she did not lose her composure until a flood of tears relieved her pent-up excitement in her own chamber. "God save the Queen" was demanded at all the theatres in the evening, and in the immediately succeeding days the Queen received, seated on her throne, loyal and congratulatory addresses from the Peers in their robes, and wearing all their decorations; from the Commons, from the City Corporation, and many other public bodies. Oxford was incarcerated in Bethlehem Hospital, one of the great metropolitan lunatic asylums, in which he remained many years, and of which he was made one of the chief "sights" by its visitors. Perhaps it was this circumstance that induced the authorities to order his removal to Broadmoor, the state prison in which persons charged with felonious crimes, whose lunacy has been established, have within recent years been confined. There he remained until the commencement of the winter months of 1867. During all the weary period which intervened between the perpetration of his offence and that date his conduct was exemplary, and no evidence of mental aberration appeared. At various times appeals were made in his behalf by influential persons who had the opportunity of watching his demeanour and judging his character. His own representation from first to last ever was that the pistol which he fired was not loaded. He attributed the act which so nearly cost him his life and which wasted the best years of his existence, to inordinate vanity, fostered by a variety of trivial circumstances in his domestic life, on which it is not necessary to dwell, and which led to a senseless desire--similar to that which has perpetuated the name of Erostratus, the incendiary who fired the Temple of Diana at Ephesus--to gain notoriety by whatever means. To a certain extent he educated himself during his confinement, and became a tolerable linguist. He also taught himself that branch of the house-painter's trade termed "graining," sufficiently well to enable him to earn a decent livelihood. At last, late in 1867, he received a free pardon and release, subject only to the very proper provision that he should expatriate himself and never return to British shores. The same mania, or silly senselessness, might break out again, and it is manifestly right that the person of the Sovereign should be protected from the vanity of a man who, at however distant a period, could commit the cowardly outrage of which he was the author. When, a year or two later, the Queen was again providentially saved from similar felonious attempts, their character being of the same nature as that of Oxford's, a strong feeling animated the general public mind that some special deterrent should be devised to prevent or reduce the likelihood of such maniacal or quasi-maniacal deeds. An Act of Parliament was accordingly passed, ere the close of the Session of 1843, by which severe flogging was imposed as part punishment in all such cases. It had the desired effect. From the period of its enactment until now, attempts to take the Queen's life, and minor assaults upon her person, have been almost entirely unknown. [Sidenote: BIRTH OF THE PRINCESS ROYAL.] On the afternoon of the 21st of November, the country was gladdened by the birth of the Queen's first-born, the Princess Royal, now Crown Princess of Prussia. The event occurred considerably before the period anticipated by the Queen's medical and other attendants, and preparations had to be made in a hurry. Nevertheless, the Queen soon regained her accustomed health, and so rapidly that we find it recorded that on the day before that appointed for the christening, she and a lady of the Court, exercising their strength and preserving their presence of mind, rescued the Prince from a most perilous if not fatal position. He had been skating, accompanied only by the Queen and one Lady-in-waiting, and had fallen through the ice in such a position that he could not possibly have extricated himself. Two days after the Princess was born, Mr. Selwyn, a gentleman with whom Prince Albert was reading English law and constitutional history, came to give his pupil his accustomed lesson. The Prince said to him, "I fear I cannot read any law to-day, there are so many constantly coming to congratulate; but you will like to see the little Princess." He took his tutor into the nursery, as he found that the child was asleep. Taking her hand, he said, "The next time we read, it must be on the rights and duties of a Princess Royal." In 1841 Lord Melbourne was no longer Prime Minister. Sir Robert Peel, who had gained the largest Parliamentary majority which had been known for many years, reigned in his stead. The Queen made no difficulty about the Ladies of the Household now. Her tastes and feelings were consulted with great delicacy and consideration by the Premier, and the selection of the Duchess of Buccleuch in the first instance as Mistress of the Robes, which post may be termed the female Premiership of the Household, was especially gratifying to Her Majesty. But her heart was, nevertheless, loth to part with the constant female companions of the first four years of her reign. Thursday, September the 2nd, was the last evening she spent with them. At the dinner-table she could scarcely trust herself to speak, and she is reported to have shed bitter tears when she retired with her ladies. Everybody pitied the young Sovereign, and saw and felt the hardship involved. But it was an inevitable accompaniment of her high position. [Sidenote: BIRTH OF THE PRINCE OF WALES.] The heir to the throne adorned by Queen Victoria was born in the midst of one of the very darkest periods of English history. In 1841 the condition of the people had been declining from the beginning of the year. Operatives were on half time--at last they had no work at all--and the few who had had the means or the will to be provident, were living on their savings. Public meetings were being held to consider what was to be done, and public subscriptions were opened. Then the idle hands commenced to meet in large numbers, with a sullen look of despair, waiting for death or alms--a comparatively small number being employed at the expense of municipal and other recognised bodies, in road making or road mending. Crime, which follows pauperism as surely and almost as rapidly as the obscene vulture pounces upon the carrion which is not yet cold, was rife; murders came in multitudes, poisonings by wholesale; murders by trades unionists, murders by thieves. It was when this dark cloud lowered over England--a cloud never completely dispelled until the rise of the great and glorious Free Trade sun, five years later--that the Prince of Wales first breathed. A _London Gazette_ extraordinary, which appeared on Tuesday evening, November the 9th, ran as follows:-- Buckingham Palace, Nov. 9th. This morning, at twelve minutes before eleven o'clock, the Queen was happily delivered of a Prince, His Royal Highness Prince Albert, Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent, several Lords of Her Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council, and the Ladies of Her Majesty's Bedchamber, being present. This great and important news was immediately made known to the town by the firing of the Tower and Park guns; and the Privy Council being assembled as soon as possible thereupon, at the Council Chamber, Whitehall, it was ordered that a Form of Thanksgiving be prepared by His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, to be used in all churches and chapels throughout England and Wales and the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, on Sunday, the 14th of November, or the Sunday after the respective ministers shall receive the same. Her Majesty and the infant Prince are, God be praised, both doing well. The joy of the nation at the succession to the crown in the progeny of the Queen and Prince Albert being thus secured, was excessive. Upon the announcement of the happy accouchement, the nobility and gentry crowded to the Palace to tender their dutiful inquiries as to the Sovereign's convalescence. Amongst others, came the Lord Mayor and civic dignitaries in great state. They felt peculiarly proud that the Prince should have been born on Lord Mayor's day; in fact, just at the very moment when the time-honoured procession was starting from the City for Westminster. In memory of the happy coincidence, the Lord Mayor of the year, Mr. Pirie, was created Sir John Pirie, Baronet. On the 4th of December, the Queen created her son by Letters Patent, Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester:--"And him, our said and most dear son, the Prince of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, as has been accustomed, we do ennoble and invest with the said Principality and Earldom, by girding him with a sword, by putting a coronet on his head, and a gold ring on his finger, and also by delivering a gold rod into his hand, that he may preside there, and direct and defend those parts." By the fact of his birth as Heir-Apparent, the Prince indefeasibly inherited, without the necessity of patent or creation, these dignities--the titles of Duke of Saxony, by right of his father; and, by right of his mother, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothsay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, and Great Steward of Scotland. [Sidenote: AN EMBASSY FROM FRANCE.] In the early spring of 1840, the distinguished French statesman, M. Guizot, came over to England, being sent hither by the French Premier, Marshal Soult, on a special mission with reference to those complications in the East, which culminated the following year in that war between the Sultan Mahmoud and his vassal Mehemet Ali, in which British tars under Stopford and "Charley Napier" played so conspicuous a part. His pacific mission was a failure, and from its failure dates, first the loosening, and then the severance, of the close relations which subsisted for eleven years after 1830 between the Courts of St. James's and the Tuileries. King Louis Philippe had conveyed to M. Guizot his desire that he should take the first opportunity of recalling to the Queen the intimacy which he had maintained with her father, the Duke of Kent; and Guizot resolved to remind Her Majesty of the circumstance when he was received by her on presenting his letters of credence. He prudently, however, asked Lord Palmerston, on whom, as Foreign Secretary, devolved the duty of presenting him, whether such a communication would be agreeable. Lord Palmerston instantly replied in the negative. He stated that the reception would be a purely official formality, and gave him to understand that the Queen would much prefer not having to reply to any speech. He therefore determined to abstain from making one. On the last day of February, he received a note at ten minutes past one from Lord Palmerston, stating that the Queen would be glad to receive him that day at one o'clock. Guizot immediately sent to Palmerston "to explain the delay, and his own innocence." He then dressed with all speed, and reached Buckingham Palace a little before two. Precisely at the moment of his arrival, Lord Palmerston's carriage also drove up. He told Guizot that the Queen's orders had been forwarded to him (Palmerston) too late. Luckily, the Queen had other audiences to give, which occupied her fully until the appearance of the two astute and rival diplomats. But another difficulty arose. There was no Master of Ceremonies at hand to introduce him. Sir Robert Chester, who held that post, had received his summons, as tardily as that which had been sent to Lord Palmerston. That gentleman had not hastened his movements so rapidly as the active Frenchman. Although a breach of form, Lord Palmerston, therefore, undertook and performed the office of Sir Robert. The Queen received Guizot "with a gracious manner at once youthful and serious." He remarked that the dignity of her manner caused one to forget the smallness of her stature. On entering, he said, "I trust, Madam, that your Majesty is aware of my excuse, for of myself [that is, if the blame of unpunctuality rested with me] I should be inexcusable." She smiled in return, as if little surprised at, and quite used to, the want of punctuality. After all, in spite of Lord Palmerston's instructions to him, the Queen did grant him, in the strict and literal sense of the term, an audience. Though short, it was long enough to enable the Queen to chat with him, and inquire about his Sovereign, his consort, and their family. The Queen, of course, was warmly interested about the Orleans family, for one of the daughters of its head was the second wife of her uncle, King Leopold, and, therefore, her matrimonial aunt. So that Guizot _did_ find and embrace the opportunity of reminding the Queen of the intimacy between his royal master and her father. [Sidenote: M. GUIZOT AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE.] As he was retiring, Lord Palmerston, who remained a moment or two with the Queen, after she had bid M. Guizot adieu, said hastily to him, "There is something more; I am going to introduce you to Prince Albert and the Duchess of Kent; you could not otherwise be presented to them, except at the next levée, on the 6th of March, but it is necessary, on the contrary, that on that day you should be already old friends." These further presentations were, accordingly, made; Guizot being struck with the political intelligence which the conversation of the Prince, in spite of his constitutional reserve, displayed. Guizot left the palace greatly pleased with his reception. As he passed through the hall, he saw the Master of Ceremonies in hot haste descending from his carriage, and "anxious to apologise to him, with temper somewhat ruffled, for his involuntary uselessness." An invitation to dinner at Buckingham Palace for five days after quickly reached him at his residence, Hertford House. He remarked on the want of animation and interest in the conversation, whether at the dinner-table or in the drawing-room. Politics of any kind, home or foreign, were, apparently to his surprise, strictly avoided. When the gentlemen joined the ladies, which, throughout the Queen's reign, has been at a very short interval after the departure of the latter from the dining-room, they all sat on chairs round a circular table set before the Queen, who occupied a sofa. Two or three of her ladies engaged themselves in fancy work; Prince Albert challenged some one to a game at chess. Lady Palmerston and M. Guizot, "with some effort," carried on a flagging dialogue. The conversation being thus flat, M. Guizot took to looking at the pictures on the walls, of which there were but three, hung over the different doors of the apartment. He was very much astonished at the extraordinary contrasts in the subjects of these pictures. They certainly were most incongruous. One was Fénélon, the second the Czar Peter, and the third Anne Hyde, the discarded wife of James II. He asked one of his fellow-guests whether the combination was intentional or an accident? But he could get no satisfaction on the subject. No one had remarked the combination, and no one could tell the reason for it. At the levée which he attended the day following, he was still more astounded and perplexed. He thought its presentations and other paraphernalia "a long and monotonous ceremony." Yet it inspired this keen and philosophic student of men and manners with "real interest." We shall allow M. Guizot, ere we finally leave his companionship, to express his views on this peculiarly English institution in his own words:--"I regarded with excited esteem the profound respect of that vast assembly--courtiers, citizens, lawyers, churchmen, officers, military and naval, passing before the Queen, the greater portion bending the knee to kiss her hand, all perfectly solemn, sincere, and awkward. The sincerity and seriousness were both needed to prevent those antiquated habits, wigs, and bags, those costumes which no one in England now wears except on such occasions, from appearing somewhat ridiculous. But I am little sensible to the outward appearance of absurdity when the substance partakes not of that character." [Sidenote: FANCY BALL AT COURT.] As a companion picture of the Queen at home at this epoch of her reign, for the lineaments of which we have acknowledged our indebtedness to M. Guizot, we present these recollections of the Queen in her young married days, which we condense from a gossiping work by Lord William Lennox. The Queen had a splendid new ballroom built in Buckingham Palace, and nothing could exceed the brilliancy of the entertainments which she gave there. To one of these, in 1842, Lord Lennox received an invitation. It was a _bal costumé_, the first, he believed, which had ever been given in England by a Prince of the House of Brunswick. A second ball, in which, unlike the former, the dresses were confined to the reigns of George II. and III., was given in the same year. All had to appear in powder--a somewhat trying ordeal to such ladies and gentlemen as did not possess fine features. [Sidenote: A STATE BANQUET AT WINDSOR.] Somewhat about the same time, Lord Lennox dined at Windsor Castle, at the great banquet given on the Ascot Cup day. A magnificent déjeuner had been served for luncheon on the course in Tippoo Sahib's tent. At the dinner in the evening, the first thing which struck one who was a guest for the first time on such an occasion, was the exact punctuality of the Queen and Prince. Although necessarily fatigued with the bustle and excitement of the day, they were in the drawing-room some minutes before the dinner was announced, and after a courteous greeting to all the guests, proceeded at once to dinner. Another observable peculiarity was that the Prince left the table twenty minutes after the ladies. The banqueting-room on this great occasion was St. George's Hall, splendid with its ceiling emblazoned with the arms of the Knights of the Garter from the institution of the order, and the portraits of our kings from James I. to George IV. At each end of the hall, buffets, seventeen feet high and forty broad, were set. They were of rich fretted Gothic framework, covered with crimson cloth, and brilliant with massive gold plate. Immediately opposite the Queen was set a pyramid of plate, its apex being the tiger's head captured at Seringapatam, and comprising the "Iluma" of precious stones which Lord Wellesley, the Governor-General of India, presented to George IV. The table, which was laid for a hundred guests, extended the whole length of the hall. All down the centre, epergnes, vases, cups, and candelabra were ranged, the celebrated St. George's candelabrum being opposite Her Majesty. The hall was splendidly illuminated, and two bands of the Guards discoursed sweet music from a balcony. The Yeomen of the Guard stood on duty at the entrance. The repast, which did ample justice to the merits of the Queen's renowned _cuisiniér_, Francatelli, was entirely served in gold plate, and the attendance was so faultless that there was less bustle and confusion than usually attend a repast shared by a party of ten or a dozen. At a quarter to nine grace was said; and after the dessert and wine had been placed on the table, the Lord Steward rose and proposed, without remark, "The Queen." The Queen simply, when the toast had been drunk, bowed her acknowledgments. After a brief pause, the health of Prince Albert was drunk standing, as the Queen's had been, the band playing the "Coburg March." At half-past nine the Queen rose, and, accompanied by the Duchess of Kent, was followed by all the ladies to the drawing-room. In about twenty minutes all the gentlemen followed. The Waterloo Chamber was thrown open, and its rich historical and pictorial treasures were keenly inspected by groups of the guests. Amongst others of its chief ornaments, attention was concentrated on the swords of the Pretenders James and Charles, Prince Rupert's coat of mail, and the magnificent shield, by Cellini, presented by Francis I. to King Henry VIII., at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. But the great treat of the evening was the appearance of Madame Rachel, who, with two or three French actors, gave _morceaux_ from her principal impersonations. The success of her performance was the more conspicuous that it was entirely unaided by scenery, dress, or other histrionic accompaniment. A little before twelve the Queen, after addressing with the utmost grace some words of courteous appreciation to the great _tragedienne_, and bowing to the assembled guests, retired, leaning on her husband's arm. CHAPTER XV. THE QUEEN IN SCOTLAND. Christening of the Prince of Wales--Manufacturing Distress--Queen's Efforts to alleviate it--Assesses Herself to the Income Tax--Resolves to Visit Scotland--Embarks at Woolwich--Beacon Fires in the Firth of Forth--Landing on Scottish Soil--A Disappointment--Formal Entry into Edinburgh--Richness of Historical and Ancestral Associations--The Queen on the Castle Rock--A Highland Welcome--Departure from Scotland. The Session of 1842 was opened by the Queen in person with unusual splendour, which was enhanced by the presence of the King of Prussia, who had come over to stand sponsor to the Prince of Wales. The christening was performed on the 25th of January, and was attended with all due magnificence, and succeeded by a splendid banquet. Mr. Raikes, in his amusing, valuable journal, thus records the event:-- _Tuesday, 25th._--The day of the Royal christening at Windsor. The Prince of Wales is named Albert Edward. All who have been there say that the scene was very magnificent, and the display of plate at the banquet superb. After the ceremony a silver-embossed vessel containing a whole hogshead of mulled claret was introduced, and served in bucketfuls to the company, who drank the young Prince's health. Very few ladies were invited. [Sidenote: NATIONAL DISTRESS AND ROYAL SYMPATHY.] The Queen's speech of this year noticed with deep regret the continued distress in the manufacturing districts of the country, and bore testimony to the exemplary patience and fortitude with which it had been borne. Many people began once more to murmur at the continued flow of gaiety at Windsor where the young parents still seemed to experience the first thrills of transport at the birth of a son and heir. Some of the lowest class of seditious newspapers began the practice of printing in parallel columns the description of the fancy dresses at the Queen's balls (the purchase and preparation of which must certainly have tended to alleviate the distress), &c., and reports from the pauperised districts, records of deaths from starvation, and the like. Among the unthinking classes such disloyal practices produced a very deep feeling of dissatisfaction. In the course of the year two attempts were reported as having been made upon the Queen's life: one, however, being merely the freak of an ill-natured boy, but the other was of a much more serious description, and cost its author transportation for life. Sir Robert Peel felt it his duty to discharge the part of a faithful Minister, and to counsel his Royal mistress to lessen the gaieties of the Court, even if it were only in deference to the prejudices of the starving and maddened poor. He neither roused nor augmented her fears, but gave her the counsel which the time required. The Queen at once acted, and without taking offence, upon the Minister's advice. At the christening of the Prince of Wales all the ladies of the Court appeared in Paisley shawls, English lace, and other articles of home manufacture. And when the christening was over a marked sobriety settled down over the Court, and continued during all the summer of 1842. Even the most querulous speedily granted that they had no reason to complain. This change in the sentiments of the public, especially its lower and more distressed portions, was promoted and accelerated by an act, equally tasteful and touching, of Her Majesty during this year. In the spring of 1842, Sir Robert Peel, now thoroughly warm in his seat as Premier, commanding a large working majority, and not yet having awakened the hostility of the decidedly Protectionist section of his followers, inaugurated that splendid series of bravely devised measures in the direction of Free Trade, of which the great Anti-Corn Law Act of four years later was, so far as he was concerned, the culmination. In 1842, Peel proposed and carried a Budget which considerably lessened the burden of Customs imposts, but the chief merit and recommendation of which consisted in the fact that it relieved the nation of the incubus of a host of very galling excise duties on such articles of common use as glass, leather, bricks, and soap. These beneficial remissions of taxation could not have been effected by him--for they entailed a heavy cost upon the revenue, already inadequate to meet the annual expenditure--but for the re-imposition of an Income Tax, a means of raising revenue which had been long disused, to the extent of sevenpence in the pound on all incomes above £150 of annual value. This, of course, did not affect the allowance made to the Sovereign. Nevertheless, Her Majesty evinced her sympathy at once with the prevailing distress and with the daring fiscal expedient of the Premier, by coming forward unsolicited to offer to receive an abatement of her income, based upon the precise scale of that imposed by Parliament upon her subjects. Up to the Queen's reign, the members of the House of Brunswick had never been peripatetic in their tendencies. The first two Georges had made frequent visits to their patrimonial German electorate, but they evinced no desire to visit England beyond the immediate environs of London. George III. never passed out of England; George IV. visited Ireland and Scotland each on one occasion; but with these exceptions, hardly any British highways were traversed by his wheels during his reign, whether as Sovereign Regent or Regnant, except the great roads connecting his capital with Windsor, Brighton, and Newmarket. William IV. was too old when he came to the throne to make it at all probable that he would evince any taste to visit any of the outlying portions of his dominions; nor did he do so. Queen Victoria, as we have copiously seen in earlier chapters, was from her very infancy habituated to moving about from place to place, and all along she has proved herself as proud as Queen Elizabeth herself of mingling with and showing herself to her people. [Sidenote: FIRST VISIT TO SCOTLAND.] For some time the Queen was understood to have contemplated a journey to the land of those Stuart ancestors by virtue of whose Tudor blood they, and the Brunswick line through them, and she through it, inherited the British crown. In the autumn of this year all seemed propitious for the journey, and it was undertaken accordingly by herself and her young husband. Their first destination was the Scottish capital, and as the railway system connecting the southern and northern extremities of the island was yet far from complete, the journey was made by water from the Thames to the Forth, the port of embarkation being Woolwich, and of debarkation, Granton, a minor harbour in the immediate neighbourhood of Edinburgh. The expected visit was awaited and prepared for in the North with the utmost eagerness of expectancy. Half Scotland seemed to have emptied itself into the metropolis to do her honour. In their preparations, burgher vied with noble, tartan-clad Highlanders with Lowlanders in their more sombre blue bonnets and hodden grey. On the 29th of August, the Queen left Windsor, and proceeded to Woolwich, where she embarked amid the acclamations of her metropolitan and Kentish subjects at an early hour of the same day. In a Royal yacht, towed by a steam ship of war, the voyage was safely effected in the fine weather and on the placid wave of early autumn. In due time the Royal squadron arrived off Dunbar, which, with the Bass Rock and Tantallon Castle, form together a fine _coup-d'oeil_ of romantic coast scenery and middle age antiquity, at the mouth of the Firth of Forth. Here it was met by large steamers filled by welcomers from Edinburgh and its neighbourhood, who greeted their illustrious visitors with loud huzzahs, and the strains of that National Anthem, which, though of English birth, was chaunted right lustily by Scottish lungs and lips. It was observed that Her Majesty, who came on board and acknowledged the vivas of her subjects, had paid the Scots the compliment of enveloping herself in a Paisley shawl; and when, a day or two later, she made her formal entry past the church sanctified by the preaching of John Knox, to the Castle, in a narrow chamber of which her unfortunate ancestor Queen Mary bore her son King James, she wore, with even more conspicuously appropriate taste, a shawl of Stuart tartan. [Sidenote: LANDING ON SCOTTISH SOIL.] As she passed up the Firth, under cover of the gathering night, every peak on either side of the estuary, from St. Abb's Head, which she had left behind, away westwards to the Pentlands, the Lomonds, and the Ochils, was surmounted by a blazing beacon--a splendid sight, and stimulative by contrast to the imaginations of those who recollected to what different uses beacon-fires on Scottish hills and Scottish Border Keeps had been put in earlier days of the international relations of England and Scotland. The fiery welcome was returned from the Royal yacht, by the letting off of rockets, and the burning of blue lights. At last the squadron came in sight in the roads before Leith, the anchor being let down--"a welcome sound," wrote the Queen--at a quarter to one o'clock on the morning of Thursday, September the 1st. Every one of the heights on or under the domination of which Edinburgh stands, had been crowded all the previous day with tens of thousands of spectators. All at once two guns from the castle, and a signal flag hoisted from the summit of Nelson's column, some 400 feet above the level of the sea, announced the arrival. The Queen slept and rested herself after the fatigues of her voyage on board the Royal yacht; and she took her good but inalert subjects by surprise, by effecting her landing at an hour so early on the succeeding morning, that many of them, wearied by their recent vigils, had not yet left their couches, and even the corporate dignitaries were subject to the mortification of not having the honour to receive and welcome their Queen as her foot first touched Scottish soil. In their absence, that pleasurable duty was discharged by Sir Robert Peel, and the Duke of Buccleuch, whose guest she was about to be at his palace of Dalkeith, and who had ridden immediately after her carriage, as Captain-General of her body-guard of Scottish Archers, on the day on which she was crowned queen at Westminster. Sir Robert Peel told the Queen that the people were all in the highest glee and good humour, though a little disappointed at the non-arrival of the squadron the day before, as had been expected. With the extraordinarily auspicious fatality which has made "Queen's weather" so trite and proverbial an expression, the sun splendidly burst forth at the moment of her landing, and continued to shine throughout her progress through a portion of the New Town of Edinburgh; its bright freestone streets and terraces sparkling in the clear, sunlit air--past her ancient Palace of Holyrood, and so through fertile Lothian to the mansion of the princely head of the old Border House of the Scotts. When the customary ensign was hauled down from the top of the rugged Castle Rock, and the Royal Standard was hoisted in its place, the streets at once filled, and the loyal shouts of the crowds, who hastily assembled in no small force, sufficiently atoned for the absence of those whom the somewhat unexpected arrival balked for this one day of the delight of expressing their devotion. [Sidenote: FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF SCOTLAND.] The impression which her first view of Edinburgh made upon the Queen was very striking and most favourable. She thought it "beautiful, totally unlike anything else she had seen." Even Prince Albert, a great traveller while yet in his teens, and who had visited very many great and renowned cities, also said it was unlike anything which he had witnessed. The massive stone buildings, with not a solitary brick used in their construction; the great dorsal fin of the High Street; the magnificent situation of the Castle; the Calton Hill, guarded by mediæval battlements and crowned by Choragic temples, with the noble back-ground of Arthur's Seat overtopping the whole, together impressed the youthful tourists as "forming altogether a splendid spectacle." As the carriages drove through the city, the Earl of Wemyss, who marched by the Queen's side in his green uniform of a Scottish Archer of the Guard, pointed out to Her Majesty the varied objects of interest on the line of route through the eastern portions of the city to the Duke of Buccleuch's palace of Dalkeith. When they got into the open country, she was further astonished to find that not only all the cottages, but even the fences dividing field from field, were also built of stone. The peasants by the wayside were equally objects of curiosity and interest, as they had "quite a different character from England and the English." The close caps--_Scottice_, "mutches"--of the old women, and the long, flowing hair, frequently red, of the handsome girls and children, were equal novelties to the royal "Southrons." The Prince was struck with the resemblance of the country people to Germans. Other Scottish specialties appeared at the breakfast-table at Dalkeith, in the form of oatmeal porridge and "Finnan Haddies"--the first of which, at least, found immediate favour with Her Majesty. The grand ceremonial of entering the ancient city in state was reserved for the Saturday after the arrival; the interval having been devoted by the royal party to quiet and repose in the magnificent domain of Buccleuch, and drives to objects of interest in its neighbourhood. The line of the cavalcade, on this red-letter day, was up the steep ascent of the Canongate, High Street, and Lawnmarket, from the Palace of Holyrood (which the Queen rightly pronounced "a royal-looking old place") to the Castle which the Black Douglas scaled, where George Buchanan's pedantic Stuart pupil was born, and from the parapets of which various and shifting prospects are to be descried, which may be equalled, but cannot be surpassed, in any portion of Her Majesty's dominions. [Sidenote: THE QUEEN IN EDINBURGH CASTLE.] It was indeed historic ground along which the Queen passed this day. Every one of the stupendous houses of eight, ten, or even more stories, which formed a mighty avenue of stone on either side of the ancient causeway along which the steeds which drew her carriage slowly and deliberately proceeded, had some tale of long gone days to tell, many of them being most intimately associated with the fortunes of her Stuart ancestors. On her way she passed the site of that tower in which Darnley, her ancestor, was blown into eternity. Ere she left her Palace of Holyrood and the adjacent ruins of the abbey which was erected by that Scottish king who built and endowed so many abbeys that his subjects piteously exclaimed that he was a "saur saunt for the Croon," she may have seen the blood-stains of Rizzio, and the somewhat mythical portraits of the Kings of the Houses of Kenneth, Bruce, and the Stuarts. On one side of her was the old mansion of the Regent Moray, on the other the spot where, for the first and only time, the boy Francis Jeffrey set eyes upon Robert Burns. Here was the ancient oaken hall where the Scottish Parliament sate, there the office of that Scottish journal of which Daniel Defoe, the staunch and loyal friend of William III., was the first editor. Here was the house in which John Knox lived and died, there the church in which he preached with such fervour for that Protestant faith, with the establishment of which in Europe both lines of her ancestors were so intimately identified. And when she arrived on the esplanade of the Castle itself, she could look across the Forth on the one side to the minor mountain which casts its morning shadow into Loch Leven, from her captivity on an islet of which Scottish Catholic gentlemen so gallantly rescued her Stuart ancestress; while immediately beneath her lay the Grassmarket--at once the Tower and the Smithfield of Scotland--where Montrose and Argyll expiated respectively their loyalty to the Stuart race, and to freedom of soul and speech. As the cortège passed up the streets along which Prince Charlie had passed when he held court at Holyrood just ninety-seven years before, as she received at the site of the old Tolbooth the keys of the city from the Lord Provost, bending the knee beside his fellow-burghers, clad in the old costumes of the Trades, and close beside a guard of honour of Highlanders headed by the present Duke of Argyll; or as she stood surveying from the topmost battery of the citadel her fair ancestral domains of Lothian and Fife, and the distant mountains which tower o'er Loch Lomond and the Trossachs, some such proud and pathetic recollections as these must have occupied and touched the heart of the youngest and the mightiest monarch in Europe. Their closer acquaintance with Edinburgh increased the mingled amazement and delight of the Queen and Prince. Prince Albert pronounced the view of it from the margin of the Firth of Forth as "fairy-like," "what you would imagine as a thing to dream of, or to see in a picture." He said he felt sure the Acropolis could not be finer, and the Queen at once recognised the appropriateness of the idealised metamorphosis of "Auld Reekie" (_Anglice_, "Old Smoky") into "the Modern Athens." The Leith ticket-porters, mounted on flower-decked horses, with broad, ribbon-decorated Kilmarnock bonnets, and the pretty Newhaven fishwives, with their clear, peachy complexions and Danish costumes, were objects of peculiar interest. [Sidenote: THE QUEEN IN THE HIGHLANDS.] Space fails us to enter into details of the further incidents of this, the Queen's first visit to her Scottish dominion. Enough to say that she received in the Highlands, where she visited in succession not a few of her oldest nobles of Gaelic and Norman descent, receptions as rapturous as that which she experienced in the Modern Athens. The welcome, if it could not be more hearty, was at least attended with more picturesque accessories in the romantic region where the dialect and the "garb of Old Gael" still to a large extent prevail. At Dupplin Castle, at Scone Palace, where her ancestors were crowned, at Blair Athole, at Taymouth, and at Drummond Castle, she was entertained with equal splendour, and with the true and special elements of "Highland Welcome." She may be almost said to have passed through a continuous succession of triumphal arches. Every chieftain brought out all his available clansmen, all in kilts, claymores, and Glengarry bonnets, to act as guards of honour. Balls, in which the national dances, performed by the best born cadets of the noble houses of whom she was the guest, constituted the chief feature, alternated with deer-stalking, for the especial behoof of the Prince; processions of boats on the lake through which rolls the Tay, a river only less rapid than the Spey; and visits to places of historic interest or romantic beauty. The Queen was especially charmed with the beautiful situation of the ancient city of Perth, and the enthusiastic reception which the multitudes there assembled gave to her. Prince Albert, too, was delighted, and likened the appearance of the place to Basle. At Scone Palace, which is within two miles of Perth, a very natural object of peculiar interest was the mound on which all the Scottish kings had been crowned. At Dunkeld the Highlands were fairly entered; and here the Royal party were met and escorted by a guard of Athole Highlanders, armed with halberts, and headed by a piper. One of them danced the sword dance, with which the travellers were greatly amused, and others of them figured in a reel. The longest sojourn made in the Highlands was at Taymouth, the seat of the Marquis of Breadalbane. The scenery here again revived recollections of Switzerland in the memory of Prince Albert, who was particularly prone, in this and subsequent visits to the North, to trace resemblances between its scenery and localities which he had visited in the tours of his bachelor days. The reception at Taymouth was magnificent, and quite captivated the illustrious guests. The Queen wrote in her journal-- The _coup d'oeil_ was indescribable. There were a number of Lord Breadalbane's Highlanders, all in the Campbell tartan, drawn up in front of the house, with Lord Breadalbane himself in a Highland dress at their head; a few of Sir Niel Menzies' men (in the Menzies red and white tartan), a number of pipers playing, and a company of the 92nd Highlanders, also in kilts. The firing of the guns, the cheering of the great crowd, the picturesqueness of the dresses, the beauty of the surrounding country, with its rich back-ground of wooded hills, altogether formed one of the finest scenes imaginable. It seemed as if a great chieftain in olden feudal times was receiving his Sovereign. It was princely and romantic. Wherever the Queen rambled during her stay by the shores of Loch Tay, she was guarded by two Highlanders, and it recalled to her mind "olden times, to see them with their swords drawn." Walking one day with the Duchess of Norfolk, the Queen and her noble companion met "a fat, good-humoured little woman." She cut some flowers for the ladies, and the Duchess handed to her some money, saying, "From Her Majesty." The poor woman was perfectly astounded, but, recovering her wits, came up to the Queen, and said naïvely that "her people were delighted to see the Queen in Scotland." Wherever the royal visitors were, or went, the inevitable strains of the bagpipes were heard. They played before the Castle at frequent intervals throughout the day, from breakfast till dinner-time, and invariably when they went in or out of doors. When rowed in boats on the lake, two pipers sat in the bows and played; and the Queen, who had grown "quite fond" of the bagpipes, was reminded of the lines of Scott, with whose poems she had, from an early age, possessed the most intimate familiarity:-- "See the proud pipers in the bow, And mark the gaudy streamers flow From their loud chambers down, and sweep The furrow'd bosom of the deep, As, rushing through the lake amain, They plied the ancient Highland strain." [Sidenote: DEPARTURE FROM SCOTLAND.] On the 13th of September the return journey from the Highlands by Stirling, the ancient Castle of which was visited, to Dalkeith Palace, had been completed. Two days later the Queen and Prince re-embarked at Granton, _en route_ for Woolwich and Windsor. Although a by no means excessive quantity of time--but a fortnight--was consumed in the tour, some idea of the rapidity with which distances were traversed, and the extent of ground covered, may be gathered from the fact that no fewer than 656 post-horses were employed. The Queen touched the hearts of the Highlanders--among whom Jacobitism remained, not as an element of personal devotion to a fallen house, but not the less as a deep chord of pathos and poetry--by commanding a Scottish vocalist, at a concert given in her honour at Blair Athole, to sing two of the most beloved of Jacobite songs--"Cam' ye by Athole," and "Wae's me for Prince Charlie." When she once more embarked at Granton on her homeward route, she left memories of pleasure and affection which far exceeded the intensely ardent excitement which had preceded and greeted her landing. On the last day which she spent in Scotland, the Queen wrote in her journal--"This is our last day in Scotland; it is really a delightful country, and I am very sorry to leave it." And the day after, watching its vanishing coast--"As the fair shores of Scotland receded more and more from our view, we felt quite sad that this very pleasant and interesting tour was over; but we shall never forget it." CHAPTER XVI. WHAT ENGLAND OWES TO PRINCE ALBERT. The Prince's Study of our Laws and Constitution--Two Misconceptions Outlived--His Versatility--First Speech an Anti-Slavery One--His Appreciation and Judicious Criticism of Art--Scientific Side of his Mind--As an Agriculturist. It will not be undesirable at this stage of our narrative to interpose a summary compendium of some indications of the manner in which Prince Albert, or the "Prince Consort," as he was designated by Royal Letters Patent, after 1857, discharged the high, onerous, and important duties to which his position called him. If the conduct and career of a husband be an integral and large part of a woman's life, it is tenfold more so in the case of a woman who is also a queen, and especially a queen-regnant in and by her own right. The large and enlarging breadth of mind which the Prince soon began to display; the abundant tenderness of heart, which found at once indication and exercise in the admirable and diverse modes in which he advanced all agencies of public utility and associated benevolence; the excellent mode in which, equally as a father and a husband, he evinced the warm glow of domestic virtue which animated his bosom, and the absolute and much-wanted scientific and artistic lessons which he taught more than any other man, during his life in England, to the somewhat uncouth people of whom he became a part--all these, and other elements of character and conduct, indirectly increased the growing esteem in which the Queen was held, on her own merits, by her people; for we might have had to look forward to a different national future, so far as a national future can be moulded in the sense of either making or marring, had the "father of our future kings" been other and lesser than what he was. Such a man as the Prince Consort must necessarily have wielded a very large and weighty influence upon the character of the royal lady whom he married. The history of her life, therefore, even if it were traced within narrower limits than those within whose compression our task must be discharged, would be insufficiently delineated without the introduction of such episodical but most relevant matter as that to which this chapter is briefly dedicated. Almost the first task which the Prince Consort undertook when he came amongst us was to set himself to an assiduous study of our laws and institutions. He secured the services of a most competent instructor in themes so important to one who stood so near the throne, in the person of the late Mr. William Selwyn, Q.C. Mr. Selwyn was a sound jurist, and under his guidance the Prince read such works as Blackstone, De Lolme, Hallam, Bentham, and Mill. He proved himself an apt student, for he had the capacity for study eminently developed; and, besides, his position was one of singular difficulty and delicacy. He stood so near to the throne, amongst a people, too, traditionally jealous of aliens, and especially of aliens in high places, that any utterance he might be called upon to make would be considered as almost, if not quite, emanating from the throne itself. Although a certain cabinet intrigue, and one rare expression of his own--not so much unguarded in itself, as wanting in explicitness, and capable of a certain misconstruction--did, on two several occasions, provoke in certain quarters something approaching to national disfavour, he soon outlived the misconception; and the universal sentiment of the people came round to the conviction that the Prince was faithful and loyal to the constitution to which he had sworn fidelity; nay more, that he had fairly caught, apprehended, and absorbed into his being the very genius and spirit of the English race. [Sidenote: PRINCE ALBERT S FIRST SPEECH.] The first speech the Prince made in England was at an anti-slavery meeting; the last at the opening of an international statistical congress. The former was delivered during the first summer of his married life. It is so brief, and it gives, as it were, so thoroughly the key-note of his character, that our readers will thank us for giving it entire:-- I have been induced to preside at the meeting of this society from a conviction of its paramount importance to the great interests of humanity and justice. I deeply regret that the benevolent and persevering exertions of England to abolish that atrocious traffic in human beings (at once the desolation of Africa and the blackest stain upon civilised Europe) have not as yet led to any satisfactory conclusion. But I sincerely trust that this great country will not relax in its efforts until it has finally, and for ever, put an end to a state of things so repugnant to the spirit of Christianity and the best feelings of our nature. Let us, therefore, trust that Providence will prosper our exertions in so holy a cause, and that (under the auspices of our Queen and her Government) we may, at no distant period, be rewarded by the accomplishment of the great and humane object for the promotion of which we have this day met. We have already remarked the wide range of Prince Albert's endeavours, study, devotion, and consequent usefulness. He presided at dinners of the Literary Fund, and of the Royal Academy; at the Trinity House most frequently, and at many agricultural meetings. Two of the best and most pregnant with good of his addresses, were delivered at the meetings of associations designed respectively for the better housing of labourers, and in behalf of the large and sorely tempted class of domestic servants. Now he presided at the Bicentenary of the Corporation of the Sons of the Clergy; again at the two hundredth anniversary of one of our most illustrious regiments of Foot Guards. On art, as all were prepared to expect, he delivered ripe words of wisdom at the Royal Academy in Trafalgar Square, and in laying the foundation in the capital of his wife's Stuart ancestors of a new National Gallery for her Scottish subjects. Against the expectation, and to the loudly expressed surprise of all, save those who knew him thoroughly, he made a most admirable survey of the sciences and their uses, at one of the last meetings held ere his death, of the British Association for the Advancement of Science. Of art he was a judicious critic, as well as a munificent patron. It was at his special wish and option that the _savant_ Lyon Playfair was made one of his Equerries; and that a residence in Hampton Court Palace was put at the disposal of Michael Faraday. How much of mingled love for art and artists, and at the same time of criticism most kindly and sagacious, is to be found in these brief sentences, extracted from his great speech at the Royal Academy dinner:-- An unkind word of criticism passes like a cold blast over their tender shoots, and shrivels them up, checking the flow of the sap, which was rising to produce, perhaps, multitudes of flowers and fruits. But still criticism is absolutely necessary to the development of art, and the injudicious praise of an inferior work becomes an insult to superior genius. In this respect, our times are peculiarly favourable when compared with those when Madonnas were painted in the seclusion of convents; for we have now on the one hand the eager competition of a vast array of artists of every degree of talent and skill, and on the other, as judge, a great public, for the greater part wholly uneducated in art, and thus led by professional writers who often strive to impress the public with a great idea of their own artistic knowledge, by the merciless manner in which they treat works which cost those who produced them the highest efforts of mind or feeling. And again, as a companion and worthy picture--which is none the less, but all the more, worthy of hanging along with that we have just presented, that the great truth it teaches is presented with such lucid simplicity--take these sentences explanatory of the scope and end of such institutions as the British Association for the Advancement of Science, delivered by him as its President, at the 1859 Congress at Aberdeen:-- [Sidenote: THE PRINCE'S EULOGY ON HUMBOLDT.] If the activity of this Association ever found, or could find its personification in one individual--its incarnation as it were--this had been found in that distinguished and revered philosopher who has been removed from amongst us in his ninetieth year, within the last few months. Alexander Von Humboldt ever strove after dominion over that universality of human knowledge which stands in need of thoughtful government and direction to preserve its integrity. He strove to tie up the fasces of scientific knowledge, to give them strength in unity. He treated all scientific men as members of one family, enthusiastically directing, fostering, and encouraging inquiry, where he saw either the want of or the willingness for it. His protection of the young and ardent student led many to success in their pursuits. His personal influence with the courts and governments of most countries in Europe, enabled him to plead the cause of science in a manner which made it more difficult to refuse than to grant what he requested. All lovers of Science deeply mourn for the loss of such a man. Gentlemen, it is a singular coincidence, that this very day on which we are here assembled, and are thus giving expression to our admiration of him, should be the anniversary of his birth. The Queen, who was staying at Balmoral, was very anxious about the manner in which her husband should pass the very severe ordeal of delivering an address to the assembled men of science. She recorded her high gratification at learning by telegram that "Albert's reception was admirable, and that all was going off as well as possible. Thank God!" She invited the _savans_, to a fête at her Highland home; they accepted the invitation in great numbers; and "the philosophers," of whom Her Majesty was not a little, and rather comically, afraid, were not only entertained with creature comforts, but the somewhat novel combination was presented of Owen, Brewster, Sabine, and Murchison, with their brethren of lesser renown, standing as spectators of contests of strength between athletes of the Grant, Farquharson, Duff, and other clans. Some of the more distinguished guests remained over night, and at dinner they rejoiced the Queen's heart by "speaking in very high terms of my beloved Albert's speech, the good it had done, and the general satisfaction it had caused." [Sidenote: THE PRINCE AS AN AGRICULTURIST.] Probably the capacity of all others in which the Prince became most generally familiar to the nation, was that of a practical, improving, scientific agriculturist; and we use this word in its twofold sense, as embracing the growing of crops and the rearing of live stock. Almost from the outset of his career amongst us he commenced a series of scientific agricultural experiments on the farms in Windsor Park. He renovated the agriculture of the Park, as much as he confessedly did its landscape gardening. He became a constant and most successful exhibitor of live domestic edible animals at the great agricultural shows; his example in this field having been followed since his death, to the great gratification of the agricultural interest, both by his widow and his eldest son; and, especially in the case of Her Majesty, with marked success. As a high and eminent authority on the subject has admirably put it-- His was no merely idle, passing patronage or casual aid, but it was rather a pursuit he delighted in, and one he followed out with equal energy and advantage. The most practical man could not go that pleasant round from the Flemish farm to the Norfolk, and so back again by the Home and the Dairy, without learning something wherever he went. We must deny ourselves the pleasure of aught but passing reference to the admirable manner in which he discharged his academic duties as Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, which post he held from 1845 till his death, and about which we say enough when we remind or inform the reader that it was such men as Professor Sedgwick, the Vice-chancellor, who spoke of the exercise of his duties in this capacity in terms of the highest honour and estimation. Similar were his services to such noble institutions as Eton and Wellington Colleges, in both of which he offered prizes expressly calculated to encourage the pursuit of those studies which had been, or were most likely to be, ignored in their several cases. Horticulture, art exhibitions, the National Portrait Gallery, the Society of Arts, societies for improving the general condition and the housing of the labouring classes, mechanics' institutions--each of these constitutes a theme most pregnant and suggestive in connection with the Prince's name and memory. But we can do no more than recite and dismiss the bald catalogue of topics. Reserving for the appropriate chronological occasion some brief remarks upon the character of the Prince as a private man, as contrasted with his aspects of character as a citizen and public benefactor, to which we have at present confined ourselves, we feel that we cannot better conclude than by condensing his opinions delivered in an address to the annual meeting of the Servants' Provident Benevolent Society, in 1849, in which the whole plan and doctrine by which he believed all really useful associated benevolence ought to be regulated was summed up. His view was that no such organisation was founded upon a right principle which did not require every man, by personal exertion, and by his own choice, to work out his own happiness. Benevolence he held to be not really such unless it stimulated providence, self-denial, and perseverance. He used special words of warning against those so frequent lotteries of uncertain and precarious advantages--"really a species of gambling"--expensive convivial meetings, balloting for prizes, and electioneering contests on a small scale. "Let them always bear in mind," he proceeded to say, "that their savings are capital, that capital will only return a certain interest, and that any advantage offered beyond that interest has to be purchased at a commensurate risk of the capital itself." Such is a view, but all too summary and inadequate, of some of the obligations which the English, as his fellow-citizens, owed to that Prince whose life was so intertwined with and influential on that of their Sovereign. CHAPTER XVII. FOREIGN TRAVEL AND HOME VISITS. Visit to King Louis Philippe at Eu--A Loyal Corporation--Splendid Reception of the Queen in France--Anecdote of the Queen's Regard for Prince Albert--Visit of the Czar Nicholas--Home Life in Scotland--Visit to Germany--Illuminations of the Rhine--A Rural Fête at Coburg. In August, 1843, the Queen and Prince Albert made a yachting excursion round portions of the south coast and the Isle of Wight. Thence they steamed over to Treport, on the French coast, the nearest port to the Chateau d'Eu, a rural residence of Louis Philippe. On the arrival of the Queen and Prince from Windsor at Southampton, they were met at the end of the pier by the Duke of Wellington and other noble and official personages. It rained heavily, and as there was not sufficient covering for the stage intended to run on to the yacht _Victoria and Albert_, the members of the Corporation, like so many Raleighs, stripped off their red gowns in a moment, and the pathway was covered for Her Majesty's use, so that Queen Victoria, like Queen Elizabeth, walked dry-footed to her vessel. The undergraduates at Cambridge acted precisely similarly on the occasion of a visit in wet weather by the Queen and Prince to that university in this year. [Sidenote: VISIT TO FRANCE.] The subsequent visit to France was wholly unexpected in England; and it was even said, and with some show of truth, that the Ministers were unaware of the intention. Of course we cannot speak with any certainty, but it seems but too likely that Louis Philippe intrigued to secure the aid, or at least the condonation, of the Queen of England in those astute enterprises which his busy brain was even now concocting, with which the phrases "Pritchard and Tahiti," and the "Spanish Marriages" will ever remain associated, and which ultimately, and retributively, cost him his throne. Mr. Raikes, who, be it remembered, was the intimate and bosom friend of the Duke of Wellington, then a Minister of England, has at this date the following entry in his Journal, which was published in 1857, and is an acknowledged, and if not absolutely an indisputable, yet a most weighty authority:-- _Tuesday, 19th._--Much conversation after dinner about the Queen's visit to Eu. I said, that the day before I left Paris, Kisseleff, the Russian Minister, scouted the idea of this visit, and betted that it would never take place. Lord Canning remarked, as a singular coincidence, that Brunow, the Russian Minister in London, asserted positively, on the very morning that the Queen embarked at Southampton, that she had no intention of going to Eu. They both spoke, I suppose, as they wished. This, it may be said, is mere club gossip. Not so what we are about to quote, and which was written under the Duke of Wellington's roof:-- _Saturday, 23rd._--I went down to Walmer Castle, and found the Duke walking with Mr. Arbuthnot on the ramparts, or, as it is called, the platform, which overlooks the sea.... After the company had departed at ten o'clock, I sat up with the Duke and Arbuthnot till twelve o'clock, talking on various topics.... I see that the Government was evidently opposed to the Queen's visit to Eu. It was a wily intrigue, managed by Louis Philippe, through the intervention of his daughter, the Queen of the Belgians, during her frequent visits to Windsor with King Leopold, and was hailed by him with extreme joy, as the first admission of the King of the Barricades within the pale of legitimate sovereigns. The Duke said, "I was never let into the secret, nor did I believe the report then in circulation, till at last they sent to consult my opinion as to forming a regency during the Queen's absence. I immediately referred to precedents as the only proper guide. I told them that George I., George II. (George III. never went abroad), and George IV. had all been obliged to appoint councils of regency; that Henry VIII., when he met Francis I. at Ardres, was then master of Calais, as also when he met Charles V. at Gravelines; so that, in these instances, Calais being a part of his dominions, he hardly did more than pass his frontier--not much more than going from one county to the next. Upon this I decided that the Queen could not quit this country without an Act of Regency. But she consulted the crown lawyers, who decided that it was not necessary, as courtiers would do." I myself (resumes Raikes) did not believe in her going till two days before she went. Peel persisted afterwards that he had told me of it; but I knew I never heard it, and it was not a thing to have escaped me if I had. As for the reception at the Château d'Eu itself, it was of the most splendid character. One state ceremonial, however, is so very like another, that after those, the descriptions of which we have already furnished, a recital of the gay doings at Eu would hardly be palatable. The purport of the whole may be summed up very briefly. The French monarch endeavoured to allure the Queen into compliance with his wishes, by every seduction which nature and art, and the most refined and gallant courtesy, could supply. Everything that wealth, luxury, and taste could furnish was to be found amid scenes of more than royal magnificence, o'ershadowed by elms that dated back to the times of Henri Quatre. But there was business to be done, and the Queen was fortunate in having with her such trusty counsellors as Lords Aberdeen and Liverpool. A compact about the Spanish marriages was then and there made between France and England; a compact for the terms of which we are dependent, not alone upon English state papers, but upon the unimpeachable testimony of MM. Guizot and Regnault. As the starting-point of the one court was that the Queen of Spain should marry a Prince of the House of Coburg, and of the other that she should marry a Prince of the reigning French house, of course no settlement could be come to except by an unequivocal compromise. Thus did Lord Aberdeen and M. Guizot arrange it:--The King of France renounced all pretensions, on the part of any of his sons, to the hand of the Queen of Spain. It was stipulated that the Queen should choose her husband from the princely descendants of Philip V.; this stipulation excluding the dreaded competition of a Coburg. As to the projected marriage of the Duc de Montpensier, the son of Louis Philippe, with the Infanta Donna Maria, sister of the Queen of Spain, Louis Philippe agreed that it should not take place "till the Queen was married and had had children." On these conditions, the Queen of England and her counsellors waived all objections to the marriage of the Duc de Montpensier. Louis Philippe kept his word by having his son married to the Infanta on the very same day, and at the same altar, as that on which her elder sister the Queen was married. In the summer of this year, the Princess Augusta of Cambridge, the Queen's first cousin, was married to the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. The following extract from the diary of Mr. Raikes will be admitted to be far from the least amusing and characteristic anecdote of the Queen which we present in these pages:-- _Tuesday, 26th September._--This morning at breakfast, the Duke said to me, "Did you hear what happened at the wedding?" [meaning that of the Princess Augusta of Cambridge]. Replying in the negative, he continued, "When we proceeded to the signatures, the King of Hanover was very anxious to sign before Prince Albert, and when the Queen approached the table, he placed himself by her side, watching his opportunity. She knew very well what he was about, and just as the Archbishop was giving her the pen, she suddenly dodged around the table, placed herself next to the Prince, then quickly took the pen from the Archbishop, signed and gave it to Prince Albert, who also signed next, before it could be prevented. The Queen was also very anxious to give the precedence at Court to King Leopold before the King of Hanover, and she consulted me about it, and how it should be arranged. I told Her Majesty that I supposed it should be settled as we did at the congress of Vienna. "How was that," said she, "by first arrival?" "No ma'am," said I, "alphabetically, and then, you know, B comes before H." This pleased her very much, and it was done. [Sidenote: THE CZAR NICHOLAS.] In June, 1844, the Queen was visited by her handsome and colossal godfather, the Czar Nicholas of All the Russias. The Queen received him with great magnificence, and there was a splendid series of entertainments at Windsor. The Czar made himself immensely popular with the female sex, by his magnificent gifts of jewels to the ladies of the Court; with the sterner sex, by the gift of a cup of uncommon splendour, to be annually run for at Ascot. "Every one who approached him," says Sir Archibald Alison, "was struck by the manly dignity of his figure, his noble and serene countenance, and the polished courtesy of his manner, which threw a lustre even over the stately halls of Windsor." In September of the same year the Queen renewed her acquaintance with Scotland and the Scots; this time again enjoying the ducal hospitality of Blair Athole. This visit was entirely dissociated from all State paraphernalia. The Queen was up before the sun. The mists were hardly cleared away ere she and the Prince were to be seen walking in the grounds. They were generally accompanied by the Princess Royal, mounted on a Shetland pony. The Queen's piper played under her bed-room window at dawn, and every morning a bunch of heather, with some icy-cold water from the celebrated spring in Glen Tilt, was laid on her dressing-table. One morning a lady, plainly dressed, left the Castle; who, though observed by the Highland guard on duty, was allowed to pass unnoticed, until after she had proceeded a considerable distance. But somebody having discovered that it was the Queen, a party of Highlanders turned out as a royal body-guard. She, however, signified her wish to dispense with their services, and they all returned to their stations. The Queen, meanwhile, moved onward through the Castle grounds alone, until she reached the lodge, the temporary residence of Lord and Lady Glenlyon, where, upon calling, with the intention, it was understood, of making some arrangements as to a preconcerted excursion to the Falls of Bruar, she was informed that his lordship had not yet arisen. The surprise of the servant may be conceived when Her Majesty announced who was to be intimated as having called upon his lordship. On her return, having taken a different route, and finding herself bewildered by the various roads which intersect the grounds in every direction, she asked some reapers to direct her to the Castle by the nearest way. They, not being aware to whom they spoke, immediately did so, by directing her to go through one of the parks, and across a paling which lay before her, and which she at once passed, and reached the Castle, a good deal amused, doubtless, with her morning's excursion. In 1847 the Queen visited, for the first time, the Western Isles and Hebrides. In 1848 she rented Balmoral, which she shortly afterwards purchased, and from the date of its acquisition it has been her place of regular resort for at least one period of every year. On the 9th of August, 1845, the Queen and Prince Albert embarked at Woolwich to visit the land of her maternity and his natal spot. In the Belgian and Prussian territories, and in the Duchy of Coburg itself, they were rapturously welcomed. At Bonn, they were serenaded by a monster orchestra, consisting of no fewer than sixty military bands. At the same city they assisted at the inauguration of the statue of Beethoven. The same evening they witnessed at Cologne an illumination and pyrotechnic display which turned the Rhine into a _feu-de-joie_. As darkness closed in, the dim and fetid city began to put forth buds of light; lines of twinkling brightness darted, like liquid gold and silver, from pile to pile, then along the famous bridge of boats, across the river, up the masts of the shipping, and all abroad on the opposite bank. Rockets now shot from all parts of the horizon. The royal party embarked in a steamer at St. Tremond, and glided down the river; as they passed, the banks blazed with fireworks and musketry. At their approach they glared with redoubled light; and, being suspended, let the vessel pass to Cologne, whose cathedral burst forth a building of light, every detail of the architecture being made out in delicately coloured lamps--pinkish, with an underglow of orange. A few days afterwards the Queen steamed up the Rhine. At Stoltzenfelz there was another magnificent illumination and display of fireworks. The whole river, both its banks, its crags, ravines, and ruins, were simultaneously lighted up; showers of rockets and other fireworks besprinkled the firmament, while repeated salvoes of artillery called the grandeur of resonant sound to the aid of visible beauty. [Sidenote: VISIT TO COBURG.] At Coburg the Queen, as might be supposed, was still more cordially welcomed than at any of her previous stopping places. She and the Prince stopped at the Castle of Rosenau, and they occupied the room in which he had been born. A magnificent stag-hunt was got up for their entertainment; but what pleased the Queen most was being present at a festival entitled "The Feast of Gregorius." This was a species of carnival, in which the burghers and rustics, their wives and children, disguised in masks, indulged in innocent and exuberant gaiety. The Queen and her relatives freely mixed with the revellers. She talked to the children, to their great astonishment, "in their own language." Tired of dancing and processions, and freed from all awe by the ease of their illustrious visitors, the children took to romps, "thread-my-needle," and other pastimes, and finally were well pelted by the royal circle with bon-bons, flowers, and cakes. CHAPTER XVIII. THE QUEEN IN IRELAND. First Visit to Ireland--Rapturous Reception at Cork--Queenstown so Denominated--Enthusiasm at Dublin--Its Graceful Recognition by the Queen--Visit to the Dublin Exhibition--Encouragement of Native Industry--Visit to the Lakes of Killarney--The Whirligig of Time. For twelve years after her accession to the throne, the Queen was a personal stranger to the shores of Erin. Amongst the numerous fruits of the tranquillity restored to Ireland, after the disturbances and sedition which had culminated in the "Young Ireland" rising of 1848, was a visit paid by the Queen to her subjects on the west of St. George's Channel in the autumn of 1849. Immediately after the prorogation of Parliament, the Queen and Prince Albert proceeded to Cowes, where a Royal squadron was ready to receive them. Under its escort, and being accompanied by their two eldest children, they steered for Cork. The Queen selected as the first spot of Irish ground on which to land, the port which, up to the date of her disembarkation, had been known as the Cove of Cork. She gave a command that, in commemoration of the circumstance, the Cove should thenceforth be designated Queenstown. Having re-embarked, the Royal party steamed up the beautiful bay to the city of Cork itself, where a magnificent reception awaited them. The squadron proceeded at a slow rate. In spite of its arrival at a much earlier date than had been anticipated, the news spread like wildfire, and the country people assembled in prodigious numbers on the shores of the Cove, which were crowded with multitudes of excited Celts, whose wild shouts, mingled with the firing of cannon and small arms, and the ringing of bells, made the whole scene animated beyond description. From Cork, the Queen proceeded to Dublin. There her reception was described by an eye-witness as "a sight never to be forgotten." [Sidenote: FIRST VISIT TO IRELAND.] The Queen, turning from side to side, bowed low repeatedly. Prince Albert shared in and acknowledged the plaudits of the people; while the Royal children were objects of universal attention and admiration. Her Majesty seemed to feel deeply the warmth of her reception. She paused at the end of the platform for a moment, and again making her acknowledgments, was hailed with a tremendous cheer as she entered the terminus of the short railway line which connects Kingston with Dublin. On her departure, a few days later, an incident still more gratifying to the Irish people occurred. As the Royal yacht approached the extremity of the pier near the lighthouse, where the people were most thickly congregated, and who were cheering enthusiastically, the Queen suddenly left the two Ladies-in-waiting with whom she was conversing, ran with agility along the deck, and climbed the paddle-box to join Prince Albert, who did not notice her till she was nearly at his side. Reaching out to him, and taking his arm, she waved her hand to the people on the piers. She appeared to give some order to the captain: the paddles immediately ceased to move, and the vessel merely floated on. The Royal Standard was lowered in courtesy to the thousands cheering on shore, and this stately obeisance was repeated five times. This gracious and well-timed visit to Ireland was a very significant proof of the Royal confidence in the unshaken allegiance of the bulk of the Irish people; and it likewise showed a just appreciation of the prudent energy and humane moderation with which her Ministers had so fortunately composed the recent unhappy tumults. Nearly thirty years had elapsed since a British sovereign had appeared in Ireland; and between the visit of George IV. and that of Queen Victoria, there was in common only the circumstance that both were royal visits. George, as King of Ireland, in 1821, was not the king of a free nation; the victory of civil and religious liberty had yet to be achieved for and by the Irish; a minority engrossed the national Government and monopolised its emoluments of every degree; the very existence of the people as a people had not been recognised, and the King himself was peculiarly and bitterly identified with the faction which held the race and their creed in thraldom. Thus, in 1821, the Crown of England possessed for Ireland little lustre or utility, nor did it evoke any well-grounded loyalty and devotion from its people. Queen Victoria and her visit, on the contrary, represented those popular principles and sympathies which are the brightest jewels of the British Crown, and are now set firmly in it for ever. Her visit, at once august and affectionate, was a visit to a nation which was not only loyal but free. "And joy came well in such, a needful time." The joy was exuberant and universal. As the loyalty was rendered to a young Queen, it partook of the romantic and strictly national nature of gallantry. To witness that joy must have been the fittest punishment for the disaffected. "We do not remember," says an authority not given to rhapsody or exaggeration, "in the chronicles of royal progresses, to have met with any description of a scene more splendid, more imposing, more joyous, or more memorable, than the entry of the Queen into the Irish capital." The houses were absolutely roofed and walled with spectators. They were piled throng above throng, till their occupants clustered like bees about the vanes and chimney tops. The noble streets of Dublin seemed to have been removed, and built anew of Her Majesty's lieges. The squares resembled the interiors of crowded amphitheatres. Facades of public buildings were formed for the day of radiant human faces. Invention exhausted itself in preparing the language of greeting, and the symbols of welcome. For miles the chariot of the gay and gratified Sovereign passed under parti-coloured (not _party_-coloured) streamers, waving banners, festal garlands, and triumphal arches. The latter seemed constructed of nothing else than solid flowers, as if the hands of Flora herself had reared them. At every appropriate point jocund music sent forth strains of congratulation; but banners, flowers, arches, and music were all excelled by the jubilant shouts which tore the empyrean, loud, clear, and resonant, not only above drum and trumpet, but above even the saluting thunders of the fleet. [Sidenote: VISIT TO AN IRISH NATIONAL SCHOOL.] Perhaps, apart from the mere loyal enthusiasm of the occasion, the most important and significant incident of the visit was the following. It did not fail to be remarked that the first institution which Her Majesty visited in the capital was the central establishment of the Irish National Schools--the first-fruits of Irish liberty, and the noblest possession of the Irish people. The Queen knew that in these excellent schools the youth of all persuasions were trained together, not in the love and pursuit of knowledge alone, but in the habit of tolerance and the spirit of charity. The Queen, by this visit, passed her personal approval and sanction upon a system which is equally the antithesis of sectarian discord and the promoter of religious independence. Here, also, she discovered (or already knew, as was much more likely) that there was imparted the most useful, solid, and practical instruction, one of a character most precisely adapted to the wants, pursuits, interests, and occupations of the classes in whose behalf it was devised. In her survey and inspection of the Normal Schools, the Queen was attended by the Protestant and the Romanist Archbishops, and the representatives of other Christian denominations, friendly to the great scheme, stood beside and around her. That quite as much importance and significance as we have accorded to it was assigned to this visit of the Queen to the Normal National Schools, sufficiently appears from these closing sentences of the Report of the Irish Education Commissioners for 1849:-- We cannot conclude our Report for 1849 without alluding with pride and gratitude to the visit with which our Model Schools were honoured on the 7th of August, by Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and by her Royal Consort, Prince Albert, accompanied by your Excellency. We are convinced that this visit, so promptly and cordially made, has left an indelible impression upon the hearts of the poor of Ireland, for whose benefit our system has been established; and that they will ever regard the compliment as the most appropriate and decisive that could have been paid by Her Majesty to themselves. All reflecting men, whether friends or opponents of our institution, have not failed to see the importance of the step. By the country at large it has been hailed as an eminent proof of Her Majesty's wisdom and goodness, and as peculiarly worthy of the daughter of that illustrious Prince who was the ardent advocate of the education of the poor, when denounced by many as a dangerous novelty; and of their united education on just and comprehensive principles, when most men regarded it as impracticable. [Sidenote: VISIT TO THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY.] Four years later, when the first International Exhibition was held at Dublin, the Queen renewed her acquaintance with her Irish subjects. Making a somewhat lengthened stay at the vice-regal residence, she charmed the people by the freedom with which she mingled amongst them, and by the special attention and the bounteous patronage which she bestowed upon the little-developed but beautiful specimens of their indigenous textile industries in the Exhibition building. A third and a much more prolonged visit was made in the autumn of 1861, the Queen having honoured Lord Castlerosse and Mr. Herbert of Muckross, two gentlemen whose seats and demesnes are situate on the shores of the beauteous Lakes of Killarney, by accepting their hospitable invitations. Over the lakes, their islets, and their surrounding mountains and mountain passes, the Queen roved as freely and unrestrainedly as was her wont in the retreats in which she had year after year sojourned, after the turmoil of the London season, in the Scottish Highlands. It was observed with pleasure that, amongst other indications of change which the whirligig of time had brought round, Mr. James O'Connell, the brother of the "Liberator," dined more than once with Her Majesty at the tables of her noble and gentle hosts; and the hounds that forced a stag to take to the Lake--one of the immemorial sports associated with Killarney--formed a portion of the pack which belonged to his two sons. CHAPTER XIX. THE WORLD'S CONGRESS OF INDUSTRY. Prince Albert the Inaugurator of International Exhibitions--Proposes, Unsuccessfully, his Scheme to the Government--To the Society of Arts, Successfully--First Steps towards Realisation--Objections to be Met--Perseverance of the Prince--The Royal Commission--The Prince's Speech at York--The Opening Ceremony--The Royal Procession. As early as 1848 Prince Albert submitted to the Government a proposal to establish an exhibition of works of industry in this country; but the members of the Government could not be induced to afford to it any of that encouragement which it was sought to obtain. Despairing of acquiring assistance in this quarter, but hopeful, courageous, and unbaffled, the Prince, who was President of the Society of Arts, in the following year betook himself to that more likely and congenial quarter. Not content, however, with following in the wake of previous Expositions which had been held in Paris and elsewhere, he suggested the happy idea of so extending its range as to include within it the works of industry and the art treasures of all lands. He convened on his own responsibility a meeting at Buckingham Palace, on the 30th of June, 1849, where he proposed that the Exhibition should be divided into four sections: the first being raw materials and produce illustrative of the natural productions in which human industry is employed; the second, machinery for agricultural, manufacturing, engineering, and other purposes, and mechanical inventions illustrative of the agents which human ingenuity brings to bear upon the products of nature; the third, manufactures illustrative of the results produced by the operation of human industry upon natural produce; the fourth, sculpture, models, and the plastic arts generally, illustrative of the skill displayed in such applications of human industry. When this proposal of a display so novel was first made, there existed no public enthusiasm to welcome the daring scheme, and all were in utter ignorance of those mechanical means of accomplishing it which to the present generation are so simple and obvious. It was met by countless cavils and objections without end. But the Prince had insight enough to discriminate between the real body of public opinion, lethargic and slow to move, yet ductile and malleable, and the artificial clamour of the marplots. Fortunately for the success of the great enterprise, the Prince possessed within himself the happiest combination of the highest station with those indomitable qualities of hopeful perseverance which were necessary to overcome the innumerable impediments which threatened more than once to mar the success of the great work. He succeeded in getting associated with him an active body of Commissioners, who, encouraged by the untiring industry which their illustrious President displayed, persevered in their work; and one by one the practical difficulties disappeared before the clear and vigorous intellect which the Prince brought to bear upon their discussions. [Sidenote: THE GREAT EXHIBITION.] But he remained, indeed, the _facile princeps_ in maturing, as he had been in designing, the scheme. This is no mere language of eulogy, for the records of the Commissioners of the Exhibition have placed in print undoubted proofs that equally the completion with the progress, and the progress quite as much as the origin, of the Exhibition of 1851, were mainly due to the large conception and wise foresight of the Prince Consort. The public at the time knew but little, and many of its constituent atoms know but little to this day, of the amount of anxious thought and labour which he devoted to the success of the great undertaking that made the year 1851 memorable as a new starting-point in the industrial and social history of the world. One important point, apart altogether from his personal merits, must never be lost sight of. His own high name and his close relation to the Sovereign, added a lustre to the Royal Commission which would otherwise have been totally lacking, and gave ground for that confidence to foreign powers which they displayed so signally and with so little stint. [Sidenote: PRINCE ALBERT AT YORK.] At a banquet held at York about six months before the Exhibition opened, the Prince in a long address, in which he replied to the toast of his health, indicated, though most modestly and unconsciously, at once the arduous nature of his preliminary labours and the zeal with which he pursued them. In the name of the Commissioners, who had been invited to the banquet _en masse_, he thanked his hosts for the proof thereby made plain of their earnest and combined zeal in the cause of the approaching Exhibition. He rejoiced that it was not a mere impulse of momentary enthusiasm which they evinced, but a spirit of steady perseverance and sustained effort, and he assured his auditors that the spirit of active preparation and hopeful faith was abroad in the country. Of this, he said, he was confident, on the ground of information which reached him from all quarters. And he added, and the event proved him to be right, his own personal conviction that the works in preparation would be such as to dispel any apprehension about the position which British industry would maintain. Of his brother Commissioners he spoke with loyal and chivalrous fervour. He thanked, in their name, the public for their uninterrupted confidence in those who were responsible for the management of the scheme; and stated that there had been no difference of opinion between the central and the local committees, which had not, upon personal consultation and open discussion vanished, and given way to agreement and identity of purpose. So much for hope: the test of fruition had yet to come. At length the great event to which the whole civilised world had been looking forward for eighteen months with mingled interest and curiosity--the opening of the great congress of industry and art--was accomplished with a pomp and solemnity of ceremonial suitable to the dignity of the occasion, and the important social interests which it involved. Spite of all predictions to the contrary--spite of the faint-hearted forebodings which the wild confusion of the interior of the building in the last days of April excused, if it did not justify--the building was ready and furnished with the world's wares at the appointed time. At two o'clock on the last day of April the building was cleared by police and guardsmen of all exhibitors and their assistants, and the preparations for the opening day, already partially made, were pursued with the utmost zeal and vigour. Never dawned a brighter morning than that of the May Day which succeeded. The sky was clear and blue, the air as cool, crisp, and genial as a poet or artist could wish, and the sun came forth in undimmed splendour. London, reinforced by a multitude of visitors, was early astir and afoot. At six the Park gates were opened, and through them at once commenced to pour carriages from all parts of the metropolis and its neighbourhood, filled with gaily attired courtiers, cits, and provincials. The line of route was kept by mounted soldiers and police; but their task was rendered almost perfunctory, so fully did all appear animated with the one desire to signalise this truly popular ceremonial with generous and kindly feeling, and a respect for the rights and duties of one another. The only houses from which a sight could be got of the royal procession were those at Grosvenor Gate and at Hyde Park Corner. These were crowded with well-dressed persons, of whom ladies formed the majority, up to the very roofs. The roofs of Apsley House and the park-keeper's lodge were similarly tenanted. The windows of Buckingham Palace, which had recently been new fronted, were filled with eager spectators, chiefly members of the Household, their relatives and friends. The centre balcony was occupied by the younger princes and princesses, attended by several ladies. Precisely at eleven the Life Guards commenced to widen the path for the procession. At half-past eleven, the band of the regiment playing "God save the Queen," the royal cortège set forth, amid the cheers of the vast assembled multitude. The procession was of anything but an ostentatious character. The eight carriages of which it was composed were drawn by but two horses each. There were no Gentlemen-Ushers, Grooms, or Yeomen of the Guard. Trumpeters there were, but their trumpets were silent. At a quarter to twelve the procession reached the northern entrance of the Palace, and the Queen alighted amid the strains of the National Anthem, a salvo of artillery, and the lusty cheers of enormous multitudes on both sides of the Serpentine. [Sidenote: OPENING OF THE EXHIBITION.] Meanwhile, from nine o'clock, the appointed hour of opening, the building had been rapidly filling, all the visitors being remarkably well dressed, and a large majority of them ladies. "The first _coup d'oeil_ of the building, on entering the nave, was grand and gorgeous in the extreme; the vast dimensions of the structure, the breadth of light, partially subdued and agreeably mellowed in the nave by the calico coverings placed over the roof, whilst the arched transept soared boldly into the clear arch of heaven, courting, admitting, and distributing the full effulgence of the noon-day sun; the bright and striking colours and forms of the several articles in rich manufactured goods, works in sculpture, and other objects displayed by the exhibitors, dissimilar and almost incongruous in their variety, were blent into an harmonious picture of immense grandeur by the attendant circumstances of space and light to which we have just alluded; and the busy hum and eager and excited movements of the assembled thousands infused the breath of life into a picture, which, at the period of the crowning incident of the day, became truly sublime." By eleven o'clock, after which hour none of the general public could be admitted, the Honourable Corps of Gentlemen-at-Arms, in their gay uniforms, had taken up their places in the rear of the dais set for the Queen. This dais was covered with a splendid carpet, which had been specially worked for the occasion by 150 ladies, and on this was placed a magnificent chair of state, covered with a cloth of crimson and gold. High over head was suspended an octagon canopy, trimmed with blue satin, and draperies of blue and white. The trumpeters and heralds were in readiness to proclaim the arrival of the Queen, and Sir George Smart stood, baton in hand, perched up in a small rostrum, "ready to beat time to 'God save the Queen' for the five hundredth time in his life." The Commissioners of the Exhibition and the foreign ambassadors stood in the entrance hall, prepared to pay their respects to Her Majesty on her arrival. The Queen entered, leaning on her husband's arm, and being also accompanied by the Princess Royal and Prince of Wales. The Queen wore a dress of pink satin, brocaded with gold; Prince Albert a Field-Marshal's uniform; the Prince of Wales was in a Highland dress, while the Princess was clad in white satin, with a wreath of flowers round her head. A tremendous burst of cheering, renewed and prolonged from all parts of the building, greeted the announcement of the arrival of the Queen. [Sidenote: THE ADDRESS OF THE PRINCE.] Her Majesty was conducted to her chair of state by the Commissioners, Cabinet, and Foreign Ministers. As they stood around her chair, in their bright Court dresses and brilliant uniforms, a choir of nearly a thousand voices sang "God save the Queen." At the conclusion of its last strain, Prince Albert descended from the dais, and taking his place with his brother Commissioners, read a long address to Her Majesty, in which he recited the history, plan, and intent of the magnificent and magnanimous scheme which was so largely the product of his own heart and brain. These and other less important particulars having been enumerated, the Prince thus concluded:-- It affords us much gratification that, notwithstanding the magnitude of this undertaking, and the great distances from which many of the articles now exhibited have had to be collected, the day on which your Majesty has graciously pleased to be present at the inauguration of the Exhibition is the same day that was originally named for its opening, thus affording a proof of what may, under God's blessing, be accomplished by good-will and cordial co-operation amongst nations, aided by the means which modern science has placed at our command. Having thus briefly laid before your Majesty the results of our labours, it now only remains for us to convey to your Majesty our dutiful and loyal acknowledgments of the support and encouragement which we have derived throughout this extensive and laborious task from the gracious favour and countenance of your Majesty. It is our heartfelt prayer that this undertaking, which has for its end the promotion of all branches of human industry, and the strengthening of the bonds of peace and friendship among all the nations of the earth, may, by the blessing of Divine Providence, conduce to the welfare of your Majesty's people, and be long remembered among the brightest circumstances of your Majesty's peaceful and happy reign. The Queen read a short reply, the tenor of which was warmly to re-echo the hopes and sentiments contained in the address of the Prince. The Archbishop of Canterbury then offered up a consecratory prayer, which was followed by the performance of the "Hallelujah Chorus," under the direction of Sir Henry Bishop. A very long procession, in which the Queen went hand in hand with her son, and Prince Albert with his daughter, was then marshalled, and having marched round the interior of the building, it was declared formally opened. CHAPTER XX. THE WAR CLOUD. Bright Hopes of Peace Dispelled--An Era of War all over the World--The Russian War--The Queen's Visits to the Wounded Soldiers--Presentation of the War Medals--Crimean Heroes--The Volunteer Movement. Fair and peaceful to all seeming were the prospects of humanity and the world when the doors of the Hyde Park Exhibition were closed for the last time, and while its materials were being removed to be erected in more than their pristine beauty on the summit of one of the finest heights which environ the sloping basin on which the British metropolis is built. But a cloud, it might be no bigger than a man's hand, but pregnant with ill, was on the horizon. The Exhibition closed a long era of peace in Europe and the world, an era which had been marred, so far as we were concerned, only by wars in our most distant Oriental dependencies; and, so far as the Continent was concerned, only by the aggressions of the potentates who constituted the Holy Alliance, by the revolutionary movements of 1848, and their sanguinary repression in the year following. Against the hopes of all, and the belief of most, good men and women, the Exhibition inaugurated one of the most martial terms of time which have formed a part of purely modern history. A year had hardly gone by ere Napoleon effected his _coup d'état_, that fertile source of future evils--evils which are by no means yet exhausted. Then came the Russian War, which cost us in England a hundred thousand lives and at least a hundred millions of pounds. We had hardly celebrated, and rejoiced over, and illuminated our dwellings and public buildings in celebration of, the Peace of Paris, ere in India we had to put forth the utmost might of our imperial power to vindicate our "Raj" over Moslem and Hindoo, and to avenge the foul deeds done at Cawnpore. When Prince Albert was, in the mystery of providential rule, stricken down in his prime, Italy and Austria were just beginning to recover from the effects of the contests waged between trained troops at the Voltorno and by the Garibaldian guerillas in the Valteline. The first message which was conveyed by the new-laid Atlantic cable was a message of good-will from the grand-daughter of George III. to him who sat in the seat of the rebel Washington. The first experimental cable had hardly been destroyed by the potency of old ocean, churlish and jealous of the invasion of his domain, ere that great contest broke out across the Atlantic, which brought about the abolition of slavery throughout the United States. Hardly had our young Prince brought home his bonny bride ere the subjects who owed her father allegiance were called upon to hold their own against the mighty force wielded by a power, of which the queenly diadem must ere long be worn by England's dear and best-beloved daughter. The Danish War was hardly concluded ere the aggressor, returning victorious from his northern confines, turned his face to the south, and inflicted a catastrophe quite as telling and decisive upon that ancient dynasty, which has been more frequently allied with England in the great martial embroglios of the past than any other power of Europe. [Sidenote: AN ERA OF WAR.] We have said that Napoleon's _coup d'état_ of December, 1852, sounded the tocsin of that period of war which has lasted without sensible intermission from then until now. With that _coup d'état_ Victoria found herself by an accident somewhat closely allied. Some time after the close of the parliamentary session of 1851, all England was startled by the sudden announcement of the resignation by Lord Palmerston of the seals of the Foreign Office, which he held in the first Administration of Lord John Russell. On the meeting of Parliament in 1852, questions were at once addressed to the Treasury Benches in both Houses soliciting explanations of the circumstances. In the Lower House the querist was Sir Benjamin Hawes. Lord John Russell declared his perfect readiness to answer the question which had been put to him by Sir Benjamin Hawes, though he said he could not do so without entering into some details. These "details" were in the main as follows:--He commenced with a full and frank acknowledgment of the energy, the ability, and the extensive knowledge of the interests of England in all parts of the world which preeminently distinguished Lord Palmerston, and said that he the more regretted, on that account, that circumstances had occurred which prevented his acting any longer with him as a colleague. He laid down at starting what he conceived to be the correct doctrine as to the position which a Secretary of State holds as regards the Crown in the administration of foreign affairs. He held that when the Crown, in consequence of a vote of the House of Commons, places its constitutional confidence in a minister, that minister is, on the other hand, bound to afford the Crown its full liberty--a liberty which the Crown must possess--of saying that the minister no longer possesses its confidence. This was the general doctrine; but it so happened that with regard to Lord Palmerston individually, the precise terms were laid down, in 1850, in a communication on the part of Her Majesty with respect to the transaction of business between the Crown and the Foreign Secretary. Lord John said he had been the organ of that communication, and therefore assumed its responsibility. Its chief passage thus ran:-- The Queen requires, first, that Lord Palmerston will distinctly state what he proposes in a given case, in order that the Queen may know as distinctly to what she is giving her Royal sanction. Secondly, having once given her sanction to a measure, that it be not arbitrarily altered or modified by the Minister. Such an act she must consider as failing in sincerity towards the Crown, and justly to be visited by the exercise of her constitutional right of dismissing that Minister. She expects to be kept informed of what passes between him and the Foreign Ministers, before important decisions are taken based upon that intercourse; to receive the foreign despatches in good time, and to have the drafts for her approval sent to her in sufficient time to make herself acquainted with their contents before they must be sent off. The Queen thinks it best that Lord John Russell should show this letter to Lord Palmerston. [Sidenote: DISMISSAL OF LORD PALMERSTON.] Lord John went on to say that, in his view, Lord Palmerston had violated this explicit understanding, at least in two instances--one of a comparatively trifling, but the other of a most important character--since the conclusion of the session of the year previous (1851). The former had reference to some incautious remarks which were said to have fallen from the lips of the Foreign Secretary on the occasion of receiving a deputation of sympathisers with Hungary. The other related to Napoleon's _coup d'état_ of the 2nd of December previous. The instructions given to our Ambassador at Paris by the Queen's Government were to abstain from all interference with the internal affairs of France. Lord John had been informed of an alleged conversation between Lord Palmerston and the French Minister in London, the tenor of which was repugnant to those instructions. He had therefore at once written to him, but his communication had been treated with disdainful silence. Meanwhile Lord Palmerston, without the knowledge of his colleagues, wrote a despatch to Lord Normanby, our Minister at Paris, in which, however, he evaded the question whether he approved the act of the President. He considered altogether that Lord Palmerston had put himself in the place and assumed the prerogative of the Crown; that he had "passed by" the Crown, while he gave the moral approbation of England to the acts of Louis Napoleon, in direct opposition to the policy which the Government had hitherto pursued. Under these circumstances, he had no alternative but to declare that, while he was Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston could not hold the seals of office; for he had "forgotten and neglected what was due to the Crown and his colleagues." [Sidenote: THE WAR IN THE CRIMEA.] On the 27th of March, 1854, the following message from the Crown was read to the Peers by the Lord Chancellor. It explains itself. Nor is it necessary for us to re-write here a single line of one of the brightest and freshest pages of the recent history of England. We had long been "drifting into war," to use Lord Clarendon's memorable phrase, and at last the die was irrevocably, though reluctantly, cast. VICTORIA R. Her Majesty thinks it proper to acquaint the House that the negotiations in which Her Majesty, in concert with her allies, has for some time past been engaged with His Majesty the Emperor of All the Russias, have terminated, and that Her Majesty feels bound to afford active assistance to her ally the Sultan against unprovoked aggression. Her Majesty has given directions for laying before the House copies of such papers, in addition to those already communicated to Parliament, as will afford the fullest information with regard to the subject of these negotiations. It is a consolation to reflect that no endeavours have been wanting on her part to preserve to her subjects the blessings of peace. Her Majesty's just expectations have been disappointed, and Her Majesty relies with confidence on the zeal and devotion of the House of Lords, and the exertions of her brave and loyal subjects to support her in her determination to employ the power and resources of the nation for protecting the dominions of the Sultan against the encroachments of Russia. Alma, Balaklava, and Inkerman had been fought and won, and the horrid winter in the trenches had not yet passed away. These days and nights of constant fighting had left us many fell remembrances of their grievous coming and going. The Eastern hospitals, at Scutari and within the lines of our camp, were choke-full of the wounded. Some few who could bear the pain of transit were brought home, and no one in England was more solicitous of their welfare and wise and kindly tending than England's Queen. Her visits to the hospitals were as welcome as they were frequent. On the 8th of March, 1855, the Queen, accompanied by Prince Albert, and by the Duke of Cambridge, the Prince of Wales, and Prince Alfred, visited the military hospitals at Fort Pitt and Brompton, Chatham. Fort Pitt was then the only general military hospital in England. As this hospital and that of Brompton contained together only 361 patients, it could not be considered that the royal visit was elicited by the peculiar calamities of the place. But the immense extent of the hospitals in the East, and the sufferings of the poor wounded soldiers lying within these vast lazar-houses, had raised in the breast of all England a feeling of pity and horror. In this feeling the Queen most deeply participated. While her visit to the only hospital in this country in which the sufferers by the war were received, was a gratification to her own kindly sympathies, and most cheering and solacing to the inmates, it could not fail to convey to the thousands of sufferers in the East, and to the kinsmen and kinswomen whose hearts bled for them at home, that no heart was fuller of pity than that of her under whose flag they had fought and fallen. The whole of the wounded who were in a condition to leave their beds were drawn up in chairs on the lawn, each having written upon it a card containing the name and services of the occupant, the nature of his wounds, and where they were received. The Queen passed along the line, saying a few kind words to those sufferers who particularly attracted her notice, or to those whose services were specially commended. She visited every ward, except that containing fever cases. A few days after, the Queen reviewed some cavalry and artillery at Woolwich. After the review, she visited the hospital, and saw the wounded artillery-men who had returned from the Crimea. Nor were these isolated exhibitions of sentiment or emotion. Upon every occasion during the continuance of the war, the Queen showed the most heartfelt sympathy with her brave soldiers; visited their hospitals and transport ships; received the wounded at her palace, and suggested and liberally assisted in the establishment of permanent means of relief for them and their families. A beautiful letter of the Queen, which was accidentally made public about this time, showed that in the privacy of domestic life Her Majesty never forgot these sufferers. Indeed, she complained that she was not kept sufficiently informed of the needs of those who had returned wounded to their country. [Sidenote: DISTRIBUTION OF WAR MEDALS.] It was equally the Queen's duty and pleasure to reward conspicuous merit, as it was to do all that lay within the limits of her human and regal power to soothe the pangs of woe. One scene in which she discharged this high queenly function will never be forgotten by those who were privileged to witness it. The Queen determined to present with her own hand, to the officers of the Crimean army, and to a portion of the non-commissioned officers and privates, who had returned to their country disabled by their wounds, the medals which they had so dearly won. This act of grace and kindness deeply touched a sentiment that rested deep in the bosom of the nation, that had, indeed, there rested ever since--nay, long before--Elizabeth thrilled the heroic hearts of her people at Tilbury by saying, "I myself will be your general and judge, and the rewarder of every one of your victories in the field." The presentation took place on the 18th of May, 1855. A royal dais was erected in the centre of the parade of the Horse Guards, and the public offices which surround it were filled up with galleries for the royal family and nobility. Within an area enclosed by barriers, were the intended recipients of the decorations. Without was a dense mass of spectators. When the Queen had reached the ground, the Guards, who had hitherto been in line, were formed four deep, and through the intervals thus opened the Crimean heroes passed, and in a few moments the Queen stood face to face with them. Each then passed singly, receiving his medal at the hands of Her Majesty, who presented them with a grace and kindness which brought tears to many an eye long unused to their effusion. The first to receive his medal was the Duke of Cambridge, who was enthusiastically received. Then followed other General officers, then the staff, and then in order, without distinction of regimental rank, came cavalry, artillery, engineers, and the line. The sight was one of the most thrilling ever seen in our metropolis, or in our times. The gaunt and pallid forms, scarred features, and maimed and mutilated limbs, brought home to the heart of the least sympathetic the ravages of war, and the cost and guerdon of bravery. Many of those who hobbled upon crutches, or walked painfully with the assistance of a stick, wore upon their arms the emblems of mourning for some brother or near relative, now reposing by the waters of the Euxine or the Bosphorus. To each one of the wounded, whether officer or private, the Queen said some kind word or asked some kindly question of him. Many of the poor fellows were quite overcome by the tenderness of her compassion. Those officers whose wounds rendered them unable to walk, were wheeled past in Bath chairs. Sir Thomas Troubridge, who lost both feet at Inkerman, and who has since died, was the first of these. The Queen, leaning over his chair, handed him his medal with the most gracious gesture, and conferred upon him the post of aide-de-camp to herself. Captains Sayer and Currie, who were also wheeled past, received similar sympathy. After the soldiers, came 450 sailors and marines, under Admiral Dundas, who was the first to be decorated. The ceremony over, the non-commissioned officers and men of all services dined in the riding-school, where they were visited by the Queen, her husband, and their children. [Sidenote: THE VOLUNTEER MOVEMENT.] Closely and intimately allied with the intense warlike feeling which prevailed throughout the period which we have been traversing, was the rise, or rather the revival from our grandfathers' times, of the Volunteer movement, in the winter of 1858-9. This very notable phenomenon of modern days was entirely of spontaneous origin and popular outgrowth. At first the authorities looked but coldly upon it--wisely so, we think--until it evinced inherent elements of vitality and reality of purpose, and until it appeared that it was something more than a mere passing impulse. It was not until the 15th of May, 1859, that a circular from the Secretary for War gave to the movement official sanction, in the form of an authoritative permission by the Queen for the formation of volunteer corps. Ere a twelvemonth had elapsed, 70,000 men had enrolled themselves in England and Scotland; and before the end of the summer of 1860, that number had swollen into 170,000. In many other and more emphatic modes the Queen graciously accorded her own personal sanction and her warm and approving recognition to the movement. At a special levée, held in March, 1859, all volunteer officers had the opportunity of being presented. At the first meeting at Wimbledon of the National Rifle Association, in July, 1860, Her Majesty founded an annual prize, in value £250. At the same meeting she fired the first shot, discharging a rifle, which had been carefully adjusted to a target 400 yards distant. The cheers of the assembled thousands welcomed the impact of the bullet within a quarter of an inch of the bull's eye, and one of many Swiss gentlemen, who were present as competitors, felicitously remarked that Queen Victoria was now _la première carabinière de l'Angleterre_. [Sidenote: THE HYDE PARK REVIEW.] The 23rd of June in this year was a still greater day for the volunteer army, and for the country, for it proved how earnestly the riflemen had devoted themselves to training and to discipline. Her Majesty having expressed her desire to review the young force on that day, arrangements were made by the War Office, whereby every corps that had attained a certain excellence might be represented by its efficient members. The numbers and strength of the corps that presented themselves for inspection caused great surprise. Not only London and Westminster, and the densely populated metropolitan counties, sent ample contingents, but the energies of the railway companies were taxed to the utmost to bring up bodies of men from the west of England, the Midlands, Lancashire, Yorkshire, and East Anglia--even from distant Northumbria. The authorities ultimately found that they would have to make arrangements for placing 20,000 men in review order. The review became a national spectacle, a general holiday was arranged, and an immense assemblage, provincial as well as metropolitan, was assembled in Hyde Park. The Queen's stand was placed in the centre of a long line of galleries erected for the accommodation of about 17,000 privileged spectators, its situation being indicated by the Royal Standard planted before it. At different hours of the morning, the provincial corps, some of which must have travelled all night, were landed at the railway termini--the Durham Artillery, which had travelled farthest, being the first to reach King's Cross. The river steam-boats landed their freights at convenient piers: the suburban bodies mustered at their appointed stations. The whole operation of marching the respective battalions and brigades, amalgamated as agreed on, was performed with unerring precision and perfect ease, thanks to the intelligent zeal of the men and the clear heads of their officers. By two o'clock, 21,000, formed in one long line, extended completely across the park. The space of time which intervened between the successive arrivals of the corps and the commencement of the review, offered one of the most picturesque spectacles witnessed in our days. Exactly at four o'clock the Queen arrived on the ground in an open carriage. Accompanying her were the King of the Belgians, the Princess Alice, and Prince Arthur. The Prince Consort and the Prince of Wales were on horseback. The Queen was attended by a magnificent following of general officers, aides-de-camp, staff officers, foreign military men of distinction, and the Lords-Lieutenant of the counties which furnished contingents to the force on the ground. There were also in attendance on the Sovereign the Duke of Cambridge and Mr. Sidney Herbert, the official heads of the army. Remarkable amongst the group was Field-Marshal Lord Combermere, who had counted no fewer than seventy years of military duty. As the cortège swept on to the ground the volunteers stood to arms, their bands playing the National Anthem. The scene now presented was in truth a magnificent one. On one side, from north to south, stood the thick lines of the volunteers, their somewhat sombre ranks varied by masses of dark uniforms, with here and there a mass of scarlet, the whole thrown into relief by the background of the trees of Kensington Gardens. From west to east, dense lines of people extended, many being raised head over head by the most precarious and illusory elevations. From north to south, at the eastern end of the park, and facing the line of volunteers, a glittering line of military uniforms of officers and the gay dresses of ladies who accompanied them gave a varied and rich fringe to the human masses of the _élite_ of the land who occupied the galleries above them. The green space so enclosed was dotted and animated by the bright scarlet, glittering cuirasses, snowy plumes, and jet-black steeds of the Life Guardsmen, who kept the ground. The Queen, followed by the whole of her brilliant Court, drove to the extreme left of the volunteer line, and thence slowly passed along the whole front to where the extreme right came close up to the lofty houses at Albert Gate. Then turning, she drew up on the open ground, the Royal Standard proudly waving above her. The bands of the Household Brigade being placed opposite her, the volunteers now began to defile past, between Her Majesty and the bands. The march was commenced by the mounted corps, few in number, but admirably equipped and with remarkably fine horses. The infantry were headed by the Artillery Company, to whom, as the oldest volunteer body existing, not only in England but in Europe, the priority has always been accorded. For an hour and a half corps after corps marched past, until the long succession was closed by a regiment from Cheshire. When the whole had passed, and all had returned to their original positions, the whole line advanced in columns of battalions, and, by signal, cheered Her Majesty with vociferous earnestness. After expressing her high satisfaction with what she had seen, the Queen left the ground about six o'clock. Before eight o'clock all the volunteers had been marched out of the park, and there remained within its gates only meagre remnants of the enormous crowd of spectators. [Sidenote: THE REVIEW AT EDINBURGH.] The opinions of competent authorities on the creditable manner in which this experimental review passed off were of the highest character. The Commander-in-Chief issued a general order, by command of the Queen, in which His Royal Highness spoke in the highest terms of the efficiency displayed by the various corps, and of Her Majesty's appreciation of the loyalty and devotion exhibited by the volunteer movement. Later in the season the Queen, when on her customary autumnal route to Balmoral, reviewed in the Queen's Park, at Edinburgh, the volunteers of her northern kingdom, to the number of 12,000. CHAPTER XXI. THE QUEEN IN HER HIGHLAND HOME. The Queen as an Author--"The Early Years of the Prince Consort"--"Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands"--Love for Children of all Ranks--Mountain Ascents on Pony-back--In Fingal's Cave--"The Queen's Luck"--Salmon-spearing, and a Catastrophe attending it--Erection of a Memorial Cairn--Freedom of Intercourse with Humble Highlanders--Visits to Cottagers--"Mrs. Albert"--Travelling Incognito--Highland Dinners--"A Wedding-Party frae Aberdeen"--A Disguise Detected. Early in January of the year 1868, Queen Victoria added her name to the distinguished roll of Royal authors. In the year preceding, there had been published a work entitled, "The Early Years of the Prince Consort," in which the life of her revered and lamented husband is traced from its beginning, down to the first period of their common wedded life. On the title-page of this work appears the name, as author, of General the Honourable Charles Grey, a gentleman who accompanied the Prince in a tour to Italy before his marriage, and who has ever since remained attached, in high capacities, to the Royal Household. This book, to which we have been indebted for important materials reproduced by us at certain of the earlier stages of our narrative, was published with the sanction of Her Majesty, and its compiler received from his Royal Mistress most, if not all, of the materials which he very tastefully combined. But the Queen did not appear in it as author _in propriâ personâ_, save in the instance of certain occasional notes and addenda to which her imprint is attached. The work published in 1868, on the other hand, "Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands," is entirely, save a brief editorial introduction, from the Queen's pen. It is precisely, as its name imports, a series of extracts from a journal kept from day to day, and extended from Her Majesty's earliest married days far into those of her widowhood. Special passages are, in addition, given from similar diaries, which recorded yacht trips to the beautiful estuary of the Tamar, to the Duchy of Cornwall, and to the Channel Islands. There is also furnished a very sparkling and vivacious record of the Queen's first visit to Ireland, in 1849, which will be found duly recorded by us in a previous chapter. Nothing charms more in these pages than the love displayed for all young people--for the writer's own sons and daughters, who are described by their home pet names; "Vicky," and "Bertie," standing, for example, for Victoria and Albert--for the infant child of a ducal entertainer, depicted as "a dear, white, fat, fair little fellow," and "such a merry, independent little child"--or for the children of humble cottagers at Balmoral, for "Mary Symons and Lizzie Stuart dancing so nicely; the latter with her hair all hanging down." When the Queen and Prince and the children land at Dundee, what charms the fond young mother most is, that "Vicky" behaves like a grown-up person, and is "not put out, nor frightened, nor nervous." And when a little grandchild of Lord Camperdown presented the youthful Princess Royal with a nosegay, the reflection that rose to the mother's mind was, that she could hardly believe that she was travelling as a wife and a mother; for it seemed but as yesterday that she, as a child, in the tours taken with _her_ mother through England, used to receive similar childish tokens. She was at once put in mind of the time when _she_ had been "the little Princess." [Sidenote: HAPPY DAYS IN THE HIGHLANDS.] Accounts of rides on shaggy Highland ponies to the tops of mountains, and more lengthened _incognito_ excursions in whatever vehicles could be procured at third-rate country inns, are thickly scattered over the pages of the "Journal." The Western Islands, as well as the Highlands, were at least on one occasion visited. Anchoring close by wondrous Staffa, the Queen disembarked, and was rowed in a barge into Fingal's Cave. This was the first time that the British standard, with a Queen of Great Britain and her husband and children, had ever entered the portals of this wondrous freak of nature, and the Gaelic oarsmen gave three cheers, the echoes of which from the inmost recesses of the cave were most impressive. On another mountain ramble, the Queen seated herself calmly, the youthful Prince of Wales lying among the heather by her side, while Prince Albert went to stalk a deer. He brought down a "royal," that is, a stag which has over a certain number of "tines" to his horns; on which the somewhat superstitious Highland keeper at once said that "it was Her Majesty's coming out that had brought the good luck." The Highlanders all believed that the Queen had "a lucky foot." [Sidenote: SALMON-SPEARING IN SCOTLAND.] Amongst other Highland sports which curiosity and great love of adventure led her to witness, was salmon spearing, or "leistering." While the keepers were beating the waters, the Highland gentlemen wading in the stream, and Prince Albert watching, spear in hand, on a boulder, the Queen watched from the brink this, the most exciting of all river sports, save, perhaps, otter hunting. Suddenly she was alarmed, and with most abundant cause. Two of the men imprudently went into a very deep pool. One of them could not swim, and he sank to the bottom. There was a cry for help, and a general rush by the Prince and others to the spot. The Queen was much frightened, and grasped the arm of the minister in attendance, Lord Carlisle, in great agony. But Dr. Robertson, the Queen's "factor," or agent over the Balmoral estate, swam in and got the too venturesome Gael out safely. The Queen, after this "horrid moment," had the satisfaction of seeing eight salmon speared or netted; and was further amused by a curious piece of Highland courtesy--her own "men" carrying all the "men" of Colonel Forbes, a neighbour, dry shod on their backs through the water. They had come to see the sport, and the Queen's gillies at once insisted on their conveying them to the most favourable side of the stream. A great day was that on which a cairn was erected on one of the heights overlooking Balmoral to celebrate the building of the new castle, which the Queen raised in lieu of the mansion which had stood on the estate when she was its tenant, and ere by its purchase she entered into proprietary possession. The morning was a fine one, and at eleven o'clock the Royal party started for the ascent of Craig Cowan, where already nearly all the dependants were assembled. The Royal children, and all the ladies and gentlemen, accompanied the Queen and Prince. All the children of the Queen's neighbouring tenants, and of her servants, were already on the top. The Queen laid the first stone, and the Prince the second, and then their children according to their ages. Then all the ladies and gentlemen of the Court placed a stone each. The pipers played the while, and whisky was served out to every one. It took an hour to build the cairn, and dancing and merry revels went on without intermission until its completion; the very oldest of the women danced, and the youngsters were wild with glee. An old favourite dog sat reflectively contemplating a scene to which his veteran gravity prevented his indulging in any responsive and sympathetic gambols. At last when the cairn, having attained to the respectable height of some eight feet, was pronounced all but complete, the Prince climbed to its summit and placed the last stone, and three hearty cheers announced to the dwellers below the completion of the enterprise and edifice. The Queen concludes her chronicle of its erection in these words:--"It was a gay, pretty, and touching sight, and I felt almost inclined to cry. The view was so beautiful over the dear hills, the day so fine, the whole so _gemüthlich_. May God bless this place, and allow us yet to see it and enjoy it many a long year!" The Queen and her family have always made it a practice to enter into the freest and most unrestrained conversation with the dignified, independent, courteous, and truly well-bred Highlanders. As she rode along a hill-side one day, "Alice and Bertie" accompanying her on foot, Prince Albert was conversing very gaily with one of the gillies, upon which the one who led the Queen's pony observed, "It's very pleasant to walk with a person who is always content." And when the Queen, following up her attendant's remark, said that he was never cross after bad sport, the gillie rejoined, "Every one on the estate says there never was so kind a master; our only wish is to give satisfaction." The Queen replied that that wish they certainly succeeded in fulfilling. And at a future date the Queen thus annotated that passage in her journal from which we have been borrowing:--"We were always in the habit of conversing with the Highlanders, with whom we came so much in contact in the Highlands. The Prince highly appreciated the good breeding, simplicity, and intelligence which makes it so pleasant, and even instructive, to talk to them." [Sidenote: THE QUEEN AND SCOTTISH COTTAGERS.] The Queen takes especial pleasure in visiting the old women's cottages, by some of whom, we have been told, she is not unfrequently addressed--or at least was so, when she was yet new to the north and the northerners new to her--as "Mrs. Albert." One old dame of eighty-six, erect and dignified as she sat at her spinning-wheel, received personally from Her Majesty the gift of a warm flannel petticoat. This was her pious and eloquent form of thanks: "May the Lord ever attend you and yours, here and hereafter, and may the Lord be a guide to ye, and keep ye from all harm!" Another aged pensioner, who was quite friendly, and shook hands with all her party of visitors, chose this form of benediction: "May the Lord attend you with mirth and with joy; may He ever be with you in this world, and when ye leave it!" [Sidenote: THE QUEEN IN DISGUISE.] The Queen's mode of travelling as an _incognita_ has never gone beyond a journey of three or four days' duration to some Highland district, in which the very amplitude of her retinue, even when abridged of its usual proportions, prevented her passing otherwise than as a person of distinction, but in which it was possible to keep her _queenly_ rank undiscovered. Sometimes the mask was successfully worn to the end of the trip, to the great enjoyment of the Queen, her "gentle" attendants, and her servants. On one or two occasions, recognitions, unfortunate for the success of the very innocent plot, were made by persons to whom the Queen's face was familiar. On one of these trips, two shabby vehicles contained the whole party, which consisted of the Royal pair, Sir George Grey, Lady Churchill, and a small complement of servants. It had been arranged that the tourists should pass as Lord and Lady Churchill (the Queen and Prince assuming these _rôles_), Lady Churchill becoming Miss Spencer, and Sir George Grey becoming "Dr." Grey. Once or twice the servants, who were of necessity in the plot, forgot their instructions, and blurted out "your Majesty," and "your Royal Highness;" but, luckily, no one heard the _faux pas_. After a very long and fatiguing drive through a district remarkably denuded of habitations, they arrived, at nightfall, at an inn of very small pretensions. They alighted, Sir George Grey and Lady Churchill, faithful to the necessities of the situation, giving no indication, by any deference of manner, of the quality of their fellow-travellers. Being ushered into small but tidy sleeping and dressing apartments, they had their travel-stains removed, and sat down to such a dinner as the resources of the establishment afforded. The two gillies in attendance were to have waited at table, but their bashfulness prevented their undertaking duties so entirely out of their line; so a damsel in ringlets, attached to the inn, performed the necessary duties. The repast consisted of a very delicate and delicious Scottish soup, known as "hodge-podge"--which, to be tasted to perfection, however, must be partaken of in early summer, when vegetables (of many kinds of which it is composed) are young and tender--mutton broth, fowls, "good" roast lamb, and "very good" potatoes. A bottle of wine the travellers had taken care to bring with them. They were less fortunate on the occasion of another similar trip, when all that could be procured was a couple of remarkably small and lean fowls, the remnants of which were sent down to the servants, with appetites rendered voracious by the keen mountain air. On this latter trip, a commercial traveller was much annoyed at his exclusion from the "commercial room," which was reserved for the servants. In answer to his remonstrance, the landlady pacified him by stating that the guests, who occupied her whole house, were "a wedding-party frae Aberdeen." When the cavalcade of the two "shabby vehicles" drove away, on the next morning, it was evident that "the murder was out," and that the inmates of the inn had discovered the quality of their guests, and communicated it to the scanty population of the village; for "all the people were in the street, and the landlady waved a pocket-handkerchief, and the ringletted maid a flag, from the window." CHAPTER XXII. THE WIDOWED QUEEN. Unbroken Happiness of the Queen's Life up to 1861--Death of the Duchess of Kent--The Prince Consort slightly Ailing--Catches Cold at Cambridge and Eton--The Malady becomes Serious--Public Alarm--Rapid Sinking, and Death--Sorrow of the People--The Queen's Fortitude--Avoidance of Court Display--Good Deeds--Sympathy with all Benevolent Actions--Letter of Condolence to the Widow of President Lincoln--The Albert Medal--Conclusion. Until 1861 the Queen had never known bereavement in the circle of her own immediate family. Nine children had been born to her, and, although it is understood that certain of her younger offspring do not possess that robustness of health which their elder brothers and sisters enjoy, yet not one had been snatched from their loving parents by the hand of the Great Destroyer. Early in 1861 came the first pang of bereavement. The Duchess of Kent, ripe in years, one of the best of mothers and one of the best of grandmothers, a lady to whose memory all Britons now and hereafter owe an incalculable debt of gratitude, passed peacefully away with her descendants gathered around her bedside. [Sidenote: LAST DAYS OF PRINCE ALBERT.] When the Royal Family returned from Balmoral in October, it was observed that the Prince Consort was not in his usual health and vigour, but he had no pronounced ailment, and nothing approaching to serious alarm was for many weeks apprehended. In the course of the succeeding month he went to Cambridge, to visit the Prince of Wales, who was a student at that University, as he had previously been for a short time at Oxford. He went out shooting while there, got wet, and, as the Duke of Kent had done, was so imprudent as to sit down without removing his wet clothes. Nevertheless, on his return to Windsor, he pursued his usual daily avocations. About the beginning of December he appeared in public with the Queen, and reviewed the volunteer corps raised among the Eton boys. The rain fell fast, and the Prince was seized on the review ground with acute pains in the back. Feverish symptoms supervened, and the doctors ordered confinement to his room. Still no alarm was entertained, and it was believed that he suffered only from a passing malady. The general public knew nothing of the ailment until some solicitude was caused by a bulletin, which appeared in the _Court Circular_ of the 8th December:-- His Royal Highness the Prince Consort has been confined to his apartments for the past week, suffering from a feverish cold, with pains in his limbs. Within the last few days the feverish symptoms have rather increased, and are likely to continue for some time longer, but there are no unfavourable symptoms. The party which had been invited by Her Majesty's command to assemble at Windsor Castle on Monday has been countermanded. Not until the 13th was any bulletin issued which caused real anxiety and alarm. On the day following, the morning papers contained the ominous announcement that he had "passed a restless night, and the symptoms had assumed an unfavourable character during the day." The _Times_, in a leading article, while hoping for the best, startled all by its statement that "the fever which has attacked him is a weakening and wearying malady." On the morning of Saturday there was a favourable turn, but which was soon followed by a most serious relapse. About four p.m. the fever assumed a malignant typhoid type, and he began to sink with such rapidity that all stimulants failed to check the quick access of weakness. At nine o'clock a telegram was received in the City that the Prince was dying fast, and at a few minutes before eleven all was over. "On Saturday night last," said one of the daily journals of the succeeding Monday, "at an hour when the shops in the metropolis had hardly closed, when the theatres were delighting thousands of pleasure-seekers, when the markets were thronged with humble buyers seeking to provide for their Sunday requirements, when the foot-passengers yet lingered in the half-emptied streets, allured by the soft air of a calm, clear evening, a family in which the whole interest of this great nation is centred were assembled, less than five-and-twenty miles away, in the Royal residence at Windsor, in the deepest affliction around the death-bed of a beloved husband and father. In the prime of life, without--so to speak--a longer warning than that of forty-eight hours, Prince Albert, the Consort of our Queen, the parent of our future Monarchs, has been stricken down by a short but malignant disorder." Shortly after midnight, the great bell of St. Paul's, which is never tolled except upon the death of a member of the Royal Family, boomed the fatal tidings over a district extending, in the quietude of the early Sabbath morn, for miles around the metropolis. [Sidenote: DEATH OF PRINCE ALBERT.] The Queen, the Princess Alice, and the Prince of Wales, who had been hastily summoned from Cambridge, sat with the dying good man until the last. After the closing scene the Queen supported herself nobly, and after a short burst of uncontrollable grief, she is said to have gathered her children around her, and addressed them in the most solemn and affectionate terms. "She declared to her family that, though she felt crushed by the loss of one who had been her companion through life, she knew how much was expected of her, and she accordingly called on her children to give her their assistance, in order that she might do her duty to them and the country." The Duke of Cambridge and many gentlemen connected with the Court, with six of the Royal children, were present at the Prince's death. In answer to some one of those present who tenderly offered condolence, the Queen is reported to have said: "I suppose I must not fret too much, for many poor women have to go through the same trial." The sad news became generally known in the metropolis and in the great cities of the empire early on Sunday. Unusually large congregations filled the churches and chapels at morning service. "There was a solemn eloquence in the subdued but distinctly perceptible sensation which crept over the congregations in the principal churches when, in the prayer for the Royal family, the Prince Consort's name was omitted. It was well remarked, if ever the phrase was permissible, it might then be truly said that the name of the departed Prince was truly conspicuous by its absence, for never was the gap that this event has made in our national life, as well as in the domestic happiness of the Palace, more vividly realised than when the name that has mingled so familiarly in our prayers for the last twenty years was, for the first time, left out of our public devotions." Many thousands of mute pious petitions were specially addressed to Heaven for the bereaved widow and orphans when the prayer of the Litany for "all who are desolate and oppressed" was uttered, and in the chapels of Nonconformists the extemporaneous prayers of the ministers gave articulate expression to the heartfelt orisons of the silent worshippers. Every one thought of and felt for the Queen, and during the week intervening between the death and the funeral, the question on every one's lips in all places of resort, and where men and women congregated, was, "How will the Queen bear it?" Prince Albert sleeps the long sleep at Frogmore, to which his mortal remains were borne reverently, and without ostentation, as he himself would have wished. The inscription on his coffin ran thus:-- DEPOSITUM ILLUSTRISSIMI ET CELSISSIMI ALBERTI, PRINCIPIS CONSORTIS, DUCIS SAXONIÆ, DE SAXE-COBURG ET GOTHA PRINCIPIS, NOBILISSIMI ORDINIS PERISCELIDIS EQUITIS, AUGUSTISSIMÆ ET POTENTISSIMÆ VICTORIÆ REGINÆ, CONJUGIS PERCARISSIMI, OBIIT DIE DECIMO QUARTO DECEMBRIS, MDCCCLXI. ANNO ÆTATIS SUÆ XLIII. [Here lies the most illustrious and exalted Albert, Prince Consort, Duke of Saxony, Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, the most beloved husband of the most august and potent Queen Victoria. He died on the fourteenth day of December, 1861, in the forty-third year of his age.] Thus died and was buried a great and a good man, one of the most useful men of his age, one to whom England owes much. "For that he loved our Queen, And, for her sake, the people of her love, Few and far distant names shall rank above His own, where England's cherish'd names are seen." [Sidenote: THE QUEEN IN HER WIDOWHOOD.] The Queen has ever since her great bereavement most constantly and piously revered the Prince's memory. Her reverence has taken the practical form of the deepest sympathy with the woes and sorrows of the poorest and humblest of her subjects. She has eschewed the pomp and ceremony of State, and deliberately set herself to discover and soothe sorrow, and to recognise all good deeds of the same character performed by others. When the noble Peabody bestowed his princely act of munificence on the poor of London, no recognition was made of his generosity more signal than that made by the Queen. She has been among the first to help by loving words and by practical aid the sufferers by any great national calamity--a Lancashire famine, a shipwreck or railway accident, a colliery explosion, a catastrophe caused by mad and futile sedition. Ready and sympathetic condolence has especially flowed from her to those bereaved like herself, and when President Lincoln perished at his post, the Queen sent to his widow a long letter which her son described as "the outgushing of a woman's heartfelt sympathy," and which, with rare and commendable good taste, has never been exposed to the public eye. Most fitly has she specially commemorated her husband's memory by the institution of a fit companion and complement to the Victoria Cross, the "Albert Medal," which is bestowed on brave men who save lives from the "Peril of the Sea or Shipwreck." Many consolations have been vouchsafed by Heaven to the widowed Queen. Since she lost her great stay and support her realm has for the most part been prosperous and contented. Though environed by many troubles, and though the clang of battle has shaken the world, the dove of peace has benignantly hovered o'er Britain. Much advance has been made in those fields of social, moral, political, and educational improvement which were so dear to Albert's heart, as they have always been to her own. And shortly before the period when these pages are first given to the public, the political progress of the nation has received a great stimulus, such as is given in a people's history only at rare and long intervals. Her children grow up from youth to maturity, and from maturity to maternity and paternity, without a slur upon their fair names, and are, with those to whom the elder of them have united themselves in wedlock, all that a proud mother's heart could wish. God has stricken her; but He has proved also an Infinite Healer and Solacer. Ours be it to add to the ordinary motives of patriotism, those more tender and touching influences which arise from the recollection that our Queen is now, as said that Queen of England whose subjects were Shakespeare and Bacon, Spenser and Sidney--"Married to her People." THE END. CASSELL, PETTER, AND GALPIN, BELLE SAUVAGE WORKS, LONDON, E.C. CASSELL'S REPRESENTATIVE BIOGRAPHIES. VOL. I. _Life of John Bright_ 50 cents. VOL. II. _Life of W. E. Gladstone_ 50 cents. VOL. III. _Life of B. Disraeli_ 50 cents. VOL. IV. _Life of Queen Victoria_ 75 cents. OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION. FELT & DILLINGHAM, 455, BROOME STREET, NEW YORK. 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QUEER CREATURES, DRAWN BY ONE OF THEMSELVES. ÆSOP'S FABLES. (21 Plates.) _Old Friends and New Faces_, COMPRISING ROBINSON CRUSOE. COCK SPARROW. QUEER CREATURES. ÆSOP'S FABLES. With 24 Full-Page Illustrations, beautifully printed in colours by KRONHEIM. In Demy 4to, on cloth, elegantly gilt $2 50 _Any Book on this List sent postage or express paid, on receipt of price._ 6469 ---- This file was produced from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions. QUEEN VICTORIA. HER GIRLHOOD AND WOMANHOOD. BY GRACE GREENWOOD A DEDICATORY LETTER TO CAMILLA TOULMIN (MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND), LINTON LODGE, BLACKHEATH PARK: Permit me, my dear friend, to inscribe to you this very imperfect Life of your beloved Queen, in remembrance of that dear old time when the world was brighter and more beautiful than it is now (or so it seemeth to me) and things in general were pleasanter;--when better books were written, especially biographies, and there were fewer of them;--when the "gentle reader" and the "indulgent critic" were extant;--when Realism had not shouldered his way into Art;--when there were great actors and actresses of the fine old school, like Macready and the elder Booth--Helen Faucit and Charlotte Cushman; and real orators, like Daniel O'Connell and Daniel Webster;--when there was more poetry and more romance in life than now;-- when it took less silk to make a gown, but when a bonnet was a bonnet;-- when there was less east-wind and fog, more moonlight to the month, and more sunlight to the acre;--when the scent of the blossoming hawthorn was sweeter in the morning, and the song of the nightingale more melodious in the twilight;--when, in short, you and I, and the glorious Victorian era, were young. GRACE GREENWOOD. PREFACE. I send this book out to the world with many misgivings, feeling that it is not what I would like it to be--not what I could have made it with more time. I have found it especially difficult to procure facts and incidents of the early life of the Queen--just that period which I felt was of most interest to my younger readers. So much was I delayed that for the actual arrangement and culling of my material, and the writing of the volume, I have had less than three months, and during that time many interruptions in my work--the most discouraging caused by a serious trouble of the eyes. I am aware that the book is written in a free and easy style, partly natural, and partly formed by many years of journalistic work--a style new for the grave business of biographical writing, and which may be startling in a royal biography,--to my English readers, at least. I aimed to make a pleasant, simple fireside story of the life and reign of Queen Victoria--and I hope I have not altogether failed. Unluckily, I had no friend near the throne to furnish me with reliable, unpublished personal anecdotes of Her Majesty. I have made use of the labor of several English authors; first, of that of the Queen herself, in the books entitled, "Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands," and "The Early Years of His Royal Highness the Prince-Consort"; next, of that of Sir Theodore Martin, K.C.B., in his "Life of the Prince-Consort." For this last appropriation I have Sir Theodore Martin's gracious permission. I am much indebted to Hon. Justin McCarthy, in his "History of Our Own Times." I have also been aided by various compilations, and by Lord Ronald Gower's "Reminiscences." I have long felt that the wonderful story of the life of the Queen of England--of her example as a daughter, wife and mother, and as the honored head of English society could but have, if told simply, yet sympathetically, a happy and ennobling influence on the hearts and minds of my young countrywomen. I have done my work, if lightly, with entire respect, though always as an American and a republican. I could not do otherwise; for, though it has made me in love with a few royal people, it has not made me in love with royalty. I cannot but think that, so far from its being a condition of itself ennobling to human character, those born into it have often to fight to maintain a native nobility,--as Queen Victoria has fought, as Prince Albert fought,--for I find the "blameless Prince" saying: "To my mind the exaltation of royalty is only possible through the personal character of the sovereign." It suits England, however, "excellent well," in its restricted constitutional form; she has all the venerable, splendid accessories--and I hope "Albert the Good" may have founded a long race of good kings; but it would not do for us;--a race cradled in revolution, and nurtured on irreverence and unbelief, as regards the divine right of kings and the law of primogeniture. To us it seems, though a primitive, an unnatural institution. We find no analogies for it, even in the wildest venture of the New World. It is true the buffalo herd has its kingly commander, who goes plunging along ahead, like a flesh-and-blood locomotive; the drove of wild horses has its chieftain, tossing his long mane, like a banner, in advance of his fellows; even the migratory multitudes of wild-fowl, darkening the autumn heavens, have their general and engineer,--but none of these leaders was born, or hatched into his proud position. They are undoubtedly chosen, elected, or elect themselves by superior will or wisdom. Entomology does, indeed, furnish some analogies. The sagacious bees, the valiant wasps, are monarchists,--but then, they have only queens. G. G. LONDON, _October 20th_, 1883. CONTENTS. PART I. CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD PART II. WOMANHOOD AND QUEENHOOD PART III. WIFEHOOD AND MOTHERHOOD PART IV. WIDOWHOOD ILLUSTRATIONS 1. THE PRINCESS VICTORIA. 2. QUEEN VICTORIA AT THE AGE OF 18. 3. THE DUCHESS OF KENT, MOTHER OF THE QUEEN. 4. THE QUEEN AT THE AGE OF 64. 5. PRINCE ALBERT, HUSBAND OF THE QUEEN. PART I. CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD. CHAPTER I. Sketch of the Princess Charlotte--Her Love for her Mother--Anecdotes--Her Happy Girlhood--Her Marriage with Prince Leopold--Her Beautiful Life at Claremont--Baron Stockmar, the Coburg Mentor--Death of the Princess Charlotte. It seems to me that the life of Queen Victoria cannot well be told without a prefacing sketch of her cousin, the Princess Charlotte, who, had she lived, would have been her Queen, and who was in many respects her prototype. It is certain, I think, that Charlotte Augusta of Wales, that lovely miracle-flower of a loveless marriage, blooming into a noble and gracious womanhood, amid the petty strifes and disgraceful intrigues of a corrupt Court, by her virtues and graces, by her high spirit and frank and fearless character, prepared the way in the loyal hearts of the British people, for the fair young kinswoman, who, twenty-one years after her own sad death, reigned in her stead. Through all the bright life of the Princess Charlotte--from her beautiful childhood to her no less beautiful maturity--the English people had regarded her proudly and lovingly as their sovereign, who was to be; they had patience with the melancholy madness of the poor old King, her grandfather, and with the scandalous irregularities of the Prince Regent, her father, in looking forward to happier and better things under a good woman's reign; and after all those fair hopes had been coffined with her, and buried in darkness and silence, their hearts naturally turned to the royal little girl, who might possibly fill the place left so drearily vacant. England had always been happy and prosperous under Queens, and a Queen, please God, they would yet have. The Princess Charlotte was the only child of the marriage of the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV., with the Princess Caroline of Brunswick, Her childhood was overshadowed by the hopeless estrangement of her parents. She seems to have especially loved her mother, and by the courage and independence she displayed in her championship of that good- hearted but most eccentric and imprudent woman, endeared herself to the English people, who equally admired her pluck and her filial piety--on the maternal side. They took a fond delight in relating stories of rebellion against her august papa, and even against her awful grandmamma, Queen Charlotte. They told how once, when a mere slip of a girl, being forbidden to pay her usual visit to her poor mother, she insisted on going, and on the Queen undertaking to detain her by force, resisted, struggling right valiantly, and after damaging and setting comically awry the royal mob-cap, broke away, ran out of the palace, sprang into a hackney-coach, and promising the driver a guinea, was soon at her mother's house and in her mother's arms. There is another--a Court version of this hackney-coach story--which states that it was not the Queen, but the Prince Regent that the Princess ran away from--so that there could have been no assault on a mob-cap. But the common people of that day preferred the version I have given, as more piquant, especially as old Queen Charlotte was known to be the most solemnly grand of grandmammas, and a personage of such prodigious dignity that it was popularly supposed that only Kings and Queens, with their crowns actually on their heads, were permitted to sit in her presence. As a young girl, the Princess Charlotte was by no means without faults of temper and manner. She was at times self-willed, passionate, capricious, and imperious, though ordinarily good-humored, kindly, and sympathetic. A Court lady of the time, speaking of her, says: "She is very clever, but at present has the manners of a hoyden school-girl. She talked all sorts of nonsense to me, but can put on dignity when she chooses." This writer also relates that the royal little lady loved to shock her attendants by running to fetch for herself articles she required--her hat, a book, or a chair--and that one summer, when she stayed at a country-house, she would even run to open the gate to visitors, curtsying to them like a country lassie. The Earl of Albemarle, who was her playmate in childhood, his grandmother being her governess, relates that one time when they had the Prince Regent to lunch, the chop came up spoiled, and it was found that Her Royal Highness had descended into the kitchen, and, to the dismay of the cook, insisted on broiling it. Albemarle adds that he, boy-like, taunted her with her culinary failure, saying: "_You_ would make a pretty Queen, wouldn't you?" At another time, some years later, she came in her carriage to make a morning-call at his grandmother's, and seeing a crowd gathered before the door, attracted by the royal liveries, she ran out a back-way, came round, and mingled with the curious throng unrecognized, and as eager to see the Princess as any of them. Not being allowed the society of her mother, and that of her father not being considered wholesome for her, the Princess was early advised and urged to take a companion and counsellor in the shape of a husband. The Prince of Orange, afterwards King of the Netherlands, was fixed upon as a good _parti_ by her royal relatives, and he came courting to the English Court. But the Princess did hot altogether fancy this aspirant, so, after her independent fashion, she declined the alliance, and "the young man went away sorrowing." One of the ladies of the Princess used to tell how for a few minutes after the Prince had called to make his sad _adieux_, she hoped that Her Royal Highness had relented because she walked thoughtfully to the window to see the last of him as he descended the palace steps and sprang into his carriage, looking very grand in his red uniform, with a tuft of green feathers in his hat. But when the Princess turned away with a gay laugh, saying, "How like a radish he looks," she knew that all was over. It is an odd little coincidence, that a later Prince of Orange, afterwards King of the Netherlands, had the same bad luck as a suitor to the Princess or Queen Victoria. Charlotte's next lover, Leopold, of Saxe-Coburg, an amiable and able Prince, was more fortunate. He won the light but constant heart of the Princess, inspiring her not only with tender love, but with profound respect. Her high spirit and imperious will were soon tamed to his firm but gentle hand; she herself became more gentle and reasonable, content to rule the kingdom of his heart at least, by her womanly charms, rather than by the power of her regal name and lofty position. This royal love- marriage took place in May, 1816, and soon after the Prince and Princess, who had little taste for Court gaieties, went to live at Claremont, the beautiful country residence now occupied by the young Duke of Albany, a namesake of Prince Leopold. Here the young couple lived a life of much domestic privacy and simplicity, practicing themselves in habits of study, methodical application to business, and wise economy. They were always together, spending happy hours in work and recreation, passing from law and politics to music and sketching, from the study of the British Constitution to horticulture. The Princess especially delighted in gardening, in watering with her own hands her favorite plants. This happy pair had an invaluable aid and ally in the learned Baron Stockmar, early attached to Prince Leopold as private physician, a rare, good man on whom they both leaned much, as afterwards did Victoria and Albert and their children. Indeed the Baron seems to have been a permanent pillar for princes to lean upon. From youth to old age he was to two or three royal households the chief "guide, philosopher, and friend"--a Coburg mentor, a Guelphic oracle. So these royal lovers of Claremont lived tranquilly on, winning the love and respect of all about them, and growing dearer and dearer to each other till the end came, the sudden death of the young wife and mother,-- an event which, on a sad day in November, 1817, plunged the whole realm into mourning. The grief of the people, even those farthest removed from the Court, was real, intense, almost personal and passionate. It was a double tragedy, for the child too was dead. The accounts of the last moments of the Princess are exceedingly touching. When told that her baby boy was not living, she said: "I am grieved, for myself, for the English people, but O, above all, I feel it for my dear husband!" Taking an opportunity when the Prince was away from her bedside, she asked if she too must die. The physician did not directly reply, but said, "Pray be calm." "I know what _that_ means," she replied, then added, "Tell it to my husband,--tell it with caution and tenderness, and be sure to say to him, from me, that I am still the happiest wife in England." It seems, according to the Queen, that it was Stockmar that took this last message to the Prince, who lacked the fortitude to remain by the bedside of his dying wife--that it was Stockmar who held her hand till it grew pulseless and cold, till the light faded from her sweet blue eyes as her great life and her great love passed forever from the earth. Yet it seems that through a mystery of transmigration, that light and life and love were destined soon to be reincarnated in a baby cousin, born in May, 1819, called at first "the little May-flower," and through her earliest years watched and tended as a frail and delicate blossom of hope. CHAPTER II. Birth of the Princess Victoria--Character of her Father--Question of the Succession to the Throne--Death of the Duke of Kent--Baptism of Victoria --Removal to Woolbrook Glen--Her first Escape from Sudden Death--Picture of Domestic Life--Anecdotes. After the loss of his wife, Prince Leopold left for a time his sad home of Claremont, and returned to the Continent, but came back some time in 1819, to visit a beloved sister, married since his own bereavement, and become the mother of a little English girl, and for the second time a widow. Lovingly, though with a pang at his heart, the Prince bent over the cradle of this eight-months-old baby, who in her unconscious orphanage smiled into his kindly face, and though he thought sorrowfully of the little one whose eyes had never smiled into his, had never even opened upon life, he vowed then and there to the child of his bereaved sister, the devoted love, the help, sympathy, and guidance which never failed her while he lived. This baby girl was the daughter of the Duke of Kent and of the Princess Victoire Marie Louise of Saxe-Coburg Saalfield, widow of Prince Charles of Leiningen. Edward, Duke of Kent, was the fourth and altogether the best son of George III. Making all allowance for the exaggeration of loyal biographers, I should say he was an amiable, able, and upright man, generous and charitable to a remarkable degree, for a royal Prince of that time--perhaps too much so, for he kept himself poor and died poor. He was not a favorite with his royal parents, who seem to have denied him reasonable assistance, while lavishing large sums on his spendthrift brother, the Prince of Wales. George was like the prodigal son of Scripture, except that he never repented--Edward like the virtuous son, except that he never complained. On the death of the Princess Charlotte the Duke of York had become heir- presumptive to the throne. He had no children, and the Duke of Clarence, third son of George III., was therefore next in succession. He married in the same year as his brother of Kent, and to him also a little daughter was born, who, had she lived, would have finally succeeded to the throne instead of Victoria. But the poor little Princess stayed but a little while to flatter or disappoint royal hopes. She looked timidly out upon life, with all its regal possibilities, and went away untempted. Still the Duchess of Clarence (afterwards Queen Adelaide) might yet be the happy mother of a Prince, or Princess Royal, and there were so many probabilities against the accession of the Duke of Kent's baby to the throne that people smiled when, holding her in his arms, the proud father would say, in a spirit of prophecy, "Look at her well!--she will yet be Queen of England." One rainy afternoon the Duke stayed out late, walking in the grounds, and came in with wet feet. He was urged to change his boots and stockings, but his pretty baby, laughing and crowing on her mother's knee, was too much for him; he took her in his arms and played with her till the fatal chill struck him. He soon took to his bed, which he never left. He had inflammation of the lungs, and a country doctor, which last took from him one hundred and twenty ounces of blood. Then, as he grew no better, a great London physician was called in, but he said it was too late to save the illustrious patient; that if he had had charge of the case at first, he would have "bled more freely." Such was the medical system of sixty years ago. The Duke of Kent's death brought his unconscious baby's feet a step--just his grave's width--nearer the throne; but it was not till many years later--till after the death of her kindly uncle of York, and her "fine gentleman" uncle, George IV., and the accession of her rough sailor- uncle, the Duke of Clarence, William IV., an old man, and legally considered childless--that the Princess Victoria was confidently regarded as the coming sovereign, and that the momentous truth was revealed to her. She was twelve years old before any clear intimation had been allowed to reach her of the exceptional grandeur of her destiny. Till then she did not know that she was especially an object of national love and hope, or especially great or fortunate. She knew that she was a "Royal Highness," but she knew also, the wise child!--that since the Guelphs came over to rule the English, Royal Highnesses had been more plentiful than popular; she knew that she was obliged to wear, most of the time, very plain cotton gowns and straw hats, and to learn a lot of tiresome things, and that she was kept on short allowance of pin-money and ponies. The wise Duchess of Kent certainly guarded her with the most jealous care from all premature realization of the splendid part she might have to play in the world's history, as a hope too intoxicating, or a responsibility too heavy, for the heart and mind of a sensitive child. I wonder if her Serene Highness kept fond motherly records of the babyhood and childhood of the Queen? If so, what a rich mine it would be for a poor bewildered biographer like me, required to make my foundation bricks with only a few golden bits of straw. I have searched the chronicles of the writers of that time; I have questioned loyal old people, but have found or gained little that is novel, or peculiarly interesting. Victoria was born in the sombre but picturesque old palace of Kensington, on May 24, 1819, and on the 24th of the following June was baptized with great pomp out of the splendid gold font, brought from the Tower, by the Archbishop of Canterbury, assisted by the Bishop of London. Her sponsors were the Prince Regent and the Emperor of Russia (the last represented by the Duke of York), the Queen Dowager of Würtemburg (represented by the Princess Augusta) and the Duchess Dowager of Coburg (represented by the Duchess Dowager of Gloucester), and her names were _Alexandrina Victoria_, the first in honor of the Emperor Alexander of Russia. She came awfully near being Alexandrina Georgiana, but the Prince Regent, at the last moment, declared that the name of Georgiana should be second to no other; then added, "Give her her mother's name--after that of the Emperor." The Queen afterwards decided that her mother's name should be second to no other. Yet as a child she was often called "little Drina." The baby's first move from her stately birthplace was to a lovely country residence called Woolbrook Glen, near Sidmouth. Here Victoria had the first of those remarkable narrow escapes from sudden and violent death which have almost seemed to prove that she bears a "charmed life." A boy was shooting sparrows in vicinity of the house, and a charge from his carelessly-handled gun pierced the window by which the nurse was sitting, with the little Princess in her arms. It is stated that the shot passed frightfully near the head of the child. But she was as happily unconscious of the deadly peril she had been in as, a few months later, she was of the sad loss she sustained in the death of her father, who was laid away with the other Guelphs in the Windsor Royal Vault, never again to throne his little "Queen" in his loyal, loving arms. The Princess Victoria seems to have been always ready for play, dearly loving a romp. One of the earliest mentions I find of her is in the correspondence of Bishop Wilberforce. After stating that he had been summoned to the presence of the Duchess of Kent, he says: "She received me with her fine, animated child on the floor by her side busy with its playthings, of which I soon became one." This little domestic picture gives a glimpse of the tender intimacy, the constant companionship of this noble mother with her child. It is stated that, unlike most mothers in high life, the Duchess nursed this illustrious child at her own breast, and so mingled her life with its life that nothing thenceforth could divide them. The wee Princess passed happily through the perils of infantile ailments. She cut her teeth as easily as most children, with the help of her gold-mounted coral--and very nice teeth they were, though a little too prominent according to the early pictures. If the infant Prince Albert reminded his grandmamma of a "weasel," his "pretty cousin" might have suggested to her a squirrel by "a little something about the mouth." An old newspaper writer gave a rather rapturous and pompous account of the Princess Victoria when she was about three years old. He says: "Passing through Kensington Gardens a few days since, I observed at some distance a party consisting of several ladies, a young child, and two men-servants, having in charge a donkey, gayly caparisoned with blue ribbons, and accoutred for the use of the infant." He soon ascertained that the party was the Duchess of Kent and her daughter, the Princess Feodore of Leiningen, and the Princess Alexandrina Victoria. On his approaching them the little one replied to his "respectful recognition" with a pleasant "good-morning," and he noted that she was equally polite to all who politely greeted her--truly one "to the manner born." This writer adds: "Her Royal Highness is remarkably beautiful, and her gay and animated countenance bespeaks perfect health and good temper. Her complexion is excessively fair, her eyes large and expressive, and her cheeks blooming. She bears a striking resemblance to her royal father." A glimpse which Leigh Hunt gives of his little liege lady, as she appeared to him for the first time in Kensington Gardens, is interesting, as revealing the child's affectionate disposition. "She was coming up a cross-path from the Bayswater Gate, with a little girl of her own age by her side, whose hand she was holding as though she loved her." And why not, Mr. Poet? Princesses, especially Princesses of the bread-and-butter age, are as susceptible to joys of sympathy and companionship as any of us--untitled poets and title-contemning Republicans. Lord Albemarle, in his autobiography, speaks of watching, in an idle hour, from the windows of the old palace, "the movements of a bright, pretty little girl, seven years of age, engaged in watering the plants immediately under the window. It was amusing to see how impartially she divided the contents of the watering-pot between the flowers and her own little feet. Her simple but becoming dress--a large straw hat and a white cotton gown--contrasted favorably with the gorgeous apparel now worn by the little damsels of the rising generation. A colored fichu round the neck was the only ornament she wore. The young lady I am describing was the Princess Victoria, now our Gracious Sovereign." Queen Victoria dressed her own children in the same simple style, voted quaint and old-fashioned by a later generation. I heard long ago a story of a fashionable lady from some provincial town taking a morning walk in Windsor Park, in the wild hope of a glimpse of royalty, and meeting a lady and gentleman, accompanied only by two or three children, and all so plainly dressed that she merely glanced at them as they passed. Some distance further she walked in her eager quest, when she met an old Scotch gardener, of whom she asked if there was any chance of her encountering the Queen anywhere on the domain. "Weel, ye maun, turn back and rin a good bit, for you've passed her _Mawjesty_, the Prince, and the Royal bairns." Ah, wasn't she spited as she looked back and saw the joyous family party in the dim distance, and realized what she had lost in not indulging herself in a good long British stare, and what a sin she had committed in not making a loyal British obeisance. CHAPTER III. Victoria's early Education--Anecdote--Routine of Life at Kensington Palace--Character and Circumstances of the Duchess of Kent--Anecdote-- Simple Mode of Life--Visits. Queen Victoria tells little of her childhood, but speaks of it as rather "dull." It seems, however, to have never been empty or idle. All her moments were golden--for study, or for work, or healthful exercise and play. She was taught, and perhaps was inclined, to waste no time, and to be careful not to cause others to waste it. A dear English friend contributes the following anecdote, slight, but very significant, obtained long ago from a lady whose young daughters, then at school at Hammersmith, had the same writing-master as the Princess Victoria: "Of course," says my friend, "every incident connected with the little Princess was interesting to the school-girls, and all that this master (I think his name was Steward) had to tell went to prove her a kind-hearted and considerate child. "She always mentioned to him in advance the days on which she would not require a lesson, saying: 'I thought, perhaps, you would like to know.' Sometimes she would say, 'We are going to Windsor to see Uncle King,' or she would name some other important engagement. By 'Uncle King' she meant George IV. Mr. Steward, of course, availed himself of the liberty suggested by the little Princess, then about eight years old, by whose thoughtful kindness he was saved much time and trouble." Lord Campbell, speaking of the Princess as a little girl, says: "She seems in good health, and appears lively and good-humored." It may be that the good-humor was, in great part, the result of the good health. The Princess was brought up after the wisest, because most simple, system of healthful living: perfect regularity in the hours of eating, sleeping, and exercise; much life in the open air, and the least possible excitement. She was taught to respect her own constitution as well as that of the British Government, and to reverence the laws of health as the laws of God. An account which I judge to be authoritative of the daily routine of the family life in Kensington, runs thus: "Breakfast at 8 o'clock in summer, the Princess Victoria having her bread and milk and fruit put on a little table by her mother's side. After breakfast the Princess Feodore studied with her governess, and the Princess Victoria went out for an hour's walk or drive. From 10 to 12 her mother instructed her, after which she could amuse herself by running through the suite of rooms which extended round two sides of the palace, and in which were many of her toys. At 2 a plain dinner, while her mother took her luncheon. Lessons again till 4; then would come a visit or drive, and after that a walk or donkey ride in the gardens. At the time of her mother's dinner the Princess had her supper, still at the side of the Duchess; then, after playing with her nurse (Mrs. Brock, whom she called 'dear, dear Boppy'), she would join the party at dessert, and at 9 she would retire to her bed, which was placed at the side of her mother's." We see regular study, regular exercise, simple food, plenty of outdoor air, plenty of play, plenty of sleep. It seems that when this admirable mother laid her child away from her own breast, it was only to lay it on that of Nature, and very close has Victoria, with all her state and grandeur, kept to the heart of the great all-mother ever since. The Duchess of Kent was left not only with very limited means for a lady of her station, but also burdened by her husband's debts, which, being a woman with a fine sense of honor, she felt herself obliged to discharge, or at least to reduce as far and fast as possible. Had it not been for help from her generous brother, Leopold, she could hardly have afforded for her daughter the full and fitting education she received. So, had not her taste and her sense of duty towards her child inclined her to a life of quiet and retirement, the lack of fortune would have constrained her to live simply and modestly. As it was, privacy was the rule in the life of the accomplished Duchess, still young and beautiful, and in that of her little shadow; very seldom did they appear at Court, or in any gay Court circle; so, at the time of her accession to the throne, Victoria might almost have been a fairy-princess, emerging from some enchanted dell in Windsor forest, or a water-nymph evoked from the Serpentine in Kensington Gardens by some modern Merlin, for all the world at large--the world beyond her kingdom at least--knew of her young years, of her character and disposition. Now few witnesses are left anywhere of her fair happy childhood, or even of her girlhood, which was like a silvery crescent, holding the dim promise of full-orbed womanhood and Queenhood. As the Princess grew older, she found loving and helpful companionship in her half-brother and sister, Prince Charles and the Princess Feodore of Leiningen, the three children and their mother forming a close family union, which years and separations and changes of fortune never destroyed. They are all gone from her now; the Queen, as daughter and sister, stands alone. A kind friend and a well-known English writer, F. Aiken Kortright, for many years a resident of Kensington, tells some pleasant little local stories of the Princess Victoria. She says: "In her childhood the Princess Victoria was frequently seen in a little carriage, drawn over the gravel-walks of the then rural Kensington Gardens, accompanied by her elder and half-sister, the Princess Feodore, and attended by a single servant. Many elderly people still remember the extreme simplicity of the child's attire, and the quiet and unpretentious appearance and manners of her sister, who was one day seen to stop the tiny carriage to indulge the fancy of an unknown little girl by allowing her to kiss her future Queen." That "unknown little girl" was an elder sister of Miss Kortright. My friend also says that the Duchess of Kent and her daughters frequently on summer afternoons took tea on the lawn, "in sight of admiring promenaders, with a degree of publicity which now sounds fabulous." It was then safe and agreeable for that quiet, refined family, only because the London "Rough"--that ugly, unwholesome, fungous growth on the fine old oak of English character--had not made his unwelcome appearance in all the public parks of the metropolis. Our friend also states that so simple and little-girlish was the Princess in her ways that, later on, she was known to go with her mother or sister to a Kensington milliner's to buy a hat, stay to have it trimmed, and then carry it (or more likely the old one) home in her hand. I should like to see a little Miss Vanderbilt do a thing of that kind! The Kents and Leiningens--if I may speak so familiarly of Royal and Serene Highnesses--when away from the quiet home in Kensington, spent much time at lovely Claremont as guests of the dear brother and Uncle Leopold. They seem also to have travelled a good deal in England, visiting watering-places and in houses of the nobility, but never to have gone over to the Continent. The Duchess probably felt that the precious life which she held in trust for the people of England might possibly be endangered by too long journeys, or by changes of climate; but what it cost to the true German woman to so long exile herself from her old home and her kindred none ever knew--at least none among her husband's unsympathetic family--for she was, as a Princess, too proud to complain; as a mother, cheerful in her devotion and self-abnegation. CHAPTER IV. Queen-making not a Light Task--Admirable Discipline of the Duchess of Kent--Foundation of the Character and Habits of the future Queen--Curious Extract from a Letter by her Grandmamma--A Children's Ball given by George IV. to the little Queen of Portugal--A Funny Mishap--Death of George IV.--Character of his Successor--Victoria's first appearance at a Drawing-room--Her absence from the Coronation of William IV. Queen-making is not a light task. It is no fancywork for idle hours. It is the first difficult draft of a chapter, perhaps a whole volume, of national history. No woman ever undertook a more important labor than did the widowed Duchess of Kent, or carried it out with more faithfulness, if we may judge by results. The lack of fortune in the family was not an unmixed evil; perhaps it was even one of those disagreeable "blessings in disguise," which nobody welcomes, but which the wise profit by, as it caused the Duchess to impress upon her children, especially the child Victoria, the necessity of economy, and the safety and dignity which one always finds in living within one's income. Frugality, exactitude in business, faithfulness to all engagements, great or small, punctuality, that economy of time, are usually set down among the minor moralities of life, more humdrum than heroic; but under how many circumstances and conditions do they reveal themselves as cardinal virtues, as things on which depend the comfort and dignity of life! It seems that these things were so impressed on the mind and heart of the young Victoria by her careful, methodical German mother, that they became a part of her conscience, entered so deeply into the rule of her life that no after-condition of wealth, or luxury, or sovereign independence; no natural desire for ease or pleasure; no passion of love or grief; no possible exigencies of imperial state have been able to overcome or set them aside. The danger is that such rigid principles, such systematic habits, adopted in youth, may in age become, from being the ministers of one's will, the tyrants of one's life. It seems to be somewhat so in the case of the Queen, for I hear it said that the sun, the moon, and the tides are scarcely more punctual and regular in their rounds and mighty offices, in their coming and going, than she in the daily routine of her domestic and state duties and frequent journeyings; and that the laws of the Medes and Persians are as naught in inexorableness and inflexibility to the rules and regulations of Windsor and Balmoral. But the English people, even those directly inconvenienced at times by those unbending habits and irrevocable rules, have no right to find fault, for these be the right royal results of the admirable but somewhat unyouthful qualities they adored in the young Queen. They have no right to sneer because a place of honor is given in Her Majesty's household to that meddlesome, old-fashioned German country cousin, Economy; for did not they all rejoice in the early years of the reign to hear of this same dame being introduced by those clever managers, Prince Albert and Baron Stockmar, into the royal palaces, wherein she had not been seen for many a year? But to return to the little Princess. The Duchess, her mother, seems to have given her all needful change of air and scene, though always maintaining; habits of study, and an admirable system of mental and moral training; for the child's constitution seems to have strengthened year by year, and in spite of one or two serious attacks of illness, the foundation was laid of the robust health which, accompanied by rare courage and nerve, has since so marked and blessed her life. A writer of the time speaks of a visit paid by her and her mother to Windsor in 1829, when the child was about seven years old, and states that George IV., her "Uncle King," was delighted with her "charming manners." It was about this visit that her maternal grandmamma at Coburg wrote to her mamma: "I see by the English papers that Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent went on Virginia water with His Majesty. The little monkey must have pleased and amused him, she is such a pretty, clever child." To think of the great Victoria, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, and Empress of India, being called "a little monkey"! Grandmammas will take such liberties. Three or four years later, according to that spicy and irreverent chronicler, Charles Greville, the little Princess was not pretty. But she was just entering on that ungracious period in which few little girls are comely to look upon, or comfortable to themselves. Greville saw her at a children's ball, given by the King in honor of his little guest, the child-Queen of Portugal, Donna Maria II., da Gloria, whom the King seated at his right hand, and was very attentive to. Greville says she was fine-looking and very finely dressed, "with a ribbon and order over her shoulder," and she must have seemed very grand to the other children while she sat by the King, but when she came to dance she "fell down and hurt her face, was frightened and bruised, and went away." Then he adds: "Our little Princess is a short, plain child, not so good-looking as the Portuguese. However, if Nature has not done so much, Fortune is likely to do a great deal more for her." Victoria did not know that, but like any other little girl she may, perhaps, have comforted herself by thinking, "Well, if I'm not so handsome and grand and smartly dressed as that Maria, I'm less awkward. I was able to keep my head and not lose my feet." As for her small Majesty of Portugal, she was at that time a Queen without a crown and without a kingdom. She had come all the way from Brazil to take her grandfather's throne, a little present from her father, Dom Pedro I., the rightful heir, but only to find the place filled by a wicked uncle, Don Miguel. She had a long fight with the usurper, her father coming over to help her, and finally ousted Miguel and got into that big, uneasy arm-chair, called a throne, where she continued to sit, though much shaken and heaved up and about by political convulsions, for some dozen years, when she found it best to step down and out. It is said she did not gain, but lost in beauty as she grew to womanhood; so finally the English Princess had the advantage of her in the matter of good looks even. King George IV., though he was fond of his amusing little niece, did not like to think of her as destined to rule in his place. He is said to have been much offended when, as he was proposing to give that ball, his chief favorite, a gay, Court lady, exclaimed: "Oh, do! it will be so nice to see the _two little Queens_ dancing together." Yet he disliked the Duchess of Kent for keeping the child as much as possible away from his disreputable Court, and educating her after her own ideas, and often threatened to use his power as King to deprive her of the little girl. The country would not have stood this, yet the Duchess must have suffered cruelly from fear of having her darling child taken from her by this crowned ogre, and shut up in the gloomy keep of his Castle at Windsor. But it was the Ogre-King who was taken, a little more than a year after the children's ball--and not a day too soon for his country's good--and his brother, the Duke of Clarence, reigned in his stead. William IV. had some heart, some frankness and honesty, but he was a bluff, rough sailor, and when excited, oaths of the hottest sort flew from his lips, like sparks from an anvil. Because of his roughness and profanity, and because, perhaps, of the fact of his surrounding himself with a lot of natural children, the Duchess was determined to persevere in her retirement from the Court circle, and in keeping her innocent little daughter out of its unwholesome atmosphere, as much as possible. She was, however, most friendly with Queen Adelaide, who, when her last child died, had written to her: "My children are dead, but yours lives, and she is mine too." The good woman meant this, and her fondness was returned by Victoria, who manifested for her to the last, filial affection and consideration. The first Drawing-room which the Princess attended was one given in honor of Her Majesty's birthday. She went with her mother and a suite of ladies and gentlemen in State carriages, escorted by a party of Life Guards. The Princess was on that occasion dressed entirely in materials of British manufacture, her frock being of English blonde, very simple and becoming. She stood at the left of her aunt, the Queen, and watched the splendid ceremony with great interest, while everybody watched her with greater interest. But if the presence of the "heir-presumptive to the throne" created a sensation at the Queen's Drawing-room, her absence from the King's coronation created more. Some said it was because a proper place in the procession--one next to the King and Queen--had not been assigned to her; others, that the Duchess had kept her away on account of her delicate health, and nobody knew exactly the truth of the matter. Perhaps the great state secret will be revealed some day with the identity of "Junius" and the "Man in the Iron Mask." CHAPTER V. King William jealous of Public Honors to Victoria--Anecdote--The unusual Studies of the Princess--Her Visits to the Isle of Wight--Laughable Incident at Wentworth House--Anecdote related by her Music-teacher-- Unwholesome adulation of the Princess--Reflections upon the curious isolation of her Social Position--Extract from one of her later Letters. The indifference of the Duchess of Kent to the heavy pomps and heavier gayeties of his Court so offended his unmajestic Majesty, that he finally became decidedly inimical to the Duchess. Though he insisted on seeing the little Princess often, he did not like the English people to see too much of her, or to pay her and her mother too much honor. He objected to their little journeys, calling them "royal progresses," and by a special order put a stop to the "poppings," in the way of salutes, to the vessel which bore them to and from the Isle of Wight--a small piece of state- business for a King and his Council to be engaged in. The King's unpopular brother, the Duke of Cumberland, was also supposed to be unfriendly to the widow of a brother whom he had not loved, and to the child whom, according to that brother, he regarded from the first as an "intruder," and who certainly at the last, stood between His Royal Grossness and the throne--the throne which would have gone down under him. Yet, in spite of enmity and opposition from high quarters, and jealousy and harsh criticism from Court ministers and minions, the Duchess of Kent, who seems to have been a woman of immense firmness and resolution, kept on her way, rearing her daughter as she thought best, coming and going as she felt inclined. Victoria's governess was for many years the accomplished Baroness Lehzen, who had also been the chief instructress of her sister, Feodore. Until she was twelve years old, her masters were also German, and she is said to have spoken English with a German accent. After that time her teachers, in nearly all branches, were English. Miss Kortright tells me a little anecdote of the Princess when about twelve years old, related by one of these teachers. She had been reading in her classical history the story of Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi--how she proudly presented her sons to the ostentatious and much-bediamonded Roman dame, with the words, "These are _my_ jewels." "She should have said my _Cornelians_," said the quick-witted little girl. Victoria was instructed in some things not in those days thought proper for young ladies to learn, but deemed necessary for a poor girl who was expected to do a man's work. She was well grounded in history, instructed in Latin--though she did not fancy it, and later, in the British Constitution, and in law and politics. Nor were light accomplishments neglected: in modern languages, in painting and music, she finally became singularly proficient. Gifted with a remarkably sweet voice and a correct ear, she could not well help being a charming singer, under her great master, Lablache. She danced well, rode well, and excelled in archery. As I said, the brave Duchess, as conscientious as independent, kept up the life of retirement from Court pomps and gayeties, and of alternate hard study and social recreation, which she thought best for her child. She quietly persevered in the "progresses" which annoyed the irascible and unreasonable old King, even visiting the Isle of Wight, though the royal big guns were forbidden to "pop" at sight of the royal standard, which waved over her, and the young hope of England. Perhaps recollections of those pleasant visits with her mother at Norris Castle have helped to render so dear the Queen's own beautiful sea-side home, Osborne House. I remember a pretty little story, told by a tourist, who happened to be stopping at the village of Brading during one of those visits to the lovely island. One afternoon he strolled into the old church-yard to search out the grave of Elizabeth Wallbridge, the sweet heroine of Leigh Richmond's beautiful religious story, "The Dairyman's Daughter." He found seated beside the mound a lady and a young girl, the latter reading aloud, in a full, melodious voice, the touching tale of the Christian maiden. The tourist turned away, and soon after was told by the sexton that those pilgrims to that humble grave were the Duchess of Kent and the Princess Victoria. I am told by a Yorkshire lady another story of the Princess, of not quite so serious a character. She was visiting with her mother, of course, at Wentworth House, the seat of Earl Fitzwilliam in Yorkshire, and while at that pleasant place delighted in running about by herself in the gardens and shrubberies. One wet morning, soon after her arrival, she was thus disporting herself, flitting from point to point, light-hearted and light-footed, when the old gardener, who did not then know her, seeing her about to descend a treacherous bit of ground from the terrace, called out, "Be careful, Miss; it's slape!"--a Yorkshire word for slippery. The incautious, but ever-curious Princess, turning her head, asked, "What's slape?" and the same instant her feet flew from under her, and she came down. The old gardener ran to lift her, saying, as he did so, "_That's_ slape, Miss." There is nothing remarkable, much less incredible, in these stories of the young Victoria, nor in the one related by her music-teacher, of how she once rebelled against so much practice, and how, on his telling her that there was no "royal road" in art, and that only by much practice could she become "mistress of the piano," she closed and locked the obnoxious instrument and put the key in her pocket, saying playfully, "Now you see there _is_ a royal way of becoming `mistress of the piano.'" But not so simple and natural and girlish are all the things told of the Queen's young days. Loyal English people have said to me, "You will find few stories of Her Majesty's childhood, but those few will all be good." Yes, too good. The chroniclers of forty and fifty years ago--the same in whose loyal eyes the fifteen children of George III. were all "children of light"--could find no words in which to paint their worship for this rising star of sovereignty. According to them, she was not only the pearl of Princesses for piety and propriety, for goodness and graciousness, but a marvel of unchildlike wisdom, a prodigy of cleverness and learning; in short, a purely perfect creature, loved of the angels to a degree perilous to the succession. The simplest little events of her daily life were twisted into something unnaturally significant, or unhealthily virtuous. If she was taken through a cotton-mill at Manchester, and asked a score or two of questions about the machinery and the strange processes of spinning and weaving, it was not childish curiosity--it was a love of knowledge, and a patriotic desire to encourage British manufactures. If she gave a few pennies to a blind beggar at Margate, the amiable act was heralded as one, of almost divine beneficence, and the beggar pitied, as never before, for his blindness. The poor man had not beheld the face of the "little angel" who dropped the coin into his greasy hat! If, full of "high spirits," she took long rides on a donkey at Ramsgate, and ran races with other children on the sands, it was a proof of the sweetest human condescension--the donkey's opinion not being taken. Of course all this is false, unwholesome sentiment, quite incomprehensible to nineteenth century Americans, though our great- grandfathers understood this sort of personal loyalty very well, and gloried in it, till George the Third drove them to the wall; and our great-grandmothers cherished it as a sacred religious principle till their tea was taxed. I dare say that if the truth could be got at, we should find that little Victoria was at times trying enough to mother, masters, and attendants; that she was occasionally passionate, perverse, and "pestering," like all children who have any great and positive elements in them. I dare say she was disposed, like any other "only child," to be self-willed and selfish, and that she required a fair amount of wholesome discipline, and that she got it. Had she been the prim and pious little precocity which some biographers have painted her, she would have died young, like the "Dairyman's Daughter"; we might have had an edifying tract, and England a revolution. One of her biographers speaks with a sort of ecstatic surprise of the fact that the Princess was "affable--even gay," and that she "laughed and chatted like other little girls." And yet she must early have perceived that she was not quite like other little girls, but set up and apart. Though reared with all the simplicity practicable for a Princess Royal, she must have been conscious of a magic circle drawn round her, of a barrier impalpable, but most real, which other children could not voluntarily overpass. She must have seen that they could not call out to her to "come and play!" that however shy she might feel, she must propose the game, or the romp, as later she had to propose marriage. She even was obliged to quarrel, if quarrel she did, all alone by herself. Any resistance on the part of her playmates would have been a small variety of high treason. She must sometimes, with her admirable good sense, have been wearied and disgusted by so much concession, conciliation, and consideration, and may have envied less fortunate or unfortunate mortals who can give and take hard knocks, for whom less is demanded, and of whom less is expected. She may have tired of her very name, with its grand prefixes and no affix, and longed to be Victoria Kent, or _Something_--Jones, Brown, or Robinson. She seems to have been a child of simple, homely tastes, for in 1842, when Queen, she writes to her Uncle Leopold from Claremont, where she is visiting, with her husband and little daughter: "This place brings back recollections of the happiest days of my otherwise dull childhood--days when I experienced such kindness from you, dearest uncle; Victoria plays with my old bricks, and I see her running and jumping in the flower- garden, as old (though I feel still _little_) Victoria of former days used to do." CHAPTER VI. The Princess opens the Victoria Park at Bath--Becoming used to Public Curiosity--Secret of her Destiny revealed to her--Royal Ball on her Thirteenth Birthday--At the Ascot Races--Picture by N. P. Willis-- Anecdotes--Painful Scene at the King's last Birthday Dinner. When she was eleven years old, the Princess opened the Victoria Park at Bath. She began the opening business thus early, and has kept it up pretty diligently for fifty years--parks, expositions, colleges, exchanges, law courts, bridges, docks, art schools, and hospitals. Her sons and daughters are also kept busy at the same sort of work. Indeed these are almost the only openings for young men of the royal family for active service, now that crusades and invasions of France have gone out of fashion. It seems to me that the English people get up all sorts of opening and unveiling occasions in order to supply employment to their Princes and Princesses, who, I must say, never shirk such monotonous duties, however much they may be bothered and bored by them. Occasionally the Duchess of Kent and her daughter visited Brighton, and stopped in that grotesque palace of George IV., called the Pavilion. I have seen a picture of the demure little Princess, walking on the esplanade, with her mother, governesses, and gentlemen attendants, the whole elegant party and the great crowd of Brightonians following and staring at them, wearing the absurd costumes of half a century ago--the ladies, big bonnets, big mutton-leg sleeves, big collars, heelless slippers, laced over the instep; the gentlemen, short-waisted coats, enormous collars, preposterous neckties, and indescribably clumsy hats. By this time the Princess had learned to bear quietly and serenely, if not unconsciously, the gaze of hundreds of eyes, admiring or criticising. She knew that the time was probably coming when the hundreds would increase to thousands, and even millions--when the world would for her seem to be made up of eyes, like a peacock's tail. Small wonder that in her later years, especially since she has missed from her side the splendid figure which divided and justified the mighty multitudinous stare, this eternal observation, this insatiable curiosity has become infinitely wearisome to her. Several accounts have been given of the manner in which the great secret of her destiny was revealed to the Princess Victoria, and the manner in which it was received, but only one has the Queen's indorsement. This was contained in a letter, written long afterwards to Her Majesty by her dear old governess, the Baroness Lehzen, who states that when the Regency Bill (an act naming the Duchess of Kent as Regent, in case of the King dying before his niece obtained her majority) was before Parliament, it was thought that the time had come to make known to the Princess her true position. So after consulting with the Duchess, the Baroness placed a genealogical table in a historical book, which her pupil was reading. When the Princess came upon this paper, she said: "Why, I never saw that before." "It was not thought necessary you should see it," the Baroness replied. Then the young girl, examining the paper, said thoughtfully: "I see I am nearer the throne than I supposed." After some moments she resumed, with a sort of quaint solemnity: "Now many a child would boast, not knowing the difficulty. There is much splendor, but there is also much responsibility." "The Princess," says the Baroness, "having lifted up the forefinger of her right hand while she spoke, now gave me that little hand, saying: 'I will be good. I understand now why you urged me so much to learn, even Latin. My aunts, Augusta and Mary, never did, but you told me Latin was the foundation of English grammar, and all the elegant expressions, and I learned it, as you wished it; but I understand all better now,' and the Princess again gave me her hand, repeating, 'I will be good.'" God heard the promise of the child of twelve years and held her to it, and has given her strength "as her day" to redeem it, all through the dazzling brightness and the depressing shadows, through the glory and the sorrow of her life, as a Queen and a woman. The Queen says that she "cried much" over the magnificent but difficult problem of her destiny, but the tears must have been April showers, for in those days she was accounted a bright, care-free little damsel, and was ever welcome as a sunbeam in the noblest houses of England--such as Eaton Hall, the seat of the Duke of Westminster; Wentworth House, belonging to Earl Fitzwilliam; Alton Towers, the country house of the Earl of Shrewsbury; and Chatsworth, the palace of the Duke of Devonshire, where such royal loyal honors were paid to her that she had a foretaste of the "splendor," without the "responsibility," of Queenhood. The King and Queen gave a brilliant ball in honor of "the thirteenth birthday of their beloved niece, the Princess Victoria," and somewhat later, the little royal lady appeared at a Drawing-room, when she is said to have charmed everybody by her sweet, childish dignity--a sort of quaint queenliness of manner and expression. She was likewise most satisfactory to the most religiously inclined of her subjects who were to be, in her mien and behavior when in the Royal Chapel of St. James, on the interesting occasion of her confirmation. She is said to have gone through the ceremony with "profound thoughtfulness and devout solemnity." The next glimpse I have of her is at a very different scene--the Ascot races. A brilliant American author, N. P. Willis, who then saw her for the first time, wrote: "In one of the intervals, I walked under the King's stand, and saw Her Majesty the Queen, and the young Princess Victoria, very distinctly. They were leaning over the railing listening to a ballad-singer, and seeming as much interested and amused as any simple country-folk could be. The Queen is undoubtedly the plainest woman in her dominions, but the Princess is much better-looking than any picture of her in the shops, and for the heir to such a crown as that of England, quite unnecessarily, pretty and interesting. She will be sold, poor thing! bartered away by those great-dealers in royal hearts, whose grand calculations will not be much consolation to her if she happens to have a taste of her own." Little did the wise American poet guess that, away in a little fairy principality of Deutschland, there was a beautiful young fairy prince, being reared by benevolent fairy godmother-grandmothers, especially to disprove all such doleful prophecies, and reverse the usual fate of pretty young Princesses in the case of the "little English mayflower." Greville relates a little incident which shows that the Princess, when between sixteen and seventeen, and almost in sight of the throne, was still amenable to discipline. He describes a reception of much pomp and ceremony, given to the Duchess and the Princess by the Mayor and other officers of the town of Burghley, followed by a great dinner, which "went off well," except that an awkward waiter, in a spasm of loyal excitement, emptied the contents of a pail of ice in the lap of the Duchess, which, though she took it coolly, "made a great bustle." I am afraid the Princess laughed. Then followed a magnificent ball, which was opened by the Princess, with Lord Exeter for a partner. After that one dance she "went to bed." Doubtless her good mother thought she had had fatigue and excitement enough for one day; but it must have been hard for such a dance-loving girl to take her quivering feet out of the ball-room so early, and for such a grand personage as she already was, just referred to in the Mayor's speech, as "destined to mount the throne of these realms," to be sent away like a child, to mount a solemn, beplumed four- poster, and to try to sleep, with that delicious dance-music still ringing in her ears. Greville also relates a sad Court story connected with the young Princess, and describes a scene which would be too painful for me to reproduce, except that it reveals, in a striking manner, Victoria's tender love for and close sympathy with her mother. It seems that the King's jealous hostility to the Duchess of Kent had grown with his decay, and strengthened with his senility, till at last it culminated in a sort of declaration of war at his own table. The account is given by Greville _second-hand_, and so, very likely, over-colored, though doubtless true in the main. The King invited the Duchess and Princess to Windsor to join in the celebration of his birthday, which proved to be his last. There was a dinner-party, called "private," but a hundred guests sat down to the table. The Duchess of Kent was given a place of honor on one side of the King, and opposite her sat the Princess Victoria. After dinner Queen Adelaide proposed "His Majesty's health and long life to him," to which that amiable monarch replied by a very remarkable speech. He began by saying that he hoped in God he might live nine months longer, when the Princess would be of age, and he could leave the royal authority in her hands and not in those of a Regent, in the person of a lady sitting near him, etc. Afterwards he said: "I have particularly to complain of the manner in which that young lady (the Princess Victoria) has been kept from my Court. She has been repeatedly kept from my Drawing-rooms, at which she ought always to have been present, but I am resolved that this shall not happen again. I would have _her_ know that I am _King_, and am determined to make my authority respected, and for the future I shall insist and command that the Princess do, upon all occasions, appear at my Court, as it is her duty to do." This pleasant and hospitable harangue, uttered in a loud voice and an excited manner, "produced a decided sensation." The whole company "were aghast." Queen Adelaide, who was amiable and well-bred, "looked in deep distress"; the young Princess burst into tears at the insult offered to her mother; but that mother sat calm and silent, very pale, but proud and erect--Duchess of Duchesses! CHAPTER VII. Victoria's first meeting with Prince Albert--She comes of Age--Ball in honor thereof--Illness of King William--His Death--His Habits and Character--The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chancellor inform Victoria that she is Queen--Her beautiful bearing under the ordeal. In May, 1836, the Princess saw, for the first time, her cousins, Ernest and Albert, of Saxe-Coburg. These brothers, one eighteen and the other seventeen, are described as charming young fellows, well-bred and carefully educated, with high aims, good, true hearts, and frank, natural manners. In personal appearance they were very prepossessing. Ernest was handsome, and Albert more than handsome. They were much beloved by their Uncle Leopold, then King of Belgium, and soon endeared themselves to their Aunt Kent and their Cousin Victoria. They spent three weeks at Kensington in daily intercourse with their relatives, and with their father, the Duke of Coburg, were much _fêted_ by the royal family. They keenly enjoyed English society and sights, and learned something of English life and character, which to one of them, at least, proved afterwards useful. Indeed this admirable young Prince, Albert, seemed always learning and assimilating new facts and ideas. He had a soul athirst for knowledge. On May 24, 1837, the Princess Victoria came of age. She was awakened early by a matutinal serenade--a band of musicians piping and harping merrily under her bedroom windows. She received many presents and congratulatory visits, and had the pleasure of knowing that the day was observed as a grand holiday in London and throughout England. Boys were let out of school, and M.P.'s out of Parliament. At night the metropolis was "brilliantly illuminated"--at least so thought those poor, benighted, ante-electrical-light Londoners--and a grand state ball was given in St. James' Palace. Here, for the first time, the Princess took precedence of her mother, and we may believe she felt shy and awkward at such a reversal of the laws of nature and the habits of years. But doubtless the stately Duchess fell back without a sigh, except it were one of joy and gratitude that she had brought her darling on so far safely. This could hardly have been a very gay state ball, for their Majesties were both absent. The King had that very day been attacked with hayfever, and the Queen had dutifully stayed at home to nurse him. He rallied from this attack somewhat, but never was well again, and in the small hours of June 2d the sailor King died at Royal Windsor, royally enough, I believe, though he had never been a very royal figure or spirit. Of course after he was gone from his earthly kingdom, the most glowing eulogies were pronounced upon him in Parliament, in the newspapers, and in hundreds of pulpits. Even a year later, the Bishop of London, in his sermon at the Queen's coronation, lauded the late King for his "unfeigned religion," and exhorted his "youthful successor" to "follow in his footsteps." Ah, if she had done so, I should not now be writing Her Majesty's Life! It must be that in a King a little religion goes a long way. The good Bishop and other loyal prelates must have known all about the Fitz- Clarences--those wild "olive branches about the table" of His Majesty; and they were doubtless aware of that little unfortunate habit of profanity, acquired on the high-seas, and scarcely becoming to the Head of the Church; but they, perhaps, considered that His Majesty swore as the sailor, not as the sovereign. He certainly made a good end, hearing many prayers, and joining in them as long as he was able, and devoutly receiving the communion; and what is better, manifesting some tender anxiety lest his faithful wife and patient nurse should do too much and grieve too much for him. When he saw her like to break down, he would say: "Bear up; bear up, Adelaide!" just like any other good husband. William was not a bad King, as Kings went in those days; he was, doubtless, an orthodox churchman, and we may believe he was a good Christian, from his charge to the new Bishop of Ely when he came to "kiss hands" on his preferment: "My lord, I do not wish to interfere in any way with your vote in Parliament, except on one subject--the Jews. I trust I may depend on your always voting against them!" When the solemn word went through the old Castle of Windsor, "The King is dead!" his most loyal ministers, civil and religious, added under their breath: "Long live the Queen!" and almost immediately the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chamberlain left Windsor and travelled as fast as post-horses could carry them, to Kensington Palace, which they reached in the gray of the early dawn. Everybody was asleep, and they knocked and rang a long time before they could rouse the porter at the gate, who at last grumblingly admitted them. Then they had another siege in the court- yard; but at length the palace door yielded, and they were let into one of the lower rooms, "where," says Miss Wynn's account, "they seemed forgotten by everybody." They rang the bell, called a sleepy servant, and requested that the special attendant of the Princess Victoria should inform her Royal Highness that they desired an audience on "very important business." More delay, more ringing, more inquiries and directions. At last the attendant of the Princess came, and coolly stated that her Royal Mistress was "in such a sweet sleep she could not venture to disturb her." Then solemnly spoke up the Archbishop: "We are come on business of State, to _the Queen_, and even her sleep must give way." Lo it was out! The startled maid flew on her errand, and so effectually performed it, that Victoria, not daring to keep her visitors waiting longer, hurried into the room with only a shawl thrown over her night- gown, and her feet in slippers. She had flung off her night-cap (young ladies wore night-caps in those queer old times), and her long, light- brown hair was tumbling over her shoulders. So she came to receive the first homage of the Church and the State, and to be hailed "Queen!" and she was Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, of India and the mighty Colonies! It seems to me that the young girl must have believed herself at that moment only half awake, and still dreaming. The grand, new title, "Your Majesty," must have had a new sound, as addressed to her,-- something strange and startling, though very likely she may have often said it over to herself, silently, to get used to it. The first kiss of absolute fealty on her little hand must have thrilled through her whole frame. Some accounts say that as full realization was forced upon her, she burst into tears; others dwell on her marvellous calm and self- possession. I prefer to believe in the tears, not only because the assumption of the "dangerous grandeur of sovereignty" was a solemn and tremendous matter for one so young, but because something of awe and sorrow on hearing of the eternal abdication of that sovereignty, by her rough but not to her unloving old uncle, was natural and womanly, and fitting. I believe that it has not been questioned that the first words of the QUEEN were addressed to the Primate, and that they were simply, "I beg your Grace to pray for me," which the Archbishop did, then and there. Doubtless, also, as related, the first act of her queenly life was the writing of a letter of condolence to Queen Adelaide, in which, after expressing her tender sympathy, she begged her "dear aunt" to remain at Windsor just as long as she might feel inclined. This letter she addressed to "Her Majesty, the Queen." Some one at hand reminded her that the King's widow was now only Queen Dowager. "I am quite aware of that," replied Victoria, "but I will not be the first person to remind her of it." I cannot say how much I like that. Wonderful is the story told by many witnesses of the calmness and gentle dignity of Her Majesty, when a few hours later she met the high officers of the Church and State, Princes and Peers, received their oaths of allegiance and read her first speech from an improvised throne. The Royal Princes, the Dukes of Cumberland and Sussex, Her Majesty's uncles, were the first to be sworn, and Greville says: "As they knelt before her, swearing allegiance and kissing her hand, I saw her blush up to the eyes, as if she felt the contrast between their civil and their natural relations; and this was the only sign of emotion which she evinced." When she first entered the room she had kissed these old uncles affectionately, walking toward the Duke of Sussex, who was very feeble. Greville says that she seemed rather bewildered at the multitude of men who came to kiss her hand and kneel to her, among them the conqueror of Napoleon--soldier of soldiers--_the_ Duke!--but that she did not make any difference in her manner, or show any especial respect, or condescension in her countenance to any individual, not even to the Premier, Lord Melbourne, for whom she was known to have a great liking, and who was long her trusted friend and favorite Minister. The Queen was also called upon to take an oath, which was for "the security of the Church of Scotland." This she has most faithfully kept; indeed, she has now and then been reproached by jealous champions of the English Establishment for undue graciousness towards the Kirk and its ministers. For this grand but solemn ceremony at Kensington--rendered the more solemn by the fact that while it was going on the great bell of St. Paul's was tolling for the dead King,--the young Queen was dressed very simply, in mourning. She seems to have thought of everything, for she sent for Lord Albemarle, and after reminding him that according to law and precedent she must be proclaimed the next morning at 10 o'clock, from a certain window of St. James' Palace, requested him to provide for her a suitable conveyance and escort. She then bowed gravely and graciously to the Princes, Archbishops and Cabinet Ministers, and left the room, as she had entered it--alone. CHAPTER VIII. The last day of Victoria's real girlhood--Proclaimed Queen from St. James' Palace--She holds her first Privy Council--Comments upon her deportment by eye-witnesses--Fruits of her mother's care and training. It seems to me that the momentous day just described was the last of Victoria's real girlhood; that premature womanhood was thrust upon her with all the power, grandeur, and state of a Queen Regnant. I wonder if, weary and nervously exhausted as she must have been, she slept much, when at last she went to bed, probably no longer in her mother's room. I wonder if she did not think, with a sort of fearsome thrill that when the summer sun faded from her sight, it was only to travel all night, lighting her vast dominions and her uncounted millions of subjects; and that, like the splendor of that sun, had become her life--hers, the little maiden's, but just emerging from the shadow of seclusion, and from her mother's protecting care and wise authority, and stepping out into the world by herself! The next day she went in state to St. James Palace, accompanied by great lords and ladies, and escorted by squadrons of the Life Guards and Blues, and was formally proclaimed from the window of the Presence Chamber, looking out on the court-yard. A Court chronicle states that Her Majesty wore a black silk dress and a little black chip bonnet, and that she looked paler than usual. Miss Martineau, speaking of the scene, says: "There stood the young creature, in simplest mourning, her sleek bands of brown hair as plain as her dress. The tears ran down her cheeks, as Lord Melbourne, standing by her side, presented her to the people as their Sovereign. ... In the upper part of the face she is really pretty, and with an ingenuous, sincere air which seems full of promise." After the ceremony of proclamation was over, the "little Queen" remained for a few moments at the window, bowing and smiling through her tears at that friendly and enthusiastic crowd of her subjects, and listening to the National Anthem played for the first time for her, then retired, with her mother, who had not been "prominent" during the scene, but who had been observed "to watch her daughter with great anxiety." At noon the Queen held a Privy Council, at which it was said, "She presided with as much ease as though she had been doing nothing else all her life." At 1 P.M. she returned to Kensington Palace, there to remain in retirement till after the funeral of King William. It is certain that the behavior of this girl-queen on these first two days of her reign "confounded the doctors" of the Church and State. Greville, who never praises except when praise is wrung out of him, can hardly say enough of her grace and graciousness, calmness and self- possession. He says, also, that her "agreeable expression, with her youth, inspire an excessive interest in all who approach her, and which," he is condescending enough to add, "I can't help feeling myself." He quotes Peel as saying he was "amazed at her manner and behavior; at her apparent deep sense of her situation, her modesty, and at the same time her firmness. She appeared to be awed, but not daunted." The Duke of Wellington paid a similar tribute to her courage. Now, if these great men did not greatly idealize her, under the double glamour of gallantry and loyalty, Victoria was a most extraordinary young woman. A few days before the death of the King, Greville wrote: "What renders speculation so easy and events so uncertain is the absolute ignorance of everybody of the character, disposition, and capacity of the Princess. She has been kept in such jealous seclusion by her mother (never having slept out of her bedroom, nor been alone with anybody but herself and, the Baroness Lehzen), that not one of her acquaintance, none of the attendants at Kensington, not even the Duchess of Northumberland, her governess, can have any idea what she is, or what she promises to be." The first day of Victoria's accession he writes: "She appears to act with every sort of good taste and good feeling, as well as good sense, and nothing can be more favorable than the impression she has made, and nothing can promise better than her manner and conduct do... William IV. coming to the throne at the mature age of sixty-five, was so excited by the exaltation that he nearly went mad... The young Queen, who might well be either dazzled or confounded with the grandeur and novelty of her situation, seems neither the one nor the other, and behaves with a propriety and decorum beyond her years." Doubtless nature was kind to Victoria in the elements of character, but she must have owed very much of this courage, calmness, modesty, simplicity, candor, and sterling good sense to the peculiar, systematic training, the precept and example of her mother, the much-criticised Duchess of Kent, so unpopular at the Court of the late King, and whom Mr. Greville had by no means delighted to honor. Ah, the good, brave Duchess had her reward for all her years of patient exile, all her loving labor and watchful care, and rich compensation for all criticisms, misrepresentations, and fault-finding, that June afternoon, the day of the Proclamation, when she rode from the Palace of St. James to Kensington with her daughter, who had behaved so well--her daughter and her _Queen!_ PART II. WOMANHOOD AND QUEENHOOD. CHAPTER IX. The sovereignty of England and Hanover severed forever--Funeral of King William IV. at Windsor--The Queen and her household remove to Buckingham Palace--She dissolves Parliament--Glowing account of the scene by a contemporary Journal--Charles Sumner a spectator--His eulogy of the Queen's reading. Ever since the accession to the throne of Great Britain of the House of Brunswick, the Kings of England had also been Kings of Hanover. To carry on the two branches of the royal business simultaneously must have been a little difficult, at least perplexing. It was like riding a "two-horse act," with a wide space between the horses, and a wide difference in their size. But the Salic law prevailed in that little kingdom over there; so its Crown now gently devolved on the head of the male heir- apparent, the Duke of Cumberland, and the quaint old principality parted company with England forever. That is what Her Majesty, Victoria, got, or rather lost, by being a woman. A day or two after her accession, King Ernest called at Kensington Palace to take leave of the Queen, and she dutifully kissed her uncle and brother-sovereign, and wished him God- speed and the Hanoverians joy. There is no King and no kingdom of Hanover now. When Kaiser William was consolidating so many German principalities into his grand empire, gaily singing the refrain of the song of the old sexton, "_I gather them in! I gather them in!_" he took Hanover, and it has remained under the wing of the great Prussian eagle ever since. It is said that the last King made a gallant resistance, riding into battle at the head of his troops, although he was blind--too blind, perhaps, to see his own weakness. When his throne was taken out from under him, he still clung to the royal title, but his son is known only as the Duke of Cumberland. This Prince, like other small German Princes, made a great outcry against the Kaiser's confiscations, but the inexorable old man still went on piecing an imperial table-cover out of pocket-handkerchiefs. The young Queen's new Household was considered a very magnificent and unexceptionable one--principally for the rank and character and personal attractions of the ladies in attendance, chief among whom, for beauty and stateliness, was the famous Duchess of Sutherland--certainly one of the most superb women in England, or anywhere else, even at an age when most women are "falling off," and when she herself was a grandmother. The funeral of King William took place at Windsor in due time, and with all due pomp and ceremony. After lying in state in the splendid Waterloo chamber, under a gorgeous purple pall, several crowns, and other royal insignia, he was borne to St. George's Chapel, followed by Prelates, Peers, and all the Ministers of State, and a solemn funeral service was performed. But what spoke better for him than all these things was the quiet weeping of a good woman up in the Royal Closet, half hidden by the sombre curtains, who looked and listened to the last, and saw her husband let down into the Royal Vault, where, in the darkness, his--their baby- girl awaited him, that Princess with the short life and the long name-- poor little Elizabeth Georgina Adelando, whom the childless Queen once hoped to hear hailed "Elizabeth Second of England." In midsummer the Queen, the Duchess of Kent, and their grand Household moved from Kensington to Buckingham Palace, then new, and an elegant and luxurious royal residence internally, but externally neither beautiful nor imposing. But with the exception of Windsor Castle, none of the English Royal Palaces can be pointed to as models of architectural beauty, or even sumptuous appointments. The palaces of some of our Railway Kings more than rival them in some respects, while those of many of the English nobility are richer in art-treasures and grander in appearance. Kensington Palace was not beautiful, but it was picturesque and historic, which was more than could be said of any of the Georgian structures; there was about it an odor of old royalty, of poetry and romance. The literature and the beauty of Queen Anne's reign were especially associated with it. Queen Victoria was, when she left it, at an age when memories count for little, and doubtless the flitting "_out of the old house into the new_" was effected merrily enough; but long afterwards her orphaned and widowed heart must often have gone back tenderly and yearningly to the scene of many tranquilly happy years with her mother, and of that first little season of companionship with her cousin Albert. Hardly had she got unpacked and settled in her new home when she had to go through a great parade and ceremony. She went in state to dissolve Parliament. The weather was fine and the whole route from Buckingham Palace to the Parliament House was lined with people, shouting and cheering as the magnificent procession and that brilliant young figure passed slowly along. A London journal of the time gave the following glowing account of her as she appeared in the House of Lords: "At 20 minutes to 3 precisely, Her Majesty, preceded by the heralds and attended by the great officers of state, entered the House--all the Peers and Peeresses, who had risen at the flourish of the trumpets, remaining standing. Her Majesty was attired in a splendid white satin robe, with the ribbon of the Garter crossing her shoulder and a magnificent tiara of diamonds on her head, and wore a necklace and a stomacher of large and costly brilliants. Having ascended the throne, the royal mantle of crimson velvet was placed on Her Majesty's shoulders by the Lords in waiting." And this was the same little girl who, six years before, had bought her own straw hat and carried it home in her hand! I wonder if her own mother did not at that moment have difficulty in believing that radiant and royal creature was indeed her little Victoria! The account continues: "Her Majesty, on taking her seat, appeared to be deeply moved at the novel and important position in which she was placed, the eyes of the assembled nobility, both male and female, being riveted on her person." I would have wagered a good deal that it was the 'female' eyes that she felt most piercingly. Then it goes on: "Her emotion was plainly discernible in the heavings of her bosom, and the brilliancy of her diamond stomacher, which sparkled out like the sun on the swell of the ocean as the billows rise and fall." So disconcerted was she, it seems, by all this silent, intense observation, that she forgot, nicely seated as she was, that all those Peers and Peeresses were standing, till she was reminded of it by Lord Melbourne, who stood close at her side. Then she graciously inclined her head, and said in rather a low tone, 'My Lords, be seated!' and they sat, and eke their wives and daughters. "She had regained her self-possession when she came to read her speech, and her voice also, for it was heard all over the great chamber." And it is added: "Her demeanor was characterized by much grace and modest self- possession." Among the spectators of this rare royal pageant was an American, and a stiff republican, a young man from Boston, called Charles Sumner. He was a scholar, and scholar-like, undazzled by diamonds, admired most Her Majesty's reading. In a letter to a friend he wrote: "I was astonished and delighted. Her voice is sweet and finely modulated, and she pronounced every word distinctly, and with a just regard to its meaning. I think I never heard anything better read in my life than her speech, and I could but respond to Lord Fitz-William's remark to me when the ceremony was over, 'How beautifully she performs!'" How strange it now seems to think of that slight girl of eighteen coming in upon that great assembly of legislators, many of them gray and bald, and pompous and portly, and gravely telling them that they might go home! CHAPTER X. Comments upon the young Queen by a contemporaneous writer in _Blackwood_--A new Throne erected for her in Buckingham Palace--A touching Anecdote related by the Duke of Wellington--The Queen insists on paying her Father's Debts--The romantic and passionate interest she evoked--Her mad lover--Attempts upon her life--She takes possession of Windsor Castle. A writer in _Blackwood_, speaking of the Queen about this time, said: "She is 'winning golden opinions from all sorts of people' by her affability, the grace of her manners, and her prettiness. She is excessively like the Brunswicks and not like the Coburgs. So much the more in her favor. The memory of George III. is not yet passed away, and the people are glad to see his calm, honest, and English physiognomy renewed in his granddaughter." Her Majesty's likeness to the obstinate but conscientious old king, whose honest face is fast fading quite away from old English half-crowns and golden guineas, has grown with her years. The same writer, speaking of her personal appearance, says: "She is low of stature, but well formed; her hair the darkest shade of flaxen, and her eyes large and light-blue." A friend who saw her frequently at the time of her accession, said to me the other day: "It is a great mistake to suppose that the Queen owed all the charming portraits which were drawn of her at this time, to the fortunate accident of her birth and destiny. She was really a very lovely girl, with a fine, delicate, rose- bloom complexion, large blue eyes, a fair, broad brow, and an expression of peculiar candor and innocence." A few days later there was a sensation in Buckingham Palace, at the setting up in the Throne-room of a very magnificent new piece of furniture--a throne of the latest English fashion, but gorgeous enough to have served for the Queen of Sheba, Zenobia, Cleopatra, or Semiramis. It was all crimson velvet and silk, with any amount of gold embroideries, gold lace, gold fringe, ropes, and tassels. The gay young Queen tried it, and said it would do; that she had never sat on a more comfortable throne in all her life. Two stories of the young Queen have touched me especially--one was related by the Duke of Wellington. A court-martial death sentence was presented by him to her, to be signed. She shrank from the dreadful task, and with tears in her eyes, asked: "Have you nothing to say in behalf of this man?" "Nothing; he has deserted three times," replied the Iron Duke. "O, your Grace, think again!" "Well, your Majesty, he certainly is a bad soldier, but there was somebody who spoke as to his good character. He may be a good fellow in civil life." "O, thank you!" exclaimed the Queen, as she dashed off the word, "Pardoned," on the awful parchment, and wrote beneath it her beautiful signature. This was not her last act of the kind, and at length Parliament so arranged matters that this fatal signing business could be done by royal commission, ostensibly to "relieve Her Majesty of a painful duty," but really because they could not trust her soft heart. She might have sudden caprices of commiseration which would interfere with stern military discipline, and the honest trade of Mr. Marwood. The other incident was told by Lord Melbourne. Soon after her accession, in all the dizzy whirl of the new life of splendor and excitement, the young Queen, in an interview with her Prime Minister, said: "I want to pay all that remain of my father's debts. I _must_ do it. I consider it a sacred duty." This was, of course, done--the Queen also sending valuable pieces of plate to the largest creditors, as a token of her gratitude. Lord Melbourne said that the childlike directness and earnestness of that good daughter's manner when she thus expressed her royal will and pleasure, brought the tears to his eyes. It seems to me it was almost mission enough for any young woman, to move the hearts of hard old soldiers like Wellington, and _blasé_ statesmen like Melbourne-- mighty dealers in death and diplomacy, and to bring something like a second youth of romance and chivalrous feeling into worn and worldly hearts everywhere. I suppose it is impossible for young people of this day, especially Americans, to realize the intense, enthusiastic interest felt forty-six years ago by all classes, and in nearly all countries, in the young English Queen. The old wondered and shook their heads over the mighty responsibility imposed upon her--the young dreamed of her. She almost made real to young girls the wildest romances of fairy lore. She called out such chivalrous feelings in young men that they longed to champion her on some field of battle, or in some perilous knightly adventure. She stirred the hearts and inspired the imaginations of orators and poets.-- The great O'Connell, when there was some wild talk of deposing "the all but infant Queen," and putting the Duke of Cumberland in her place, said in his trumpet-like tones, which gave dignity to brogue: "If necessary, I can get 500,000 brave Irishmen to defend the life, the honor, and the person of the beloved young lady by whom England's throne is now filled." Ah, the difference between then and now. "Brave Irishmen" of this day, men who know not O'Connell, are more disposed to blow up the English Queen's palaces, throne and all. Charles Dickens, who was then full of romance and fancy, was, it is said, possessed by such unresting, wondering thoughts of the fair maiden sovereign, and her magnificent destiny, that for a time his more prosaic friends regarded his enthusiasm as a sort of monomania. Other imaginative young men with heads less "level" (to use an American expression) than that of the great novelist, actually went mad--"clean daft"--the noble passion of loving loyalty ending in an infatuation as absurd as it was unhappy. Before the Queen left Kensington Palace she was much annoyed by the persistent attentions of a provincial admirer, a respectable gentleman, who labored under the hallucination that it was his destiny and his duty to espouse the Queen. He may have felt a preference for private life and rural pleasures, but as a loyal patriot he was ready to make the sacrifice. He drove in a stylish phaeton every morning to the Palace to inquire after Her Majesty's health; and on several days he bribed the men who had charge of the gardens to allow him to assist them in weeding about the piece of water opposite her apartments, in the fond hope of seeing her at the windows, and of her seeing him. Every evening, however, he put on the gentleman of fortune and phaetons, and followed the Queen and the Duchess in their airings. Drove they fast or drove they slow, he was just behind them. On their last drive before removing from Kensington, they alighted in the Harrow Road for a little walk, and were dismayed at seeing this Mr. ---- spring from his phaeton, and come eagerly forward. The Duchess sent a page to meet him and beg of him not to annoy Her Majesty by accosting her; but the page was "no let" to him-- a whole volume of remonstrance would not have availed. He pressed on, and the august ladies were obliged to re-enter their carriage, and return to Kensington. When on the next morning they removed from the old home, Mr. ---- was at the gate in his phaeton, and drove before them to Buckingham Palace, and was there to give them a gracious welcome. He haunted Pimlico for a time, but his friends finally got possession of him and suppressed him, and so ended his "love's young dream." It is likely that the merry young Queen laughed at the absurd demonstrations and amatory effusions of her demented admirers; but when, after her marriage, and her appearing always in public with the handsomest Prince in Christendom at her side, such monomaniacs grew desperate and took to shooting, the matter became serious. Then no more gentlemen in phaetons menaced her peace; her demented followers were poor wretches--so poor that sometimes, after investing in pistols, they had not a six-pence left for ammunition. One, a distraught Fenian, pointed at her a broken, harmless weapon, charged with a scrap of red rag. Another, a humpbacked lad, named Bean, loaded his with paper and a few bits of an old clay pipe. Bean escaped for a time, and it is said that for several days there were "hard lines" for all the poor humpbacks of London. Scores of them were arrested. No unfortunate thus deformed, could appear in the streets without danger of a policeman smiting him on the shoulders, right in the tender spot, with a rough, "You are my prisoner." Life became a double burden to the poor fellows till Bean was caught. But to return to the young Queen, in her happy, untroubled days. In August she took possession of Windsor Castle, amid great rejoicing. The Duchess, her mother, came also; this time not to be reproached or insulted. They soon had company--a lot of Kings and Queens, among them "Uncle Leopold" and his second wife, a daughter of Louis Philippe of France. The royal young house-keeper seems keenly to have enjoyed showing to her visitors her new home, her little country place up the Thames. She conducted them everywhere, "Up-stairs, down-stairs, and in my lady's chamber," peeping into china and silver closets, spicy store-rooms, and huge linen chests smelling of lavender. Soon after came a triumphal progress to Brighton, during which the royal carriage passed under an endless succession of triumphal arches, and between ranks on ranks of schoolchildren, strewing roses and singing pæans. At Brighton there was an immense sacrifice of the then fashionable and costly flower, the dahlia, no fewer than twenty thousand being used for decorative purposes. But a sadder because a vain sacrifice on this occasion, was of flowers of rhetoric. An address, the result of much classical research and throes of poetic labor, and marked by the most effusive loyalty, was to have been presented to Her Majesty at the gates of the Pavilion, but by some mistake she passed in without waiting for it. About this time the Lunatic Asylums began to fill up. Within one week two mad men were arrested, proved insane, and shut up for threatening the life of the Queen and the Duchess of Kent. So Victoria's life was not all arched over with dahlia-garlands, and strewn with roses, nor were her subjects all Sunday-school scholars. CHAPTER XI. Banquet in Guildhall--Victoria's first Christmas at Windsor Castle as Queen--Mrs. Newton Crosland's reminiscences--Coolness of Actors and Quakers amid the general enthusiasm--Issue of the first gold Sovereigns bearing Victoria's head. On Lord Mayor's Day, the Queen went in state to dine with her brother- monarch, the King of "Great London Town." It was a memorable, magnificent occasion. The Queen was attended by all the great ladies and gentlemen of her Court, and followed by an immense train of members of the royal family, ambassadors, cabinet ministers and nobility generally--in all, two hundred carriages of them. The day was a general holiday, and the streets all along the line of the splendid procession were lined with people half wild with loyal excitement, shouting and waving hats and handkerchiefs. It may have been on this day that Lord Albemarle got off his famous pun. On the Queen saying to him, "I wonder if my good people of London are as glad to see me as I am to see them?" he replied by pointing to the letters "V. R." "Your Majesty can see their loyal cockney answer-'_Ve are_.'" One account states that, "the young sovereign was quite overcome by the enthusiastic outbursts of loyalty which greeted her all along the route," but a description of the scene sent me by a friend, Mrs. Newton Crosland, the charming English novelist and poet, paints her as perfectly composed. My friend says: "I well remember seeing the young Queen on her way to dine with the Lord Mayor, on the 9th of November, 1837, the year of her accession. The crowd was so great that there were constant stoppages, and, luckily for me, one of them occurred just under the window of a house in the Strand, where I was a spectator. I shall never forget the appearance of the maiden-sovereign. Youthful as she was, she looked every inch a Queen. Seated with their backs to the horses were a lady and gentleman, in full Court-dress--(the Duchess of Sutherland, Mistress of the Robes--and the Earl of Albemarle, Master of the Horse), and in the centre of the opposite seat, a little raised, was the Queen. All I saw of her dress was a mass of pink satin and swan's-down. I think she wore a large cape or wrap of these materials. The swan's-down encircled her throat, from which rose the fair young face--the blue eyes beaming with goodness and intelligence--the rose-bloom of girlhood on her cheeks, and her soft, light brown hair, on which gleamed a circlet of diamonds, braided as it is seen in the early portraits. Her small, white-gloved hands were reposing easily in her lap. "On this occasion not only were the streets thronged, but every window in the long line of the procession was literally filled, while men and boys were seen in perilous positions on roofs and lamp-posts, trees and railings. Loud and hearty cheers, so unanimous they were like one immense multitudinous shout, heralded the royal carriage. "A little before this date, a story was told of the lamentations of the Queen's coachman. He declared that he had driven Her Majesty for six weeks, without once being able to see her. Of course he could not turn his head or his eyes from his horses." At Temple Bar--poor, old Temple Bar, now a thing of the past!--the Queen was met by the Lord Mayor, who handed her the city keys and sword, which she returned to his keeping--a little further on, the scholars of Christ's Hospital--the "Blue-Coat Boys," offered her an address of congratulation, saying how glad they were to have a woman to rule over them, which was a good deal for boys to say, and also sung the National Anthem with a will. The drawing-room of Guildhall was fitted up most gorgeously. Here the address of the city magnates was read and replied to,--and here in the midst of Princes and nobles, Her Majesty performed a brave and memorable act. She knighted Sheriff Montefiore, the first man of his race to receive such an honor from a British sovereign, and Sir Moses Montefiore, now nearly a centenarian, has ever since, by a noble life and good works, reflected only honor on his Queen. But ah, what would her uncle, the late King, have said, had he seen her profaning a Christian sword by laying it on the shoulders of a Jew! He would rather have used it on the unbeliever's ears, after Peter's fashion. After this ceremony, they all passed into the Great Hall, which had been marvellously metamorphosed, by hangings and gildings, and all sorts of magnificent decorations, by mirrors and lusters, and the display of vast quantities of gold and silver plate--much of it lent for the occasion by noblemen and private gentlemen, but rivalled in splendor and value by the plate of the Corporation and the City Companies. From the roof hung two immense chandeliers of stained glass and prisms, which with the flashing of innumerable gas-jets, lighting up gorgeous Court-dresses, and the most superb old diamonds of the realm, made up a scene of dazzling splendor, of enchantment, which people who were there go wild over to this day. Poets say it was like a vision of fairyland, among the highest circles of that most poetic kingdom--and they know. I think a poet must have managed the musical portion of the entertainment, for when Victoria appeared sweet voices sang-- "At Oriana's presence all things smile!" and presently-- "Oh happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars and your tongue's sweet air, More tunable than lark to shepherd's ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear." There was a raised platform at the east end of the hall, and on it the throne, a beautiful state-chair, of dainty proportions, made expressly for that fairy Princess, who took her seat thereon amid the most joyous acclamations. On the platform before her, was placed the royal table, decorated with exquisite flowers, and covered with a costly, gold-fringed damask cloth, on which were served the most delicate viands and delicious fruits, in season and out of season. Ah, as the young Queen, seated up there, received the homage of the richly-robed Aldermen, and the resplendent Sheriffs, and that effulgent Lord Mayor, she must have fancied herself something more than a fairy Princess,--say, an Oriental goddess being adored and sacrificed to by gorgeous Oriental Princes, Sultans and Satraps, Pashas, Padishas, and the Grand-Panjandrum himself. After the dinner, an imposing personage, called the Common Crier, strode into the middle of the hall, and solemnly cried out: "The Right Honorable the Lord Mayor gives the health of our Most Gracious Sovereign, Queen Victoria!" This, of course, was drunk with all the honors, and extra shouts that made the old hall ring. The Queen rose and bowed her thanks, and then the Common Crier announced--Her Majesty's toast: "The Lord Mayor, and prosperity to the City of London." The Queen, it is stated, honored this toast in sherry one hundred and twenty years old--liquid gold! Very gracious of her if she furnished the sherry. I hope, at all events, she drank it with reverence. Why, when that old wine was bottled, Her Majesty's grandfather lacked some twenty years of being born, and the American Colonies were as loyal as London;--then the trunk of the royal old Bourbon tree, whose last branch death lopped away but yesterday at Frohsdorf, seemed solid enough, though rotten at the core; and, the great French Revolution was undreamed of, except in the seething brain of some wild political theorist, or in some poor peasant's nightmare of starvation. When that old wine was bottled, Temple Bar, under the garlanded arch of which Her Majesty had just passed so smilingly, was often adorned with gory heads of traitors, and long after that old wine was bottled, men and women could be seen of a Friday, dangling from the front of Newgate prison, and swinging in the morning air, like so many ghastly pendulums. This year 1837, Victoria spent her first Christmas as a Queen at Windsor, right royally I doubt not, and I think it probable she received a few presents. A few days before, she had gone in state to Parliament, to give her assent to the New Civil List Act-not a hard duty for her to perform, it would seem, as that act settled on her for life an annual income of £385,000. Let Americans who begrudge our President his $50,000, and wail over our taxation, just put that sum into dollars. The English people did not grumble at this grant, as they had grumbled over the large sums demanded by Her Majesty's immediate predecessors. They knew it would not be recklessly and wickedly squandered, and they liked to have their bonnie young Queen make a handsome appearance among crowned heads. She had not then revealed those strong and admirable traits of character which later won their respect and affection,--but they were fond of her, and took a sort of amused delight in her, as though they, were all children, and she a wonderful new doll, with new-fashioned talking and walking arrangements. The friend from whom I have quoted--Mrs. Crosland-- writes me: "I consider that it would be impossible to exaggerate the enthusiasm of the English people on the accession of Queen Victoria to the throne. To be able at all to understand it, we must recollect the sovereigns she succeeded--the Sailor-King, a most commonplace old man, with 'a head like a pine-apple'; George IV., a most unkingly king, extremely unpopular, except with a small party, of High Tories; and poor George III., who by the generation Victoria followed, could only be remembered as a frail, afflicted, blind old man--for a long period shut up at Kew, and never seen by his people. It was not only that Victoria was a really lovely girl, but that she had the _prestige_ of having been brought up as a Liberal, and then she kept the hated Duke of Cumberland from the throne. Possibly he was not guilty of half the atrocious sins attributed to him, but I do not remember any royal personage so universally hated." It was fear of this bogie of a Cumberland that made the English people anxious for the early marriage of the Queen, and yet caused them to dread it, for the fate of poor Princess Charlotte had not been forgotten. But I do not think that political or dynastic questions had much to do with the popularity of the young Queen. It was the resurrection of the dead dignity of the Royal House of Brunswick, in her fair person--the resuscitation of the half-dead principle of loyalty in the hearts of her people. Of her Majesty's subjects of the better class, actors and quakers alone seem to have taken her accession with all its splendid accessions, coolly,--the former, perhaps, because much mock royalty had somehow cheapened the real thing, and the latter because trained from infancy to disregard the pomps and show of this world. Macready jots down among the little matters in his "Diary," the fact of Her Majesty coming to his theatre, and waiting awhile after the play to see him and congratulate him. He speaks of her as "a pretty little girl," and does not seem particularly "set up" by her compliments. Joseph Sturge, the eminent and most lovable philanthropist of Birmingham,--a "Friend indeed" to all "in need,"--waited on Her Majesty, soon after her accession, as one of a delegation of the Society of Friends. Some years after, he related the circumstance to me, and simply described her to me as "a nice, pleasant, modest young woman,--graceful, though a little shy, and on the whole, comely." "Did you kiss her hand?" I asked. "O yes, and found that act of homage no hardship, I assure thee. It was a fair, soft, delicate little hand." I afterwards regretted that I had not asked him what he did with his broad-brimmed hat when he was about to be presented, knowing that the principles of Fox and Penn forbade his removing that article in homage to any human creature; but I have just discovered in a volume of Court Records, that "the deputation from the Society of Friends, commonly called Quakers, were uncovered, according to custom, by the Yeoman of the Guard." As they were all non-resistants, they doubtless bore the indignity passively and placidly. Moreover, they all bowed, if they did not kneel, before the throne on which their Queen was seated, and as I said kissed her hand, in token of their friendly fealty. In June, 1838, were issued the first gold sovereigns, bearing the head of the Queen--the same spirited young head that we see now on all the modern gold and silver pieces of the realm. That on the copper is a little different, but all are pretty--so pretty that Her Majesty's loyal subjects prefer them to all other likenesses, even poor men feeling that they cannot have too many of them. CHAPTER XII. The Coronation. The coronation was fixed for June 28, 1838 a little more than a year from the accession. The, Queen had been slightly troubled at the thought of some of the antiquated forms of that grand and complicated ceremony--for instance, the homage of the Peers, spiritual and temporal. As the rule stood, they were all required after kneeling to her, and pledging their allegiance, to rise and kiss her on the left cheek. She might be able to bear up under the salutes of those holy old gentlemen, the archbishops and bishops--but the anticipation of the kisses of all the temporal Peers, old and young, was enough to appall her--there were six hundred of them. So she issued a proclamation excusing the noble gentlemen from that onerous duty, and at the coronation only the Royal Dukes, Sussex and Cambridge, kissed the Queen's rosy cheek, by special kinship privilege. The others had to be content with her hand. The other omitted ceremony was one which formerly took place in Westminster Hall--consisting chiefly of the appearance of a knight armed, mailed and mounted, who as Royal Champion proceeded to challenge the enemies of the new Sovereign to mortal combat. This, which had appeared ridiculous in the case of the burly George IV., would have been something pretty and poetic in that of the young maiden-Queen, but she doubtless felt that as every Englishman was disposed to be her champion, the old form would be the idlest, melodramatic bravado. The crown which had fitted George and William was too big and heavy for their niece--so it was taken to pieces, and the jewels re-set in a way to greatly reduce the size and weight. A description now before me, of the new crown is too dazzling for me to transcribe. I must keep my eyes for plainer work; but I can give the value of the bauble--£112,760!--and this was before the acquisition of the koh-i-noor. Of the coronation I will try to give a clear, if not a full account. It was a wonderful time in London when that day of days was ushered in, by the roar of cannon from the grim old Tower, answered by a battery in St. James' Park. Such a world of people everywhere! All Great Britain and much of the Continent seemed to have emptied themselves into this metropolis, which overflowed with a surging, murmuring tide of humanity. Ah me, how much of that eager, noisy life is silent and forgotten now! There may have before been coronations surpassing that of Victoria in scenic splendor, if not in solid magnificence-that of the first Napoleon and his Empress, perhaps-but there has been nothing so grand as a royal pageant seen since, until the crowning of the present Russian Emperor at Moscow, where the almost intolerable splendor was seen against a dark background of tragic possibilities. This English coronation was less brilliant, perhaps, but also less barbaric than that august, overpowering ceremony over which it seemed there might hover "perturbed spirits" of men slain in mad revolts against tyranny--of youths and women done to death on the red scaffold, in dungeons, in midnight mines, and Siberian snows; and about which there surely lurked the fiends of dynamite. But this pure young girl, trusting implicitly in the loving loyalty of her subjects--relying on Heaven for help and guidance, lifted to the throne by the Constitution and the will of a free people, as conquerors have been upborne on shields, what had she to fear? A very different and un- nihilistic "cloud of witnesses" was hers, we may believe. If ever there was a mortal state-occasion for the immortals to be abroad, it was this. The great procession started from Buckingham Palace at about 10 o'clock. The first two state carriages, each drawn by six horses, held the Duchess of Kent and her attendants. The Queen's mother, regally attired, was enthusiastically cheered all along the way. The Queen was, of course, in the grand state coach, which is mostly gilding and glass--a prodigiously imposing affair. It was drawn by eight cream-colored horses--great stately creatures--with white flowing manes, and tails like mountain cascades. Many battalions and military bands were stationed along the line, presenting arms and playing the National Anthem, "And the People, O the People!" Every window, balcony, and door-step was swarming, every foot of standing room occupied--even on roofs and chimneys. Ladies and children waved handkerchiefs and dropped flowers from balconies, and the shouts from below and the shouts from above seemed to meet and break into joyous storm-bursts in the air. Accounts state that Her Majesty "looked exceedingly well, and that she seemed in excellent spirits, and highly delighted with the imposing scene and the enthusiasm of her subjects." One would think she might have been. She had a great deal to go through with that day. She must have rehearsed well, or she would have been confused by the multiform ceremonials of that grand spectacular performance. The scene, as she entered Westminster Abbey, might well have startled her out of her serene calm, but it didn't. On each side of the nave, reaching from the western door to the organ screen, were the galleries, erected for the spectators. These were all covered with crimson cloth fringed with gold. Underneath them were lines of foot-guards, very martial-looking, fellows. The old stone floor, worn with the tread of Kings' coronations and funeral processions, was covered with matting, and purple and crimson cloth. Immediately under the central tower of the Abbey, inside the choir, five steps from the floor, on a carpet of purple and gold, was a platform covered with cloth of gold, and on it was the golden "Chair of Homage." Within the chancel, near the altar, stood the stiff, quaint old chair in I which all the sovereigns of England since Edward the Confessor have been crowned. Cloth of gold quite concealed the "chunk of old red sandstone," called the "stone of Scone," on which the ancient Scottish Kings were crowned, and which the English seem to keep and use for luck. There were galleries on galleries upholstered in crimson cloth, and splendid tapestries, wherein sat members of Parliament and foreign Princes and Embassadors. In the organ loft were singers in white, and instrumental performers in scarlet --all looking very fine and festive; and up very high was a band of trumpeters, whose music, pealing over the heads of the people, produced, at times, a wonderful effect. Fashionable people had got up early for once. Many were at the Abbey doors long before 5 o'clock, and when the Queen arrived at 11:30, hundreds of delicate ladies in full evening-dress, had been waiting for her for seven long hours. The foreign Princes and Embassadors were in gorgeous costumes; and there was the Lord Mayor in all his glory, blinding to behold. His most formidable rival was Prince Esterhazy, who sparkled with costly jewels from his head down to his boots-looking as though he had been snowed upon with pearls, and had also been caught out in a rain of diamonds, and had come in dripping. All these grand personages and the Peers and Peeresses were so placed as to have a perfect view of the part of the minster in which the coronation took place-called, in the programme, "the Theatre." The Queen came in about the middle of the splendid procession. In her royal robe of crimson velvet, furred with ermine, and trimmed with gold lace, wearing the collars of her orders, and on her head a circlet of gold-her immense train borne by eight very noble young ladies, she is said to have looked "truly royal," though so young, and only four feet eight inches in height. As she entered the Abbey, the orchestra and choir broke out into the National Anthem. They performed bravely, but were scarcely heard for the mighty cheers which went up from the great assembly, making the old minster resound in all its aisles and arches and ancient chapels. Then, as she advanced slowly towards the choir, the anthem, "_I was glad_" was sung, and after that, the sweet-voiced choir-boys of Westminster chanted like so many white-gowned, sleek-headed angels, "_Vivat Victoria Regina!_" Ah, then she felt very solemnly that she was Queen; and moving softly to a chair placed between the Chair of Homage and the altar, she knelt down on the "faldstool" before it, and meekly said her prayers. When the boys had finished their glad anthem, the Archbishop of Canterbury, with several high officers of state, moved to the east side of the theatre, when the Primate, in a loud voice, said: "I here present unto you Queen Victoria, the undoubted Queen of this realm, wherefore all you who are come this day to your homage, are you willing to do the same?" It seems a little confused, but the people understood it, and shouted, "God save Queen Victoria!" This "recognition," as it was called, was repeated at the south, west, and north sides of the "theatre," and every time was answered by that joyous shout, and by the pealing of trumpets and the beating of drums. The Queen stood throughout this ceremony, each time turning her head towards the point from which the recognition came. One may almost wonder if all those loyal shouts and triumphant trumpetings and drum-beatings did not trouble somewhat the long quiet of death in the dusky old chapels in which sleep the fair Queen Eleanor, and the gracious Philippa, and valiant Elizabeth, and hapless Mary Stuart. Then followed a great many curious rites and ceremonies of receiving and presenting offerings; and many prayers and the reading of the Litany, and the preaching of the sermon, in which the poor Queen was exhorted to "follow in the footsteps of her predecessor"--which would have been to walk "sailor-fashion" morally. Then came the administration of the oath. After having been catechised by the Archbishop in regard to the Established Church, Her Majesty was conducted to the altar, where kneeling, and laying her hand on the Gospels in the great Bible, she said, in clear tones, silvery yet solemn: "The things which I have here before promised, I will perform and keep. So help me God!" She then kissed the book, and after that the hymn, "_Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire_" was sung by the choir, the Queen still kneeling. I read the other day that the Duke of Connaught (Prince Arthur), on visiting Norwich Cathedral, was shown the very Bible on which his mother took her well-kept coronation oath, forty-five years ago. It was a most solemn pledge, and yet it was all comprehended in the little girl Victoria's promise to her governess, "I will be good." Her Majesty next seated herself in St. Edward's chair; a rich cloth of gold was held over her head, and the Archbishop anointed her with holy oil, in the form of a cross. Then followed more prayers, more forms and ceremonies, the presentation of swords and spurs, and such like little feminine adornments, the investing with the Imperial robe, the sceptre and the ring, the consecration and blessing of the new crown, and at last the crowning. In this august ceremony three Archbishops, two Bishops, a Dean, and several other clergymen were somehow employed. The task was most religiously performed. It was the Primate of all England who reverently placed the crown on that reverent young head. The moment this was done all the Peers and Peeresses, who, with their coronets in their hands, or borne by pages at their sides, had been intently watching the proceedings, crowned themselves, shouting, "God save the Queen!" while again trumpets pealed forth, and drums sounded, and the far-off Tower and Park guns, fired by signal, boomed over the glad Capital. It is stated that the most magically beautiful effect of all was produced by the Peeresses, in suddenly and simultaneously donning their coronets. It was as though the stars had somehow kept back their radiance till the young moon revealed herself in all her silver splendor. Then came the exhortation, an anthem, and a benediction, and after a few more forms and pomps, the Queen was conducted to the Chair of Homage. Before the next long ceremony began, the Queen handed her two sceptres to two of the lords in attendance, to keep for her, as quietly as any other girl might hand over to a couple of dangling young gentlemen her fan and bouquet to hold for her, while she drew on her gloves. The Lords Spiritual, headed by the Primate, began the homage by kneeling, and kissing the Queen's hand. Then came the Dukes of Sussex and Cambridge, who, removing their coronets, and touching them to the Crown, solemnly pledged their allegiance, and kissed their niece on the left cheek. Her manner to them was observed to be very affectionate. Then the other Dukes, and Peers on Peers did homage by kneeling, touching coronet to crown, and kissing that little white hand. When the turn of the Duke of Wellington came, the entire assembly broke into applause; and yet he was not the hero of the day, but an older and far more infirm Peer, Lord Rolle, who mounted the steps with difficulty, and stumbling at the top, fell, and rolled all the way back to the floor, where "he lay at the bottom of the steps, coiled up in his robes." At sight of the accident the Queen rose from her throne, and held out her hands as though to help him. It was a pretty incident, not for the poor Peer, but as showing Her Majesty's impulsive kindness of heart. The old nobleman was not hurt, but quickly unwound himself, rose, mounted the steps, and tried again and again to touch the crown with the coronet in his weak, uncertain hand, every plucky effort being hailed with cheers. At length the Queen, smiling, gave him her hand to kiss, dispensing with the form of touching her crown. Miss Martineau, who witnessed the scene, states that a foreigner who was present was made to believe by a wag that this ludicrous tumble was a part of the regular programme, and that the Lords Rolle held their title on condition of performing that feat at every coronation, Rolle meaning roll. This most tedious ceremony over, finishing up with more anthems, trumpets, drums, and shouts, the Sacrament was administered to the Queen --she discrowning herself, and kneeling while she partook of the holy elements. Then a re-crowning, a re-enthronement, more anthems, and the blessed release of the final benediction. Passing into King Edward's chapel, the Queen changed the Imperial for the Royal robe of purple velvet, and passed out of the Abbey, wearing her crown, bearing the sceptre in her right hand, and the orb in her left, and so got into her carriage, and drove home through the shouting multitude. It is stated that Her Majesty did not seem exhausted, though she was observed to put her hand to her head frequently, as though the crown was not, after all, a very comfortable fit. After reigning more than a year, she had been obliged to spend nearly five fatiguing hours in being finished as a Queen. How strange it all seems to us American Republicans, who make and unmake our rulers with such expedition and scant ceremony. CHAPTER XIII. Pictures and descriptions of the Queen--Her love of pets--Her passion for horseback exercise--Her spirited behavior in the first change of her Ministers. In the Hall of the St. George's Society of Philadelphia there is a very interesting picture by the late Mr. Sully of Queen Victoria in her coronation robes. It is life-size, and represents her as mounting the steps of the throne, her head slightly turned, and looking back over the left shoulder. It seems to me that Her Majesty should own this picture, for it is an exquisite specimen of Mr. Sully's peculiar coloring, and a very lovely portrait. Here is no rigidity, no constraint, no irksome state. There is a springy, exultant vitality in the bearing of the graceful figure, and the light poise of the head, while in the complexion there is a tender softness and a freshness of tints belonging only to the dewy morning of life. The princeliness of youth, the glow of joy and hope overtop and outshine the crown which she wears as lightly as though it were a May-queen's Coronal of roses; and the dignity of simple girlish purity envelops her more royally than velvet and ermine. The eyes have the softness of morning skies and spring violets, and the smile hovering about the red lips, a little parted, is that of an unworn heart and an eager, confident spirit. This was the first portrait of the young Queen I ever saw, and still seems to me the loveliest. Another American artist, Mr. Leslie, painted a large picture of the coronation, which Her Majesty purchased. As he was to paint the scene, he was provided with a very good seat near the throne--so near that he said he could plainly see, when she came to sign her coronation oath, that she wrote a large, bold hand, doing credit to her old writing master, Mr. Steward. In his recollections he says: "I don't know why, but the first sight of her in her robes of state brought tears into my eyes, and it had this effect upon many people; she looked almost like a child." Campbell, the poet, is related to have said to a friend: "I was at Her Majesty's coronation in Westminster Abbey, and she conducted herself so well during the long and fatiguing ceremony that I shed tears many times." Carlyle said at the time, with a shake of his craggy, shaggy head: "Poor little Queen! she is at an age at which a girl can hardly be trusted to choose a bonnet for herself, yet a task is laid upon her from which an archangel might shrink.": And yet, according to Earl Russell, this "poor little Queen," over whom the painters and poets wept, and the great critic "roared gently" his lofty commiseration, informed her anxious mother that she "ascended the throne without alarm." Victoria, if reminded of this in later years, might have said, "They who know nothing, fear nothing"; and yet the very vagueness, as well as vastness, of the untried life would have appalled many spirits. The Queen was certainly a very valiant little woman, but there would have been something unnatural, almost uncanny, about her had the regal calm and religious seriousness which marked her mien during those imposing rites, continued indefinitely, and it is right pleasant to read in the reminiscences of Leslie, how the child in her broke out when all the magnificent but tiresome parade, all the grand stage-business with those heavy actors, was over. The painter says: "She is very fond of dogs, and has one favorite little spaniel, who is always on the lookout for her return when she is from home. She had, of course, been separated from him on that day longer than usual, and when the state-coach drove up to the Palace steps she heard him barking joyously in the hall, and exclaimed, 'There's Dash,' and was in a hurry to doff her crown and royal robe, and lay down the sceptre and the orb, which she carried in her hands, and go and give Dash his bath." I hope this story is literally true, for I have a strong impression that it was this peculiar love of pets, this sense of companionship with intelligent, affectionate animals, especially dogs and horses, that with an ever-fresh delight in riding and dancing, healthful sports and merry games, was the salvation of the young Queen. Without such vents, the mighty responsibility of her dizzy position, the grandeur, the dignity, the decorum, the awful etiquette would have killed her--or at least, puffed her up with pride, or petrified her with formality. Sir John Campbell wrote of her at this time: "She is as merry and playful as a kitten."--I hope she loved kittens! Again he says: "The Queen was in great spirits, and danced with more than usual gaiety, a romping, country-dance, called the Tempest." In addition to this girlish gaiety, Victoria seems always to have had a vein of un-Guelph-like humor, a keen sense of the ludicrous, a delicious enjoyment of fun, which are among Heaven's choicest blessings to poor mortals, royal or republican. Prince Albert's sympathy with her love of innocent amusement, and her delight in the absurdities and drolleries of animal as well as of human life and character, was one and perhaps not the weakest of the ties which bound her to him. With the young Queen equestrian exercise was more than a pastime, it was almost a passion. She rode remarkably well, and in her gratitude for this beautiful accomplishment,--rarer even in England than people think--she wished as soon as she came to the throne, to give her riding-master, Fozard, a suitable position near her person, something higher than that of a groom. She was told that there was no situation vacant that he could fill. "Then I will create one," she said, and dubbed him "Her Majesty's Stirrup holder." I would have done more for him--made him Master of the Horse, in place of Lord Albemarle, who always rolled along in the royal carriage, or created for him the office of Lord High Equerry of the Realm. N. P. Willis, in his delightful "Pencilings By the Way," gives a bright glimpse of the Queen on horseback. It was in Hyde Park, and he saye the party from the Palace came on so fast that the scarlet-coated outriders had difficulty in clearing the track of the other equestrians. Her Majesty has always liked to go fast by horse or steam-power, as though determined not to let Time get ahead of her, for all his wings. The poet then adds: "Her Majesty rides quite fearlessly and securely. I met her party full gallop near the centre of Rotten Row. On came the Queen, on a dun-colored, highly-groomed horse, with her Prime Minister on one side of her, and Lord Byron on the other; her _cortège_ of Maids of Honor, and Lords and Ladies of the Court checking their spirited horses, and preserving always a slight distance between themselves and Her Majesty. ... Victoria's round, plump figure looks exceedingly well in her dark green riding-dress. ... She rode with her mouth open, and seemed exhilarated with pleasure." This was in 1839. Some years later, a young American writer, who shall be nameless, but who was as passionate a lover of horses as the Queen herself, wrote a sort of pæan to horseback-riding. She began by telling her friends, all whom it might concern, that when she was observed to be low in her mind--when she seemed "weary of life," and to "shrink from its strife"--when, in short, things didn't go well with her generally, they were not to come to her with the soft tones or the tears of sympathy; then she went on thus, rather pluckily, I think: "No counsel I ask, and no pity I need, But bring me, O bring me, my gallant young steed, With his high-arched neck and his nostril spread wide; His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride. As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein, The strength to my spirit returneth again, The bonds are all broken that fettered my mind, And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind,-- My pride lifts its head, for a season, bowed down, And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown." Now if the simple American girl prepared for a lonely gallop through the woods, could so have thrilled with the fulness, joy, and strength of young life; could have felt so royal, mounted on a half-broken, roughly- groomed western colt (for that's what the "steed" really was), with few fine points and no pedigree to speak of--what must the glorious exercise have been to that great little Queen, re-enthroned on thoroughbred, "highly-groomed," magnificent English horse-flesh? Her Majesty has always been constant in her equine loves. Six of her saddle-horses, splendidly caparisoned, walked proudly, as so many Archbishops, in the coronation procession; and in the royal stables of London and Windsor, her old favorites have been most tenderly cared for. When she could no longer use them, she still petted them, and never reproached them for having "outlived their usefulness." Another writer from America, James Gordon Bennett, sent home, this coronation year, some very pleasant descriptions of the Queen. At the opera he had his first sight of her. "About ten o'clock, when the opera was half through, the royal party entered. 'There! there! there!' exclaimed a young girl behind me--'there's the Queen!' looking eagerly up to the royal box. I looked too, and saw a fair, light-haired little girl, dressed with great simplicity, in white muslin, with hair plain, a blue ribbon at the back, enter the box and take her seat, half hid in the red drapery at the corner remote from the stage. The Queen is certainly very simple in her appearance; but I am not sure that this very simplicity does not set off to advantage her fair, pretty, pleasant, little round Dutch face. Her bust is extremely well-proportioned, and her complexion very fair. There is a slight parting of the rosy lips, between which you can see little nicks of something like very white teeth. The expression of her face is amiable and good-tempered. I could see nothing like that awful majesty, that mysterious something which doth hedge a Queen. ... During the performance, the Queen would now and then draw aside the curtain and gaze back at the audience, with that earnestness and curiosity which any young girl might show." Mr. Bennett gave other descriptions of the Queen as he saw her driving in the Park. He wrote: "I had been taking a walk over the interior of the Park, gazing listlessly at the crowd of carriages as they rolled by. Just as I was entering the arched gateway to depart, a sensation spread through the crowd which filled that part of the promenade. 'The Queen! the Queen!' flew from lip to lip. In an instant two outriders shot through the gate; near Apsley House, followed by a barouche and four, carrying the Queen and three of her suite. She sat on the right hand of the back seat, leaning a good deal back. She was, as usual, dressed very simply, in white, with a plain straw, or Leghorn bonnet, and her veil was thrown aside. She carried a green parasol." Ah, why _green_, O Queen? Later that afternoon he saw her again, going at a slower rate, holding up that green parasol, bowing right and left and smiling, as the crowd saluted and cheered. The Queen does not bow and smile so much nowadays, but then she no longer carries a green parasol. N. P. Willis also saw the young sovereign at the opera, and dashes off a poet's vivid sketch of her: "In her box to the left of me sat the Queen, keeping time with her fan to the singing of Pauline Garcia, her favorite Minister, Lord Melbourne, standing behind her chair, and her maids of honor grouped around her-- herself the youthful, smiling, admired sovereign of the most powerful nation on earth. The Queen's face has thinned and grown more oval since I saw her four years ago as the Princess Victoria. She has been compelled to think since then, and such exigencies in all stations in life work out the expression of the face. She has now what I should pronounce a decidedly intellectual countenance, a little petulant withal when she turns to speak, but on the whole quite beautiful enough for a virgin Queen. She was dressed less gaily than many others around her." I have given much space to these personal descriptions of Queen Victoria as she appeared in those first two years of her Queenhood, because they are still to the world--the world of young people, at least--the most interesting years of all her glorious reign. There was great poetry about that time, and, it must be confessed, some peril. Mrs. Oliphant, in her excellent little life of the Queen, says: "The immediate circle of friends around the young sovereign fed her with no flatteries." It is difficult to believe such a statement of any mortal Court-circle. But if gross adulation was not offered--a sort of moral pabulum, which the Queen's admirable good sense would have rejected, there was profound homage in the very attitude of courtiers and in the etiquette of Court life. The incense of praise and admiration, "unuttered or exprest," was perpetually and inevitably rising up about her young footsteps wherever they strayed; it formed the very air she breathed--about as healthful an atmosphere to live and sleep in as would be that of a conservatory abounding in tuberoses, white lilies, and jessamine. Still, that she did not grow either arrogant or artificial, seems proved by the pleasant accounts given of her simple and gracious ways by the painters of whom I have spoken--Thomas Sully and Charles Leslie. I remember particularly, hearing from a friend of Mr. Sully, of the generous interest she took in his portrait of her, which, I think, was painted at Windsor. She gave him all the sittings, or rather standings, her busy life would allow; giving him free use of all the splendid paraphernalia necessary for his work. Between whiles the painter's young daughter stood for the picture, being, of course, obliged to don the royal robes and even the tiara. One day, while thus engaged and arrayed, the Queen came suddenly into the room. Miss Sully much confused was about to descend from the steps of the throne, when the Queen exclaimed, laughing: "Pray stay as you are; I like to see how I look!" Leslie, whose picture of the Coronation was painted at Windsor, gave a pleasant account of the Queen's kindly and easy ways. "She is now," he says, "so far satisfied with the likeness that she does not wish me to touch it again. She sat five times--not only for the face, but for as much as is seen of the figure, and for the hands, with the coronation- ring on the finger. Her hands, by the by, are very pretty--the backs dimpled and the fingers delicately shaped. She was particular to have her hair dressed exactly as she wore it at the ceremony every time she sat." The Queen in her writings says very little of this portion of her "strange, eventful history,"--a time so filled with incident, so gilded with romance, so bathed in poetry, so altogether splendid in the eyes of all the world; for to her, life--or all which was most "happy and glorious" in life--began and ended with Prince Albert. She even speaks with regret of that period of single queenliness, and says: "A worse school for a young girl--one more detrimental to all natural feelings and affections--cannot well be imagined than the position of a Queen at eighteen without experience and without a husband to guide and support her. This the Queen can state from painful experience, and she thanks God that none of her own dear daughters are exposed to such danger." Human nature is rash and young-woman-nature ambitious and ill-disposed to profit by the costly experience of eld, and I doubt not the clever Princess Royal or the proud and fair Princess Louise would have mounted any throne in Christendom "without alarm." Most of Her Majesty's loyal subjects deny that any harm came to her from her unsupported position as Queen Regnant, or that she was capable of being thus harmed--but the Queen knows best. The Princess Victoria was a proud, high-spirited girl, and it were no treason to suppose that at the first she had a sense of relief when the leading-strings, in which she had been so long held, were cut, though by the scissors of Atropos, and she was free to stand and go alone. Her good mother, becoming at once an object of political jealousy, removed herself from the old close companionship, though retaining in her heart the old tender solicitude--perhaps feeling herself more than ever necessary to her daughter. Mothers are so conceited. It is small wonder if after her life of studious and modest seclusion and filial subordination, the gaiety, the splendor, and the supremacy of the new existence intoxicated the young sovereign somewhat. The pleasures of her capital and the homage of the world captivated her imagination, while the consciousness of power and wealth and personal loveliness inclined her to be self-indulgent and self-willed. In spite of the good counsel of the family Mentor, Baron Stockmar, and of her sagacious uncle, Leopold, she must have committed some errors of judgment--fallen into some follies; she was so young and impulsive--so very human. Her first independent political act seems to have been a mistake, founded on a misunderstanding. It was at all events an act more Georgian than Victorian. The Whig party, to which she was attached, had by a series of blunders and by weak vacillation lost strength and popularity, and Lord Melbourne's Ministry found itself so hard-pressed that it struck colors and resigned. Then the Queen was advised by the Duke of Wellington to invite the Conservative leader, Sir Robert Peel, to form a new Ministry. She did so, but frankly told that gentleman that she was very sorry to lose Lord Melbourne and his colleagues, whom she liked and approved--which must have been pleasant talk to Sir Robert. However, he went to work, but soon found that objections were made by his colleagues to certain Whig ladies in personal attendance on the Queen, and likely to influence her. So it was proposed to Her Majesty to make an important change in her household. I believe that the Duchess of Sutherland and Lady Normandy--the first the sister and the second the wife of a prominent Liberal--were especially meant; but the Queen took it that she was called on to dismiss all her ladies, and flatly refused, saying that to do so would be "repugnant to her feelings"--forgetting that feeling was no constitutional argument. She had got used to those Ladies of the Bed-Chamber, and they to her. They knew just where everything was, what colors became her, and what gossip and games amused her. Doubtless she loved them, and doubtless also she loved her own way. Surely the right of her constitutional advisers to dictate to her must have a limit somewhere, and she drew the line at her bed-chamber door. Then, as Sir Robert would not yield the point, she recalled Melbourne and went on as before. The affair created immense excitement. Non-political people were amused at the little Queen's spirit of independence. Liberals applauded her patriotism and pluck in defeating the "wicked Bed-Chamber Plot," and for her loyalty to her friends; but the defeated Tories were very naturally incensed, and, manlike, paid Her Majesty back, when measures which she had much at heart came before Parliament a year or so later--as we shall see. Many years later the Queen appears to have thought that she was beginning to drift on to rocks of serious political mistakes and misfortunes as well as into rapids of frivolity, when the good, wise Pilot came to take the helm of her life-craft. This pilot was, of course, the "Prince Charming," selected and reared for her away in Saxe-Coburg--that handsome Cousin Albert, once in a letter to the good uncle Leopold tacitly accepted by her in girlish thoughtlessness, as she would have accepted a partner in a joyous country-dance, and afterwards nearly as thoughtlessly thrown over and himself sent adrift. CHAPTER XIV. Prince Albert. If the Princess Charlotte was the prototype of her cousin Victoria, Prince Leopold was in some respects the prototype of his beloved nephew Albert, who was born in August, 1819, at Rosenau, a charming summer residence of his father, the reigning Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfield. The little Prince's grandmother, the Dowager-Duchess of Saxe-Coburg, in writing to her daughter, the Duchess of Kent, to announce the happy event, says: "The little boy is to be christened to-morrow, and to have the name of Albert." When the christening came off it appeared that "Albert" was only one and the simplest of several names, but he was always known and always will be known by that name. It has been immortalized by his upright character, his rare intellectual gifts, his goodness and grace; by the affection of his countrymen and his noble life-work in England; by the genius of England's greatest living poet, and by the love and sorrow of England's Queen. While the Prince was yet a baby, his mother wrote of him: "Albert is superb,--remarkably beautiful, with large blue eyes, a delicate mouth, a fine nose, and dimpled cheeks. He is lively and always gay." Albert was the second son of the Duke and Duchess. Ernest, a year or two older, is thus described by his mother: "Ernest is very strong and robust, but not half so pretty as his brother. He is handsome, though; with black eyes." Prince Leopold spent some time with his brother at Coburg when Albert was about two years old, and then began the tender, life-long mutual affection which led to such happy and important results. The young mother wrote: "Albert adores his uncle Leopold; never quits him for a moment; looks sweetly at him; is constantly embracing him; and is never happy except when near him." The grandmother also wrote: "Leopold is very kind to the little boys. Bold _Albertinchen_ drags him constantly about by the hand. The little fellow is the pendant to the pretty cousin (Princess Victoria); very handsome, but too slight for a boy; lively, very funny, all good nature, and full of mischief. The other day he did not know how to make enough of me, because I took him with me in the carriage. He kept saying, 'Albert is going with grandmamma!' and gave me his little hand to kiss. 'There, grandmamma, kiss!'" The little Princes were not long to enjoy the care and society of their loving and lovely mother. An unhappy estrangement between their parents, followed by a separation and a divorce, left them at seven and five years old half-orphaned; for they never saw their mother again. She died at St. Wendel, in Switzerland, while still young and beautiful; but doubtless weary enough of life, which had brought her such happiness, only to take it away. Two words as holy as her prayers, were on her dying lips-- "Ernest!" "Albert!" But the boys were rich in grandmothers--having two of the very tenderest and dearest of Dowager-Duchesses to watch over them (watching each other, perhaps, the while) and to minister to them for many a year. According to these venerable ladies, Albert, who was certainly a delicate, nervous child, was one of those "little angels" who are destined not to survive the dimpled, golden-curled, lisping, and croupy period; being too good and sweet and exquisite for this wicked and rough world. But, according to certain entries in the Prince's own diary--his first, begun in his sixth year--he at that age happily revealed some hopeful signs of saving naughtiness and healthful "original sin." "11th _February_, 1825. "I was told to recite something, but did not wish to do so. That was not right--naughty!" "20th _February_. "I had left all my lesson books lying about in the room, and I had to put them away; then I cried." "28th _February_. "I cried at my lesson to-day because I could not find a verb, and the Rath (tutor) pinched me, to show me what a verb was. I cried about it." "9th _April_. "I got up well and happy; afterward I had a fight with my brother." "10th _April_. "I had another fight with my brother; that was not right." This almost baby-prince seems to have been a valorous little fellow. When his blood was up he seems to have given little thought to the superior age or strength of his opponents, but to have been always ready to "pitch in"; or, to use the more refined and courtly language of his tutor, M. Florschütz, "he was not, at times, indisposed to resort to force, if his wishes were not at once complied with." For several years the young Princes, devoted to each other, passed studious, yet active and merry lives at the Coburg Palace, and in the dear country home of Rosenau. They seem to have corresponded with their cousin Victoria, whom, it seems, the lad Albert was led by his grandmamma Coburg to regard with an especially romantic and tender interest. That grandmamma, the mother of Prince Leopold and the Duchess of Kent, and who seems to have been a very able and noble woman, died when her darling Albert was about twelve years old; but the hope of her heart did not die with her, and without doubt Prince Albert was educated with special and constant reference to a far more important and brilliant destiny than often falls to the lot of the young sons of even Grand Ducal houses. He was well instructed in many branches of science, in languages, in music and literature, in politics, and what seems a contradiction, in ethics,-- his moral development being most carefully watched over, while his physical training was a pendant to that which made his cousin Victoria one of the healthiest and hardiest of modern Englishwomen. With a delicate constitution and a sensitive, nervous temperament, Prince Albert would scarcely have lived to manhood, except for that admirable physical training. As a child, he was braced up by much life in the open air, simple diet, a good deal of rough play--while as to sleep, he was allowed to help himself, which he did plentifully, being much given to somnolency. As a lad and youth, he hardened himself by all healthful manly sports and exercises; in short, made a boy of mamma's "angel," a man of grandmamma's golden-haired darling. Nor was that great element of a liberal education, travel, wanting. The brothers paid visits to their uncle Leopold, now King of Belgium, and after tours in Germany, Austria, and Holland, visited England, and their aunt Kent and their cousin Victoria, to whom they were most warmly commended by their uncle. According to the Queen's books, with this visit of three weeks began the personal acquaintance of the cousins; yet old Kensingtonians have a legend which they obstinately cling to, that Prince Albert, when much younger, spent three years in the old brick palace with his aunt and cousin, in pursuance of the matrimonial plans of the Duchess of Kent and Prince Leopold; and I have seen in a quaint old juvenile book a wood-cut representing the little Victoria in a big hat, riding on a pony in the park, and little Albert in a visored cap and short jacket running along at her side. But, of course, it was all a mistake; there was no such period of childish courtship, and the boy in the queer Dutch cap was an optical illusion, or a "double," in German a _doppel-gänger_. During the real visit, occurred the seventeenth birthday of the Princess, and there were public rejoicings and Court-festivities, preceded and followed for the cousins by days of pleasant companionship, in walking and riding, and evenings of music and dancing. But if the lad Albert, remembering the promise of his garrulous nurse, and the prophecy of his fond grandmamma, and the wish of his father and uncle Leopold, sought to read his destiny in the baffling blue eyes of the gay young girl, he seems to have failed, for he could only write home: "Our cousin is most amiable." Perhaps Victoria's own wonderful destiny, now drawing near, left little room in her heart or thought for lesser romances; perhaps the crown of England suspended over her head as by a single hair, the frail life of an old man, outdazzled even the graces and merits of her handsome but rather immature kinsman. Besides, "Prince Charming" at that time was short and stout, and he spoke our language too imperfectly to make love (which he would have pronounced _luf_) in the future Queen's English; and so he went away without any exchange of vows, or rings, or locks of fair hair or miniatures, and returned to his studies, principally at the University of Bonn. It is true that the Princess wrote to her "dearest uncle Leopold" soon after this visit, begging him to take special care of one now so dear to her, adding: "I hope and trust that all will go on prosperously and well on this subject now of so much importance to me." Yet King Leopold was a wise man, and did not build too securely on the fancy of a girl of seventeen, though he kept to work, he and the Baron, on their Prince-Consort making, in spite of the opposition of old King William, and all his brothers, and the candidates favored by them. It was from quaint, quiet old Bonn that Prince Albert wrote, on his cousin's accession to the throne, his famous letter of congratulation, in which there appeared not one word of courtier-like adulation--not a thought calculated to stir the heart of the young girl suddenly raised to that giddy height overlooking the world, with a thrill of exultation or vain-gloriousness. Thus wrote this boy-man of eighteen: "Now you are Queen of the mightiest land of Europe; in your hand lies the happiness of millions. May Heaven assist you, and strengthen you with its strength in the high, but difficult task." After leaving the University Prince Albert traveled in Switzerland and Italy with Baron Stockmar--everywhere winning the admiration and respect of the best sort of people by the rare princeliness of his appearance, his refined taste, his thoughtful and singularly receptive mind. And so three years went by. They were three years of uncertainty in regard to the great projects formed for him, of happiness, and a noble and useful, if subordinate career. King Leopold, the good genius of the two families, had not suffered his cousin to forget him, but though she declared she cared for no one else, she was not disposed to enter into any positive engagement, even with Albert. She enjoyed intensely her proud, independent position as Queen Regnant. She was having such a glorious swing at life, and very naturally feared the possible restraints, and the inevitable subordination of marriage. She was "too young to marry," and Albert was still younger--full three months. She would remain as she was, the gay, untrammeled maiden-Queen of England, for at least three or four years longer, and then think about it. The Prince was made, aware by his uncle Leopold of his royal cousin's state of feeling, or unfeeling, and was in a very doubtful and despondent state of mind when, polished by study and travel, grown tall and graceful, and "ideally beautiful," a veritable "Prince Charming," he came over the sea, out of fairyland, via Rotterdam, to seek his fortune--to attempt, at least, to wake the grandeur-enchanted Princess from her passionless dream of lonely, loveless sovereignty. He came, was seen, and conquered! But not at once; ah, no; for this charming royal idyll had its changing strophes, marking deepening degrees of sentiment--admiration, interest, hope, assurance, joyous certainty. The Queen had resolved to receive both the Princes with cousinly affection and royal honors, but as though they had come on an ordinary visit. As for Albert, she meant probably to reason with him frankly, till he should be convinced that they were "ower young to marry yet"--till he should realize his own exceeding youthfulness. Then, as he must go away, and "wait a little longer," she would see as much of him as possible--he was such a good, constant fellow. But she must give due attention to her other guests; and then the State had some claim on her time. But when the Coburg Princes arrived at Windsor, and the Queen, with her mother, met them at the head of the grand staircase, somehow she had only eyes for the younger brother; he had grown so manly, so tall, quite out of the old objectionable stoutness; he had so improved in his English; he was so handsome--so every way presentable! So, in spite of the gaieties and forms, and the comings and goings of Windsor, so very much did the royal maiden, hitherto so gay and "fancy-free" see of her cousin Albert preparatory to bidding him an indefinite adieu, that on the second day even, cause for jealousy was given to aspiring courtiers by smiles and words, especially sweet and gracious, bestowed on the fair Saxon Knight. On that second day the Queen wrote to her uncle Leopold: "Albert's beauty is most striking, and he is most amiable and unaffected; in short, very fascinating." She then added, with an exquisite touch of maiden coyness: "The young men are _both_ amiable, delightful companions, and I am glad to have them here." When a few more days had passed in familiar intercourse, in singing and walking, in dancing and driving, and best of all, in riding together (for there is no cradle to rock young Love in like the saddle), the poor little Queen forsworn, found she had no longer the courage to propose to that proud young Prince to wait indefinitely on her will--to tarry at Coburg for more wisdom and beard. At the thought of it she seemed to see something of noble scorn about his lips, and such grave remonstrance in his gentle, pensive, forget-me-not eyes, that--the words of parting were never spoken, or not till after many happy years. Alas for this fairy-Prince in an unfairylike kingdom! He could only declare his love, and sound the heart of his beloved, with his eyes. Etiquette put a leaden seal on his lips till from hers should come the sweet avowal and the momentous proffer to rule the ruler--to assume love's sovereignty over the Sovereign. After five days of troubled yet joyous waiting, it came--the happy "climax," as the Prince called it in a letter to Baron Stockmar--and then that perfectest flower of human life, whether in palace or cottage, a pure and noble love, burst into full and glorious bloom in each young heart. One cannot, even now, read without a genuine heart-thrill, and a mistiness about the eyes, the simple touching story of that royal romance of royal old Windsor. More than two-score years have passed, and yet how fresh it seems! It has the dew and the bloom of Paradise upon it. What in all this story seems to me most beautiful and touching, because so exquisitely womanly, is the meekness of the young Queen. Though as Queen she offered the Prince her coveted hand--that hand that had held the sceptre of sceptres, and which Princes and Peers and the representatives of the highest powers on earth, had kissed in homage, it was only as a poor little woman's weak hand, which needed to be upheld and guided in good works, by a stronger, firmer hand; and her head, when she laid it on her chosen husband's shoulder, had not the feel of the crown on it. Indeed, she seems to have felt that his love was her real coronation, his faith her consecration. To the beloved Stockmar, to whom but a little while before she had communicated her unalterable determination not to marry any one for ever so long the newly betrothed wrote: "I do feel so guilty I know not how to begin my letter; but I think the news it will contain will be sufficient to ensure your forgiveness. Albert has completely won my heart, and all was settled between us this morning. I feel certain he will make me happy. I wish I could feel as certain of my making him happy, but I will do my best." Among the entries in the Queen's journal are many like this: "How I will strive to make Albert feel as little as possible the great sacrifice he has made. I told him it _was_ a great sacrifice on his part, but he would not allow it." Of course the Prince had too much manly feeling and practical good sense to "allow it." He knew he was the most envied, not only of all poor German Princes about that time, but of all young scions of royalty the world over; and besides, he loved his cousin. There is no record or legend or hint of his having ever loved any other woman, except his good grandmothers. To her of Gotha he wrote: "The Queen sent for me alone to her room the other day, and declared to me in a genuine outburst of affection that I had gained her whole heart, and would make her intensely happy if I would make her the sacrifice of sharing her life with her, for she said she looked on it as a sacrifice; the only thing which troubled her was that she did not think she was worthy of me. The joyous openness with which she told me this enchanted me, and I was quite carried away by it." Still, and always the thought of "sacrifice!" This sentiment of tender humility, of deference and reverence the Queen never lost. Indeed, it seems to have grown with years, and as the character of the Prince- Consort unfolded more and more in beauty, strength, dignity, and uprightness. A month was passed by the lovers, in such happiness as comes but once in life to the most fortunate human beings--to some, alas! never. Then the Prince returned to Coburg, to settle his affairs and to take leave of his old home and his kindred. Those partings seem to have pulled hard on his heart-strings, and are distressing to read about. One would think he was bound for the "under-world," to wed the Queen of Madagascar. These Germans are such passionate lovers of the fatherland, that one wonders how they can ever bring themselves to leave it, to make grand marriages in England, or fortunes in America, to start a royal house, or a kindergarten--to become a Field Marshal or a United States Senator. But all that grief at Coburg and Gotha showed how dearly Prince Albert was loved, and how he loved. It seems that the fair cousin at Windsor was scarcely gay, for the Prince, writing to her mother, says: "What you say of my poor little bride, sitting all alone in her room, silent and sad, has touched my heart. Oh, that I might fly to her side to cheer her!" But she could not have much indulged in this solitary, idle brooding, for she had work to do, and must be up and doing. First, she had to summon a Privy Council, which met at Buckingham Palace;--more than eighty Peers, mostly solemn old fellows, who had outlived their days of romantic sentiment, if they ever had any, yet to whom the Queen had to declare her love for her cousin Albert, and her intention to marry him, being convinced, she said, that this union would "secure her domestic felicity, and serve the interests of her country." It was a little hard, yet a certain bracelet, containing a certain miniature, which she wore on her arm, gave her "courage," she said. Then came a yet more trying ordeal, for a modest young lady--the announcement of her intended marriage, in a speech from the throne, in the House of Lords. With the utmost dignity and calmness, and with a happiness which sparkled in her eyes and glowed in her blushes, and made strangely beautiful her young face, she read the announcement in the clear, musical tones so peculiar to her, and with an, almost religious solemnity. The glory of pure maidenly trust and devotion resting on her head, outshone the jewels of her tiara; Love was enthroned at her side. All was not sunshine, rose-bloom and soft airs before the young German husband of the Queen. Much doubt and jealousy and some unfriendliness were waiting for him in high places. The disappointed Tory party, and some Radicals, opposed hotly the proposed grant for the Prince of £50,000, and at last cut it down to £30,000. Then came a discussion over a clause in the Bill for the Naturalization of the Prince, empowering the husband of the Queen to take precedence over even the Royal Princes, and to be ever at her side, where he belonged, which, though finally assented to by these most interested in England--the Dukes of Sussex and Cambridge--was stoutly opposed by their elder brother, the Duke of Cumberland, for Heaven and Hanover had not relieved the English Government of "the bogie." In support of his rights, Wellington and Brougham stood out, and the clause was dropped. But the Queen, by the exercise of her prerogative, gave the Prince the title of Royal Highness, and made him a Field Marshal in the British army; and about a month later, she settled the precedence question, as far as concerned England, by proclaiming that by her royal will and pleasure her husband should "enjoy place, pre-eminence and precedence, next to Her Majesty." The amiable Prince is said never to have cherished resentment towards Sir Robert Peel and others who had voted to cut down his allowance, or the Duke of Wellington, and Lord Brougham, who had argued that those tiresome old gentlemen, the Royal Dukes, should have the right to walk and sit next to _his_ wife on State occasions; but Victoria confesses that she long felt "most indignant." She was hurt not only in her wifely love, but in her queenly pride. Greville says of Kings: "The contrast between their apparent authority and the contradictions which they practically meet with, must be peculiarly galling--more especially to men whose minds are seldom regulated by the beneficial discipline of education, and early collision with their equals." It must be yet more "galling" for Queens, because they always have been more flattered, and are imaginative enough to fancy that in grasping the symbols they hold the power. But I do not believe that the royal lovers took deeply to heart these disagreeable matters at this time. I hope they didn't mourn much over the £20,000 they didn't get. I hope that Love lifted them far above the murky air of party strife and petty jealousy into a clear, serene atmosphere of its own. They knew--and it was a great thing to know--that they had the sympathy of all the true hearts of the realm, whether beating under the "purple and fine linen" of the rich and noble, or the rough and simple garments of the poor and humble. On the 10th of February, 1840, Prince Albert, always tenderly thoughtful of the dear old Dowager of Saxe-Gotha, his "_liebe grosmama_" who, when he had parted from her last, had stood at her window, weeping, stretching out her arms and so desolately calling after him, "Albert! Albert!" sat down and wrote as no beautifulest Prince of poetry or romance ever wrote to a feeble, old female relative on his wedding-day: "DEAR GRANDMAMMA: In less than three hours, I shall stand at the altar, with my dear bride. In these solemn moments, I must once more ask your blessing, which I am well assured I shall receive, and which will be my safeguard and future joy. I must end. God be my stay! "Your faithful "ALBERT." This letter may seem a little too solemn and ill-assured, but it shows in what a serious and devout spirit this young Prince, not yet of age, entered on that auspicious and splendid union, whose wedding-bells rang round the world. Moreover, the young man's position was a rather trying one. As yet, he was little known in England, while it was well known that the Royal Family had been from the first opposed to his marriage with Victoria. Though the land of the Teutons had so long been the nursery of English Kings and Queens, the English common people were jealous of Teutonic Princes--regarding them for the most part as needy adventurers, for whom England was only the great milch-cow of Germany. Prince Albert had a host of prejudices to live down; and he did live down most of them, but some have died hard over his grave. The Queen's wedding was second only to the coronation, as a grand and beautiful pageant for the privileged few who could witness it, for of course the old Royal Chapel of St. James was a much narrower stage for the great scene than the Abbey. Still, royalty and nobility turned out in force, and all the greatest of the great were there. The sombre chapel was made to look very gay and gorgeous with hangings and decorations; even before the ladies in rich dresses and with all their costliest jewels on, and the gentlemen in brilliant uniforms and Court-costumes arrived. The bridegroom, when he walked up the aisle, between his father and his brother, bowing affably right and left, drew forth murmurs of admiration by his rare beauty and grace--princeliest of Princes. The Queen is described as looking unusually pale, but very lovely, in a magnificent robe of lace over white satin trimmed with orange blossoms, and with a most exquisite Honiton veil. In the midst of her twelve bridesmaids, her face radiant with happiness, she seemed like the whitest of diamonds set in pearls--or so they say. Her Majesty is also described as bearing herself with great dignity and composure, and to have gone through the service very solemnly. And yet I have heard a little story that runs thus: When Prince Albert, in this last act of "_Le Jeune Homme Pauvre_" came to repeat, as he placed the ring on her finger, the words, "With all my worldly goods I thee endow," the merry girl-Queen was unable to suppress an arch smile. The Duchess of Kent is described as looking "tearful and distressed." Ah, why will mothers always cry at their daughters' weddings, even when they have hoped and schemed for that very match; and why will brides, though ever so much in love, weep, first or last, on the wedding morning? Lady Lyttleton, in her correspondence, said of the Queen--"Her eyes were swollen with tears; but," she adds, "there was great happiness in her countenance, and her look of confidence and comfort at the Prince, when they walked away, as man and wife, was very pleasant to see." Ah, "when they walked away as man and wife"--now simply and for always to each other, "Albert" and "Victoria," the separate life of our "Prince Charming" closed. Thenceforth, the two bright life-streams seemed to flow on together, completely merged, indistinguishable, indivisible, but only _seemed_--for, alas, one has reached the great ocean before the other. PART III. WIFEHOOD AND MOTHERHOOD. CHAPTER XV. The first months of Marriage--Incidents and anecdotes--The adoption of Penny postage--The Inauguration of Steam Railway travel--The Duchess of Kent takes a separate residence--Prince Albert presides at a meeting favoring the abolition of the Slave Trade. In this mere sketch of the great life of the Queen of England, I can give little space to the political questions and events of her reign, important and momentous as some of them were, even for other lands and other people than the English. For a clear and concise account of those questions and events, I refer my readers to "A History of Our Own Times," by Justin McCarthy, M.P. I know nothing so admirable of its kind. But mine must be something less ambitious--a personal and domestic history-- light, gossipy, superficial, as regards the profound mysteries of politics; in short, "pure womanly." I shall not even treat of the great wars which stormed over the Continent, and upset and set up thrones, except as they affected the life of my illustrious subject. At first they seemed to form a lurid background to the bright pictures of peace and love presented by her happy marriage and maternity, and afterwards in the desolation and mourning they brought, seemed in keeping with the sorrow of her widowhood. Happily all was quiet and peace in the United Kingdom, and in the world at large, when the honeymoon began for that august but simple-hearted pair of lovers, Victoria and Albert; or, as she would have preferred to write it, Albert and Victoria. The fiery little spurt of revolt in Canada, called rather ambitiously, "The Canadian Rebellion," had ended in smoke, and the outburst of Chartism, from the spontaneous combustion of sullen and long-smothered discontent among the working classes, had been extinguished, partly by a fog of misapprehension and misdirection, partly by a process of energetic stamping out. The shameful Chinese opium war, the Cabul disasters, and the fearful Sepoy rebellion were, as yet, only slow, simmering horrors in the black caldron of the Fates. Irish starvation had not set in, in its acute form, and Irish sedition was, as yet, taking only the form of words--the bold, eloquent, magnificent, but not malignant and scarcely menacing words of Daniel O'Connell In the Infernal Council Chamber below, the clock whose hours are epochs of crime, had not yet struck for the era of political assassination. France was resting and cooling from the throes and fires of revolution, and growing the vine over its old lava courses. The citizen-King and his family were setting an example of domestic affection and union, of morality, thrift, and forehandedness--diligently making hay while the fickle sun of French loyalty was shining. Italy was lying deathly quiet under the mailed foot of Austria, and under the paternal foot of the old Pope, shod with a velvet slipper, cross-embroidered, but leaden-soled; Garibaldi was fighting for liberty in "the golden South Americas"; Mazzini was yet dreaming of liberty--so was Kossuth. Russia was quietly gathering herself up for new leaps of conquest tinder her most imperial, inflexible autocrat--the inscrutable, unsmiling Nicholas. In England and America it was, though a peaceful, a stirring and an eventful time. English manufacturers, not content with leveling mountains of American cotton bales, converting them into textile fabrics and clothing the world therewith, were reaching deep and deeper into the bowels of the earth, and pulling up sterner stuff to spin into gigantic threads with which to lace together all the provinces and cities of the realm. That captive monster, Steam, though in the early days of its servitude, was working well in harness, while in America Morse was after the lightning, lassoing it with his galvanic wires. In England the steam- dragon had begun by killing one of his keepers, and was distrusted by most English people, who still preferred post-horses and stage-coaches-- all the good old ways beloved by hostel-keepers, Tony Welters, postilions and pot-boys. There was something fearful, supernatural, almost profane and Providence-defying in this new, swift, wild, and whizzing mode of conveyance. Churchmen and Tories were especially set against it; yet I have been told that later, that Prince of conservatives, F. M., the Duke of Wellington, did, on the occasion of one of Her Majesty's _accouchements_ travel from London to Windsor, at the rate of seventy-five miles an hour, in order to be in at the birth! What were the perils of Waterloo to this daring, dizzying journey? Just a month before the Queen's marriage there occurred in London a union yet more auspicious, not alone for England, but for all Christendom. It was the wedding, by act of Parliament, of Knowledge and Humanity in the cheap postage reform--carried through with wonderful ability, energy, persistence, and pluck by Rowland Hill; blessed be his memory. The Queen afterwards knighted him, but he did not need the honor, though I doubt not it was pleasant, coming from her hands. The simple name of the dear old man was full of dignity, and long before had been stamped--penny- stamped, on the heart of the world. So it seemed that life smiled on and around the royal wedded pair on that winter afternoon, so unwintry to them, when they took leave of relations and wedding guests at Buckingham Palace, and set out for Windsor Castle. Even the heavens which had wept in the morning with those who wept, changed its mood, and smiled on bride and bridegroom, as they drove forth in an open carriage and four, followed by other open carriages containing a picked suite of friends and attendants--all with favor-decked postilions and footmen in the royal red liveries, and everything grand and gay. The Queen was dressed in a white satin _pelisse_, profusely trimmed with swan's-down. She seems, in those days, to have been very fond of nestling down under that soft, warm, dainty sort of a wrap. How like a white dove she must have looked that day, for her bonnet was white, trimmed with white, plumes. Prince Albert wore a fur-trimmed coat, with a high collar, and had a very high hat, which for the most part was in his hand, so much saluting was he obliged to do to the saluting multitude. All the world was abroad that day--great was the flow of good feeling, and mighty was the flow of good ale, while the whole air of the Kingdom was vibrating with the peal of merry marriage-bells. All through the land free dinners were provided for the poor--good roast beef, plum-pudding-- 'alf and 'alf fare--and I am afraid the Queen's pauper-subjects would have been unwilling to have the occasion indefinitely repeated, with such observances,--would not have objected to Her Majesty proving a female Henry VIII. Victoria and Albert drove that afternoon more than twenty miles between ranks of frantically loyal, rejoicing people,--past countless festive decorations, and a world of "_V_"s and "_A_"s--under arches so gay that one wondered where and how at that season all the flowers and foliage were produced,--if nature had not hurried up her spring work, so as to be able to come to the wedding. The Queen turned now and then her happy face on her shouting subjects, in graceful acknowledgment of their sympathy with her happiness; but much of the time she was observed to be regarding her husband, intently or furtively. So she had betrayed her heart during She marriage ceremony, when, as an eye-witness records, she "was observed to look frequently at Prince Albert,--in fact, she scarcely ever took her eyes off him." I suppose she found him "goodly to look upon." It is certain that she worshiped him with her eyes, as well as with her heart and soul,--then and ever after. For the world, even for the Court, he grew, as the pitiless, pilfering years went by, a little too stout, and somewhat bald, while his complexion lost something of its fine coloring and smoothness, and his eyes their fulness,--but for her, he seems to have always kept the grace and glory of his youth. Even when he was dying-when the gray twilight of the fast-coming night was creeping over his face, clouding the light of his eyes, chilling the glow of his smile--his beauty was still undimmed for her. She says in her pathetic account of those sad moments--"his beautiful face, more beautiful than ever, is grown so thin." But on this their wedding-day, death and death-bed partings were far enough from the thoughts of the royal lovers. Life was theirs,--young life, in all its fulness and richness of health, and hope, and joy, and that "perfect, love, which casteth out fear." So essentially young and so light-hearted were they, that they laughingly welcomed the crowd of shouting, leaping, hat-waving, mad Eton boys, who as they neared Windsor, turned out to receive them. The Queen jotted down this jolly incident in her journal thus: "The boys in a body accompanied the carriage to the castle, cheering and shouting as only schoolboys can. They swarmed up the mound, as the carriage entered the quadrangle, and, as the Queen and the Prince descended at the grand entrance, they made the old castle ring again with their acclamations." What would Queen Charlotte, or any of the stiff, formal Dutch Queens of any of the Georges have thought of such a boisterous wedding escort,--of such a noisy welcome to stately Windsor? They would very likely have said, "Go away, naughty _pays_! How dare you!" Alas, this royal pair, natural, joyous, girl-like and boy-like as they were still were slaves to, their station. They could not long hide themselves from the million-eyed world. In a few days the Court came down upon them from London. "Mamma" came with them--and I hope that she, at least, was welcome. Then followed show and ceremony, and amusements of the common, unpoetic, unparadisiacal, Courtly order. There were "fiddling and dancing every night," and feasting, and full-dressing, and all that. Still nothing seems to have interfered much with the Queen's happiness and content, for Lady Lyttleton wrote of her about this time,--"I understand she is in extremely high spirits. Such a new thing for her to dare to be unguarded in conversing with anybody, and with her frank and fearless nature, the restraints she has hitherto been under, from one reason or another, with everybody, must have been most painful." Only the day after her marriage, the Queen wrote to Baron Stockmar: "There cannot exist a purer, dearer, nobler being in the world than the Prince." She never took those words back--she never had cause to take them back, to lie heavy on her heart. But such utter adoration persisted in year after year, with cheerful obstinacy, even against the modest protests of the object, would have spoiled any man who was spoilable. Her Majesty was soon obliged to return to London, in order to hold Courts, to receive addresses of congratulation on her marriage. It seemed that half the men of the Kingdom of any standing, had formed themselves into delegations. So numerous were they, that Prince Albert was obliged to "come up to the help of the QUEEN against the mighty"--bore, for she records that he in one day received and personally answered no less than twenty-seven addresses! In fact, he was nearly addressed to death. The Queen after receiving many members of both Houses of Parliament, bearing addresses--received large delegations from the State Church--the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland--the English Non-Conformists, and the Society of Friends--all walking peacefully enough together to the throne of Victoria, but having widely different ways to the "throne of grace;"--all uniting in loyal prayers for the divine blessing on the fair head of their Sovereign, and in the hope that the comely young man of her choice might do virtuously, and walk humbly, and gingerly by her side-- but a little in the rear, as became him; not, of course, as a husband, Scripturally regarded, but as the German Consort of an English Queen _regnant_. This subordinate view of her husband's place the Queen did not fully accept from anybody, at any time. At that period, it is probable she would have gladly taken off the crown, to place it on his dear head, and doffed the ermine mantle to put it on his manly shoulders, and would have been the first to swear allegiance to "King Albert." She thought that he might, at least, have the title of "King-Consort," and perhaps because of this hope, she deferred for years--till 1857-- conferring on him, by Royal Letters Patent, the title of Prince-Consort. Doubtless the English people, if they had been on the lookout for a King, might have gone farther and fared worse,--but the four Georges had somehow got them out of conceit with the word "King," and William, the Sailor, had not quite reconciled them to it;--then they were jealous of foreigners, and last, but not least, there were apprehensions that the larger title would necessitate a larger grant. But the Prince did not need the empty honor, which in his position would have been "a distinction without a difference." I do not believe he cared much for it, though titles are usually dear to the Teutonic soul, determined, as he always so wisely was, to "sink his individuality in that of the Queen," and when at last, the second best title of Prince-Consort, that by which the people already named him, was made his legal right, by his fond wife, grieved to have kept --"the best man under the sun, So many years from his due," he was well content, because it pleased her. The Queen certainly did all she constitutionally could to confer honors on her husband, who after all outdid her, and best honored himself. Before their marriage, she had invested him with the noble order of the Garter, and given him the Star, and the Badge, and the Garter itself set in diamonds. She now invested him with the insignia of a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath. It amused her, this investing--she would have liked to invent a few orders, for royal Albert's sake--he became the insignia so well! She also made him Colonel of the 11th Regiment of Light Dragoons--he rode so well!--and she had the name changed to "Prince Albert's Own Hussars." Everywhere the Queen and Prince appeared together--at reviews and art exhibitions, at church and at the theatre (for the Queen was very fond of the drama in those days), at drawing-rooms and at races--and everywhere the people delighted in their beauty and their happiness. Early in April, the Duchess of Kent, in pursuance of what she deemed her duty, and best for the young people, parted from her darling daughter, and took up her residence in a separate home in London--Ingestrie House. She afterwards occupied Clarence House, the present residence of the Duke of Edinburgh. When the Court was at Windsor, the Duchess resided at Frogmore, a very lovely place, belonging to the royal estate, and so near the Castle that she was able to dine and lunch with Victoria almost daily. Still the partial separation was a trial for a mother and daughter so closely and tenderly attached, and they both took it hard,--as did, about that time, Prince Albert his separation from his brother Ernest, whose long visit was over. The Queen's account of the exceeding sorrowfulness of that parting must now bring to the lips of the most sentimental reader, though "a man and a brother," an unsympathetic smile-- unless he happens to remember that those were the earliest days of steam on sea and land, and that journeys from England to any part of the Continent were no light undertakings. So the brothers sung together a mournful college song, and embraced, kissing one another on both cheeks, doubtless, after the German fashion,--"poor Albert being pale as a sheet, and his eyes full of tears." Ah, what would he have said could his "prophetic soul" have beheld his son, Albert Edward, skipping from London to Paris in eight hours--dashing about the Continent, from Copenhagen to Cannes, from Brussels to Berlin--from Homburg to St. Petersburg--taking it all as lightly and gaily as a school-boy takes a "jolly lark" of a holiday trip to Brighton or Margate! That was not the day of peregrinating Princes. Now they are as plenty as commercial travelers. Early in June the Queen and Prince and their Court left busy, smoky London for a few days of quiet and pure air at lovely Claremont. They spent part of that restful time in going to the Derby, in four carriages and four with outriders and postilions--a brave sight to see. On the first of June, Prince Albert was invited to preside at a great public meeting in Exeter Hall, for the abolition of the Slave Trade--and he did preside, and made a good speech, which he had practiced over to the Queen in the morning. That was an ordeal, for he spoke in English for the first time, and before a very large and distinguished audience. It was a very young "Daniel come to judgment" on an ancient wrong--for the Prince was not yet of age. That sweet Quakeress, Caroline Fox, thus speaks of the Prince on this interesting occasion, in her delightful "Memories":--"Prince Albert was received with tremendous applause, but bore his honors with calm and modest dignity. He is certainly a very beautiful man,--a thorough German, and a fine poetical specimen of the race." Ah, what would that doughty champion of the Slave Trade, William IV., have said, could he have seen his niece's husband giving royal countenance to such a fanatical, radical gathering! It was enough to make him stir irefully in his coffin at Windsor. But for that matter, could our ancestors generally, men and women who devoutly believed in the past, and died in the odor of antiquity, know of our modern goings-on, in political and humanitarian reforms--know of our "Science so called," and social ethics, there would be "a rattling among the dry bones," not only in royal vaults, but in country churchyards, where "_The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep._" CHAPTER XVI. Death passes by--Life comes. On the 10th of June, 1840, occurred the first mad attempt to assassinate Queen Victoria--made as she and Prince Albert were driving up Constitution Hill, near Buckingham Palace, in a small open phaeton. Prince Albert, in a letter to his grandmamma, gives the clearest account of it. He says: "We had hardly proceeded a hundred yards from the Palace, when I noticed, on the foot-path on my side, a little, mean-looking man, holding something toward us, and, before I could distinguish what it was, a shot was fired, which almost stunned us both, it was so loud--barely six paces from us. ... The horses started, and the carriage stopped. I seized Victoria's hands and asked if the fright, had not shaken her, but she laughed." Almost immediately the fellow fired a second shot, from which the Queen was saved probably by the presence of mind of the Prince, who drew her down beside him. He states that the ball must have passed just over her head. The wretch was at once arrested and taken away, and soon after committed for trial, on the charge of high treason. The Queen was seen to be very pale, but calm. She rose in the carriage to show the excited people that she was not hurt, and then ordered the postilions to drive at once to Ingestrie House, that the Duchess of Kent might hear of the startling incident first from her and not be frightened by wild rumors. It was a thoughtful and filial act, and brave, moreover, for there were those about her who suspected that there might be a revolutionary conspiracy, and that Oxford was only one of many banded assassins. These alarmists advised her and her husband to show themselves abroad as little as possible. How they heeded this advice is shown in another passage of Prince Albert's letter: "We arrived safely at Aunt Kent's. From thence we took a drive through the Park, to give Victoria a little air,--also to show the people that we had not, on account of what had happened, lost confidence in them." The Prince does not mention a very pretty incident which I find recorded elsewhere. As the Queen's carriage reached the Park, it was received with enthusiastic cheers, smiles, and tears by crowds of people, equestrians and pedestrians, and the gay world on wheels; and as they neared the Marble Arch, the gentlemen and ladies on horseback followed them as with one impulse--all Rotton Row turned out, and escorted them to Buckingham Palace. It is said, too, that for several days this was repeated--that whenever the Queen and Prince drove out they were escorted by this singular volunteer body-guard. Of course, the whole country was excited, and the Queen, whose life had been menaced, was more popular than ever. They say that her first visit to the opera after this shocking attempt was a most memorable occasion. Her reception was something almost overwhelming. The audience were all on their feet, cheering and shouting, and waving handkerchiefs and hats, and there was no quieting them till the National Anthem was sung--and even then, they broke in with wild cheers at the close of every verse. Her Majesty stood throughout these demonstrations, bowing and smiling, her heart melted within her, I doubt not. Of course there was no conspiracy, and Oxford the pot-boy, "a pot-boy was, and, nothing more." He was acquitted on the ground of insanity, but ordered to be confined "during Her Majesty's pleasure," which he was in Bedlam for some years. Then he was sent to Australia as cured, and where he went into better business than shooting Queens, and earned an honest living, they say. He always declared that he was not insane, except from a mad passion for notoriety--which he got. The five or six successors of Oxford who have shot at Her Majesty, and that wretched retired officer, Robert Pate, who waylaid her in 1850, and struck her a cruel blow across the face with a walking-stick, were pronounced insane, and confined in mad-houses merely. The English are too proud and politic to admit that a sane man can lift his hand against the Constitutional Sovereign of England. When there arrived in London the news of the shooting of President Garfield, a distinguished English gentleman said to me, "I think we will not be annexed to the United States while you shoot your Presidents." I replied by reminding him of the many attempts on the life of his beloved Queen, adding, "I believe the homicidal mania is a Monarchical as well as a Republican affliction,--the difference only is that, unhappily for us, our madmen are the better shots." It must be that for monarchists born and bred, an anointed head, whether covered by a silk hat or a straw bonnet, is circled by a _simulacrum_ of a crown, which dazzles the aim of the would-be regicide, they are so almost certain to miss, at long or short range. Alas there is no halo of sovereignty or "hedge of divinity" about our poor Presidents! It is, perhaps, because of this unsteadiness of nerve and aim, that Continental regicides are taking to sterner and surer means--believing that no thrice blessed crown can dazzle off dynamite, and that no most imperial "divinity" is bomb-proof. In July an act which was the shadow of a coming event, was passed by Parliament, and received the Royal assent. It provided that Prince Albert should be Regent in case that the Queen should die before her next lineal descendant should attain the age of eighteen years. In August the Queen prorogued Parliament for the first time since her marriage, and she brought her handsome husband to show to all the Lords and gentlemen--bravely attired in his Field-Marshal's uniform, with his Collars of the Garter and the Bath, and diamond Stars--and she had him seated only a little lower than herself and very near, in a splendid chair, gilded, carved, and velvet-cushioned. The Prince wrote to his father as a piece of good news, "The prorogation of Parliament passed off very quietly." He had had reason to fear that his right to sit in that lofty seat would be disputed--that the old Duke of Sussex might come hobbling up to the throne, calling out, "I object! I object!" But nothing of the kind happened. The Queen, by her wit and her courage, had circumvented all the royal old sticklers for precedence--who put etiquette before nature. The Queen's mother, and her uncle and aunt, the King and Queen of Belgium, were present,--so it was quite a family-party. The good Uncle Leopold was observed to smile benignly on both Victoria and Albert, as though well pleased with his work. The Queen was most magnificently attired with all her glories on, in the shape of diamonds and orders, and looked very proud and happy,--and yet there was a dreamy, half-troubled expression in her eyes at times, which was not usual, but which her mother understood. On this day, Prince Albert's _status_ was fixed. He had taken a ride with his wife, in the State-carriage, with the twelve cream-colored, long-tailed State horses, and the gorgeous footmen, and he had sat higher, and nearer the throne than any other man in the House of Lords, Prince or Peer. The next thing the Queen did for him was to make him a member of the Privy Council. But a little later, he had a higher promotion than that; for, on the 21st of November, the Princess Royal was born in Buckingham Palace, in the early afternoon. During the morning the Duchess of Kent had been sent for--and came hurrying over. They also sent for the Duke of Sussex, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of London, the Lord Chancellor, Lord Melbourne, Lord Palmerston, Lord Errol, Lord Albemarle--Lord John Russell, and other Privy Councillors, whose constitutional duty it is to be present at the birth of an heir to the throne of England,--and they came bustling in, as old ladies come together on a like occasion in country places in New England. It is probable they all looked for a boy. The girl was an extraordinary baby, however, for when she was barely two days old, her papa wrote to her grandpapa at Coburg, "The little one is very well and very merry." The Prince welcomed her in a fatherly way, though, as he confesses, sorry that she was the same sort of a human creature as her mother,--that is, a daughter instead of a son. He wrote to his father very frankly, "I should certainly have liked it better if she had been a son, as would Victoria also," and so, strangely enough, would the English people--unfortunate as they had often been with their Kings, and fortunate as they had always been with their Queens. The great officers of the Church and State went away probably saying, "Only a girl!" Dear "little Pussie," as she was often called, wouldn't have been so "merry" if she had known how it was. She was looked upon as a temporary stop-gap- -something to keep out Cumberland, and naturally she did not have so many silver cups and gold spoons as she would have had if she had been a boy-- nor so many guns, poor thing! When the firing ceased at the feminine limit, people all over the city said, "Only a girl!" Some years later, when, at the birth of one of her brothers, the guns were booming away, Douglas Jerrold exclaimed to a friend at dinner: "How they do powder these royal babies!" The Queen in her journal gives a beautiful account of her husband's devotion to her during her illness. She says, always speaking of herself in the third person: "During the time the Queen was laid up, his care and devotion were quite beyond expression. He refused to go to the play, or anywhere else; generally dining alone with the Duchess of Kent, till the Queen was able to join them, and was always on hand to do anything in his power for her comfort. He was content to sit by her in a darkened room, to read to her or write for her. No one but himself ever lifted her from her bed to her sofa, and he always helped to wheel her on her sofa into the next room. For this purpose he would come instantly when sent for from any part of the house. As years went on, and he became overwhelmed with work, this was often done at much inconvenience to himself (for his attentions were the same in all the Queen's subsequent confinements), but he always came with a sweet smile on his face. In short," the Queen adds, "his care of her was like that of a mother, nor could there be a kinder, wiser, or more judicious nurse." The Prince also during the Queen's illness, conferred with her ministers, and transacted all necessary business for her. There were nine of these natural illnesses. I commend the example of the Prince-Consort to the husbands of America, to husbands all over the world. It was a glad and grateful Christmas which they spent in Windsor that year--the first after their marriage,--the first since their union, so pompously and piously blessed by priests and people, had been visibly blessed by Heaven. The next month the Queen opened Parliament in person, and gave the Lords and gentlemen another elocutionary treat in her admirable reading of her speech,--that "most excellent thing in woman," a sweet voice, telling even on the Tories. Prince Albert was with her, of course, and she looked even prouder and happier than usual. She had found yet new honors for herself and for him,--the most noble and ancient orders of Maternity and Paternity,--exceeding old, and yet always new. That day the young Prince may have felt glowing in his heart a sweet prescience of the peculiar comfort and joy he afterwards found in the loving devotion and noble character of his firstborn, that little blessing that _would_ come, though "only a girl." That day the Queen wore in her diadem a new jewel, a "pearl of great price,"--a pure little human soul. That faithful stand-by, King Leopold, came over to stand as chief sponsor at the christening of the Princess Royal,--which took place at Buckingham Palace, on the anniversary of her mother's marriage. The little girl, who received the names of Victoria Adelaide Mary Louisa, is said by her father to have behaved "with great propriety and like a Christian." So ended the first year of Queen Victoria's married life. To say it had been a happy year would seem, after the records we have, to put a very inadequate estimate on its degree of harmony and content--and yet it were much to say of any marriage, during the trying period in which many of the tastes and habits of two separate lives must be harmonized, and some heroically abandoned. It is a period of readjustment and sacrifice. Redundant and interfering growths of character must be pruned away, and yet if the lopping process is carried too far, character itself must suffer, the juices of its life and power, individuality and will, are wasted. The Queen always contended that it was the Prince who made all the sacrifices--unselfishly adjusting his life and character to suit hers, and her position--yet not long after her marriage she records the fact that she was beginning to sympathize with him in his peculiar tastes, particularly in his love for a quiet country life. She says: "I told Albert that formerly I was too happy to go to London, and wretched to leave it; and now since the blessed hour of my marriage, and still more since the summer, I dislike and am unhappy to leave the country, and could be content and happy never to go to town. This pleased him." I am afraid that there are those of Her Majesty's subjects who bless not the memory of "Albert the Good," for this metamorphose of their once gay and thoughtless, ball-giving, riding, driving, play-going Queen. These malcontents are Londoners proper, mostly tradesmen, newspaper men, milliners, and Hyde Park idlers. I think American visitors and Cook's tourists are among those who hold that the Queen's proper place is in her capital--at least during the season while _they_ are here. Upon the whole, I should say of that first year of Queen Victoria's married life, that the honeymoon lasted throughout those twelve bright and busy (perhaps bright because busy) months. Or, it would seem that some fairy Godmother had come to that wedding, in homely guise, bringing as her humble gift, a jar of honey--but a miraculous jar, the honey gathered from Arcadian flowers, and which perpetually renewed itself, like the poor widow's blessed cruse of oil. CHAPTER XVII. The Boy "Jones" and his singular pranks--A change in the Ministry--Sir Robert Peel becomes Premier--Prince Albert made Chairman of the Fine Arts Commission--Birth of the Prince of Wales--The Queen commemorates the event by a beautiful act. The next sensation in connection with the Court was the discovery of the famous "boy Jones" in Buckingham Palace. This singular young personage was by no means a stranger in the Palace. He had made himself very familiar with, and at home in that august mansion, about two years before. He was then arrested, and had lived an exceedingly retired life ever since. On that first occasion he was discovered by one of the porters, very early one morning, leisurely surveying one of the apartments. He was caught and searched; nothing of any consequence was found on him, but in a hall was a bundle, evidently made up by him, containing such incongruous articles as old letters, a sword, and a pot of bear's grease. He had he appearance of a sweep, being very sooty, but disclaimed the chimney-cleaning profession. He had occupied, for a while, the vacant room of one of the Equerries, leaving in the bed the impress of his sooty figure. He declared that he had not entered the Palace for the purpose of theft, but only to gratify his curiosity, as to how royal people and "great swells" like royal footmen, lived. The young rascal's examination before the Magistrate caused much amusement. In answer to questions, he admitted, or boasted that he had been in the Palace previously, and for days at a time--in fact, had "put up" there--adding, "And a very comfortable place I found it. I used to hide behind the furniture and up the chimneys, in the day-time; when night came, I walked about, went into the kitchen, and got my food, I have seen the Queen and her ministers in Council, and heard all they had to say." Magistrate: "Do you mean to say you have worn but one shirt all the time?" Prisoner: "Yes; when it was dirty, I washed it out in the kitchen. The apartment I like best is the drawing-room." Magistrate: "You are a sweep, are you?" Prisoner: "Oh, no; it's only my face and hands that are dirty; that's from sleeping in the chimneys.... I know my way all over the Palace, and have been all over it, the Queen's apartments and all. The Queen is very fond of politics." He was such an amusing vagabond, with his jolly ways and boundless impudence, and so young, that no very serious punishment was then meted out to him, nor even on his second "intrusion," as it was mildly denominated, when he was found crouched in a recess, dragged forth, and taken to the police-station. This time he said he had hidden under a sofa in one of the Queen's private apartments, and had listened to a long conversation between her and Prince Albert. He was sent to the House of Correction for a few months, in the hope of curing him of his "Palace- breaking mania"; but immediately on his liberation, he was found prowling about the Palace, drawing nearer and nearer, as though it had been built of loadstone. But finally he was induced to go to Australia, where, it is said, he grew up to be a well-to-do colonist. Perhaps he met the house- painter Oxford there, and they used to talk over their exploits and explorations together, after the manner of heroes and adventurers, from the time of Ulysses and �neas. We can imagine the _man_ Jones being a particularly entertaining boon companion, with his reminiscences of high life, not only below, but above stairs, in Buckingham Palace. That he ever made an entrance into those august precincts, and was so long undiscovered, certainly speaks not well for the police and domestic arrangements of the household; and it is little wonder that Baron Stockmar was finally sent for to suggest some plan for the better regulation of matters in both the great royal residences. And he did work wonders,--though mostly by inspiring others, the proper officers, to work. This extraordinary man seemed to have a genius for order, discipline, economy, and dispatch. He found the palaces grand "circumlocution offices,"--with, in all the departments, an entangling network of red-tape, which needed to be swept away like cobwebs. He himself entered the Royal Nursery finally with the besom of reform. It is said in his "Memoirs"--"The organization and superintendence of the children's department occupied a considerable portion of Stockmar's time"; and he wrote, "The Nursery gives me more trouble than the government of a King would do." Very likely the English nurses and maids questioned among themselves the right of an old German doctor to meddle with their affairs, and dictate what an English Princess Royal should eat, drink, and wear; but they lived to see the Baron's care and skill make of a delicate child--"a pretty, pale, erect little creature," as she is described, a ruddy and robust little girl, of whom the Baron wrote: "She is as round as a little barrel"; of whom the mother wrote: "Pussy's cheeks are on the point of bursting, they have grown so red and plump." After the domestic reforms in the Palace, no such adventure could have happened to a guest as that recorded by M. Guizot, who having been unable to summon a servant to conduct him to his room at night, wandered about the halls like poor Mr. Pickwick at the inn, and actually blundered into Her Majesty's own dressing-room. The boy Jones, too, had had his day. At the very time of the "intrusions" into Buckingham Palace, there was in London another young man, with a "mania for Palace-breaking," of a somewhat different sort. He, too, was "without visible means of support," but nobody called him a vagabond, or a burglar, but only an adventurer, or a "pretender." He had his eye particularly on Royal Windsor, and once a cruel hoax was played off upon him, in the shape of a forged invitation to one of the Queen's grand entertainments at the Castle. He got himself up in Court costume, with the aid of a friend, and went, to be told by the royal porter that his name was not down on the list, and afterwards by a higher officer of the household that really there must be some mistake, for Her Majesty had not the honor of knowing him, so could not receive him. We shall see how it was when he came again, nine or ten years later. But after all, the French royal palaces were more to this young man's taste, for he was French. He longed to break into the Tuileries--not to hide behind, or under any furniture, but to sit on the grandest piece of furniture there. He had a strange longing for St. Cloud, and Fontainebleau, and even stately Versailles. Said of him one English statesman to another, "Did you ever know such a fool as that fellow is? Why, he really believes he will yet be Emperor of France." That "fellow" was Louis Napoleon Bonaparte. In August of this year, the Whig Ministry finding themselves a minority in the new Parliament, resigned, and a Conservative one was formed, with Sir Robert Peel as Premier. It came hard for the Queen to part with her favorite Minister and faithful friend, Lord Melbourne, but she soon became reconciled to his Tory successor, and things went on very harmoniously. The benign influence and prudent counsels of Prince Albert, with some lessons of experience, and much study of her constitutional restrictions, as well as obligations, had greatly modified Her Majesty's strong partisan prejudices, and any proclivities she may have had toward personal and irresponsible government. One great thing in favor of the new Minister, was that he thoroughly appreciated Prince Albert. One of his early acts was to propose a Fine Arts Commission--having for its chief, immediate object, the superintendence of the artistic work on the new Houses of Parliament. This was formed--composed of some of the most eminent artists and _connaisseurs_ in the kingdom, and Prince Albert was the chairman. He used to speak of this as his "initiation into public life." The Queen rejoiced in it, as in every stage of her husband's advance--which it is only just to say was the advance of the liberal arts in England, as well as of social and political reforms. I believe it is not generally known that to the humane influence of the Prince-Consort with the Duke of Wellington, was owing the new military regulation which finally put an end to duelling in the English army. Lord, keep his memory green! The second year of the Queen's marriage wore on to November, and again the Archbishops and Bishops, the statesmen and "Medicine men," the good mother-in-law, and the nurses were summoned by the anxious Prince to Buckingham Palace. This time it was a boy, and the holy men and wise men felt that they had not come out so early in the morning and waited four hours in an ante-room for nothing. Prince Albert was overjoyed. Everybody at the Palace was wild with delight, so wild that there was great confusion. Messengers were dispatched right and left to royal relatives. It is said that no less than three arrived within as many minutes, at Marlborough House, to acquaint the Queen Dowager of the happy event. As they came in breathless, one after another, Her Majesty might have supposed that Victoria and Albert had been blessed with triplets. The biggest guns boomed the glad tidings over London,--the Privy Council assembled to consider a form of prayer and thanksgiving, to relieve the overcharged hearts of the people; the bells in all the churches rang joyous peals. So was little Albert Edward ushered into the kingdom he is to rule in God's own time. No such ado was made over the seven brothers and sisters who came after; but they were made welcome and comfortable, as, alas! few children can be made, even by loving hearts and willing hands. The Queen may have thought of this, and of what a sorry chance some poor little human creatures have, from the beginning, for she did a beautiful thing on this occasion. She notified the Home Secretary that all those convicts who had behaved well, should have their punishment commuted, and that those deserving clemency, on the horrible prison-hulks, should have their liberty at once. She had a right to be happy, and that she was happy, a beautiful picture in her journal shows: "Albert brought in dearest little Pussy, in such a smart, white morino dress, trimmed with blue, which mama had given her, and a pretty cap, and placed her on my bed, seating himself next to her, and she was very dear and good, and as my precious invaluable Albert sat there, and our little love between us, I felt quite moved with happiness and gratitude to God.". The next month she wrote from Windsor Castle to her Uncle Leopold: "I wonder very much whom our little boy will be like. You will understand how fervent are my prayers, and I am sure everybody's must be, to see him resemble his father, in every respect, both in mind and body." Later still she writes: "We all have our trials and vexations--but if _one's home is happy_, then the rest is comparatively nothing." They had an unusually merry Christmas-time at Windsor, and they danced into the new year, in the old English style--only varying it by a very poetic and impressive German custom. As the clock struck twelve, a flourish of trumpets was blown. The Prince of Wales was christened in the Royal Chapel, at Windsor, with the greatest state and splendor, King Frederick William of Prussia, who had come over for the purpose, standing as chief sponsor. Then followed all sorts of grand festivities and parades--both at Windsor and in London. The Queen did honor to her "brother of Prussia" in every possible way--in banquets and balls, in proroguing Parliament, in holding a Chapter of the Garter, and investing him with the splendid insignia of the Order, and in having a grand inspection for him, of "Prince Albert's Own Hussars," he being a little in the military line himself. Among the suite of the Prussian King was Baron Alexander Von Humboldt. The great _savant_ was treated by the Queen and the Prince with distinguished consideration, then and ever after. The Prince, on hearing of his death in 1859, wrote to the Crown Princess: "What a loss is the excellent Humboldt! You and Berlin will miss him greatly. People of this kind do not grow on every bush, and they are the glory and the grace of a country and a century." When the Baron's private correspondence was published, and found to contain certain slurs and sarcasms regarding him, and, as he affirmed, misrepresentations--probably based on misunderstandings of his political opinions--the Prince showed no resentment, though he must have been wounded. I know nothing more sensible and charitable in all his admirable private writings, than his few words on this unpleasant incident. He says: "The matter is really of no consequence, for what does not one write or say to his intimate friends, under the impulse of the moment. But the publication is a great indiscretion. How many deadly enemies may be made if publicity be given to what one man has said of another, or perhaps has _not_ said!" But what does it matter to the dead, how many "deadly enemies" are made? They have us at unfair advantage. We may deny, we may cry out, but we cannot make them apologize, or retract, or modify the cruel sarcasm, or more cruel ridicule. They seem to stealthily open the door of the tomb, to shoot Parthian arrows at the very mourners who have just piled wreaths before it. Carlyle fired a perfect _mitrailleuse_ from his grave. The Prince's English biographer calls the Humboldt publication "scandalous." Yet the English, who sternly condemn the most kindly personalities of living authors (especially American authors), seem to have rather a relish for these peppery posthumous revelations of genius, --often saddening post-mortem exhibitions of its own moral weaknesses and disease. No great English author dies nowadays, without his most attached, faithful and familiar friends being in mortal terror lest they be found spitted on the sharp shafts of his, or worse, _her_ satire. During those Windsor festivities, the little Prince of Wales was shown to the people at an upper window and pronounced satisfactory. A Court lady described him at the time, as "the most magnificent baby in the Kingdom." And perhaps he was. He was fair and plump, with pleasant blue eyes. It seems to me that after all the years, he must look to-day, with his fresh, open face, a good deal as he did on the day when his nurse dandled him at the Castle window. He still has the fairness, the plumpness, the pleasant blue eyes. It is true he has not very abundant hair now, but he had not much then. Tytler, the historian, gives a charming picture of him. as he appeared some two years later. He was waiting one morning in the corridor at Windsor with others to see the Queen, who came in bowing most graciously, and having by the hand the Prince of Wales, "trotting on, looking happy and merry." When she came to where Mr. Tytler stood, and saw him "bowing and looking delightedly" at the little Prince and her, she bowed and said to the little boy, "Make a bow, sir!" "When the Queen said this, the Duke of Cambridge and the rest stood still, and the little Prince, walking straight up to me, made a bow, smiling all the while, and holding out his hand, which I immediately took, and bowing low, kissed it." The Queen, he added, "smiled affectionately on the little Prince, for the gracious way in which he deported himself." CHAPTER XVIII. Miscreants and Monarchs--A visit from Mendelssohn--The Queen's first visit to Scotland--Anecdote--A trip to France and Belgium--Death of the Duke of Sussex and of Prince Albert's father--The Dwarf and the Giant. This year of 1842 was not all joy and festivity. It was the year of the massacres of the British forces in Cabul; there was financial distress in England, which a charitable masked ball at Buckingham Palace did not wholly relieve; and in May occurred the second attempt on the life of the Queen--that of John Francis. The Queen behaved with her own wonderful courage on this occasion--which was expected by her and Prince Albert, from their having a strong impression that the same wretch had the day before pointed at them, from the midst of a crowd, a pistol which had missed fire. They drove out alone together, keeping a pretty sharp lookout for the assassin--and at last, they saw him just as he fired. The ball passed under the carriage, and Francis was at once arrested. Lady Bloomfield, who was then Maid of Honor, gives an account of the excitement at the Palace that evening, and quotes some words of the Queen, very beautiful because revealing her rare consideration for others. She says that Sir Robert Peel was there, and showed intense feeling about the risk Her Majesty had run, and that the Queen, turning to her, said: "I dare say, Georgy, you were surprised at not driving with me to-day--but the fact was, that as we were returning from church yesterday, a man presented a pistol at the carriage window. It flashed in the pan, and we were so taken by surprise that he had time to escape. I knew what was hanging over me to-day, and was determined not to expose any life but my own." Francis was tried and sentenced to death, but through the Queen's clemency the sentence was commuted to transportation for life, and the very day after, Bean, the hunchback, essayed to shoot Her Majesty with a charge of paper and bits of clay-pipe. He was such a miserable, feeble- minded creature, that they only gave him eighteen months' imprisonment. Soon after, the Queen was called to mourn with her aunt of Belgium, and the rest of the family of Louis Philippe of France, for the death of the Duke of Orleans, who was killed by being thrown from his carriage. If he had lived, Louis Napoleon would hardly have been Emperor of France. So it was hardly a gay summer for the Queen, though she had some pleasure, especially in receiving Prince Albert's brother, Ernest, Duke of Saxe-Coburg, and his bride, who came to England for their honeymoon. They had also a pleasant visit from the great composer, Mendelssohn, who thus wrote from Windsor to his mother, "Add to this the pretty and most charming Queen Victoria, who looks so youthful, and is so gently courteous and gracious, who speaks such good German, and knows all my music so well,"--great praise from a Teutonic and Mendelssohnian point of view. In the autumn, the Queen and Prince made their first visit to Scotland--were received with immense enthusiasm everywhere, and had a charming and health-bracing tour. They took Edinburgh by surprise-- entering the city from the sea, so early in the morning, that the authorities, who had made great preparations to receive them, and rain flowers and speeches upon them, were still in bed. Still the Queen made up for it, by afterwards making a grand State-procession through the grand old town. All the country for many miles about, poured into the city on that day, and among some amusing anecdotes of the occasion, I find this: "A gentleman living near Edinburgh, said to his farm-servant, 'Well, John, did you see the Queen?' 'Troth did I that, sir.' 'Well, what did you think of her?' 'In truth, sir, I was terrible 'feared afore she came forrit--my heart was maist in my mouth, but whan she did come forrit, I was na feared at a'; I just lookit at her, and she lookit at me, an' she bowed her heid at me, an' I bowed my heid at her.'" The Queen traveled then with a much larger Court than she takes with her nowadays, and to this were added the escorts of honor which the great Scottish nobles and Highland chiefs furnished her, till it grew to be a monster of a caravan. Among the items, I find that in conveying Her Majesty and suite from Dalkeith to Taymouth, and from Taymouth back to Dalkeith, 656 horses were employed. Yet this was nothing to the number of animals engaged on the royal progresses of former times. It is stated that 20,000 horses were in all employed in conveying Marie Antoinette, her enormous suite and cumbrous belongings, from Vienna to Paris. Poor woman!--it took all those horses to bring her into her kingdom, but only one to carry her out of her kingdom, _via_ the Place de la Revolution. In the spring of the year following this tour, another Princess was born in Buckingham Palace, and christened Alice Maud Mary. The summer went by as usual, or even more pleasantly, for every new baby seemed to make this family happier and gayer. Lady Bloomfield gives some charming pictures of the happy home-life at Windsor--of the children, pretty, merry, healthy, and well-bred; tells very pleasant things of the Queen, and of the sweet and noble Duchess of Kent--but gives only now and then, a glimpse of that gracious and graceful presence, Prince Albert. Her Majesty made the life of her maids of honor almost too easy. No long, tiresome waiting on their poor, tired feet--no long hours of reading aloud, such as poor Miss Burney had to endure, in the time of old Queen Charlotte. Lady Bloomfield--then Georgiana Ravensworth--had little to do but to hand the Queen her bouquet at dinner--to ride out with her and sing with her. In the summer of 1843, the Queen and Prince made their first visit to the King and Queen of France, at the Chateau d'Eu, near Treport, on the coast. The King and several of his sons came off in the royal barge to meet their yacht, which they boarded. One account says that Louis Philippe, most unceremonious of monarchs, caught up the little Queen, kissed her on both cheeks, and carried her bodily on to his barge. Two Queens--Marie Amélie of France and her daughter, Louise of Belgium, and two of her daughters-in-law--were at the landing to receive the first Sovereign of England who had ever come to their shores on a friendly, neighborly visit. It was a visit "of unmixed pleasure," says the Queen, and the account of it is very pleasant reading now; but I have not space to reproduce it. One little passage, in reference to the widowed Duchesse d'Orleans, strikes my eye at this moment: "At ten, dear Hélène came to me with little Paris, and stayed till the King and Queen came to fetch us to breakfast." "Little Paris" is the present Bourbon-Orleanist bugbear of the French Republic--a very tame and well-behaved _bête noir_, but distrusted and dreaded all the same. After this French visit, the Queen and Prince went over to see their uncle and aunt, at Brussels, and had a very interesting tour through Belgium. Prince Albert, writing to the Baron soon after, said: "We found uncle and aunt well. ... The children are blooming. Little Charlotte is quite the prettiest child you ever saw." This "little Charlotte" afterwards married Maximilian of Austria, the imperial puppet of Louis Napoleon in Mexico. So Charlotte was for a brief, stormy time an Empress --then came misfortune and madness. She is living yet, in that world of shadows so much sadder than "the valley of the shadow of death." In the spring of this year, the Duke of Sussex died, and at the next prorogation of Parliament I read that the Queen, no longer fearing to wound the susceptibilities of her proud old uncle, said to her husband, "Come up higher!"--and had a chair for him, precisely like her own, on a level with her own. It was on her left. The smaller chair, on her right, belonged to "little Bertie," who was not yet quite ready to occupy it. In the autumn, came a visit to the University of Cambridge, where the Queen had the delight of seeing the degree of LL.D. conferred on her husband. So he mounted, step by step, into the honorable position which belonged to him. In this year also, he won laurels which he cared little for, but which counted much for him among a class of Englishmen who lightly esteemed his literary, artistic, and scientific taste and knowledge. In a great hunting-party he carried off the honors by his fearless and admirable riding. Sporting men said: "Why, there really is something in the man beside good looks and German music and metaphysics. He can take hedges and ditches as well as degrees." I do not think Prince Albert did justice to the English people, when, after his father's death, in the following year, he wrote in the first gush of his grief, to the Baron: "Here we sit together, poor Mama, Victoria and I, and weep, with a great, cold public around us, insensible as stone." I cannot believe that the British public is ever insensible to royal sorrow. The Prince-Consort went over to Coburg on a visit of condolence. Some passages in his letters to the Queen, who took this first separation from him hard, are nice reading for their homely and husbandly spirit. From the yacht, before sailing, he wrote: "I have been here an hour, and regret the lost time which I might have spent with you. Poor child! you will, while I write, be getting ready for luncheon, and you will find a place vacant where I sat yesterday. In your heart, however, I hope my place will not be vacant. I at least, have you on board with me in spirit. I reiterate my entreaty, 'Bear up! and don't give way to low spirits, but try to occupy yourself as much as possible.'" ... "I have got toys for the children, and porcelain views for you." ... "Oh! how lovely and friendly is this dear old country. How glad I should be to have my little wife beside me, to share my pleasure." Miss Mitford, speaking of a desire expressed by the Queen, to see that quaint old place, Strawberry Hill and all its curiosities, says: "Nothing can tend more to ensure popularity than that Her Majesty should partake of the national amusements and the natural curiosity of the more cultivated portion of her subjects." In such directions, certainly, the Queen was never found wanting in those days. In "natural curiosity" she was a veritable daughter of Eve, and granddaughter of George the Third. She was interested not only in the scientific discoveries, new mechanical inventions, and agricultural improvements which so interested her husband, but in odd varieties of animals and human creatures. She accepted with pleasure the gift of a Liliputian horse, supposed to be the smallest in the world--over five years old, and only twenty-seven and a half inches high--brought from Java, by a sea-captain, who used to take the gallant steed under his arm, and run down-stairs with him; and she very graciously received and was immensely entertained with the distinguished young American, who should have been the Alexander of that Bucephalus--General Tom Thumb. This little _lusus naturæ_, under the masterly management of Mr. Barnum, had made a great sensation in London--which, after the Queen had summoned him two or three times to Windsor, grew into a fashionable furor. Mr. Barnum's description of those visits to the royal palaces is very amusing. They were first received in the grand picture-gallery by the Queen, the Duchess of Kent, Prince Albert, and the usual Court ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Barnum writes: "They were standing at the farther end of the room when the doors were thrown open, and the General walked in, looking like a wax-doll gifted with the powers of locomotion. Surprise and pleasure were depicted on the faces of the royal circle, at beholding this remarkable specimen of humanity, so much smaller than they had evidently expected to see him. The General advanced with a firm step, and as he came within hailing distance, made a graceful bow, and said, 'Good- evening, ladies and gentlemen!' "A burst of laughter followed this salutation. The Queen then took him by the hand, and led him about the gallery, and asked him many questions, the answers to which kept the party in continual merriment. The General informed the Queen, that her picture-gallery was 'first-rate,' and said he should like to see the Prince of Wales. The Queen replied that the Prince had gone to bed, but that he should see him on a future occasion." The General then gave his songs, dances, and imitations; and after an hour's talk with Prince Albert and the rest, departed as coolly as he had come, but not as leisurely, as the long backing-out process being too tedious, he varied it with little runs, which drew from the Queen, Prince, and Court peels of laughter, and roused the ire of the Queen's poodle, who attacked the small Yankee stranger. The General defended himself with his little cane, as valiantly as the original Tom Thumb with his mother's darning-needle. On the next visit, he was introduced to the Prince of Wales, whom he addressed with a startling, "How are you, Prince?" He then received a costly souvenir from the Queen, and, each time he performed, generous pay in gold. The Queen Dowager was also much taken with him, and presented him with a beautiful little watch. She called him "dear little General," and took him on her lap. The time came (when this "full-grown" dwarf was fuller-grown) that the most powerful Queen Dowager would have found it difficult to dandle him, Charles Stratton, Esq., a husband and father, on her knee: The fact is the General was a bit of a humbug, being considerably younger than he was given out to be. But he was an exceedingly pretty, amusing little humbug, so it was no matter then. But when the truth came out, the Queen's faith in Yankee showmen must have suffered a shock, as must that of the honest old Duke of Wellington, who used to drop in at Egyptian Hall so often to see the tiny creature assume the dress and the pensive pose of Napoleon "thinking of the loss of the battle of Waterloo," and looking so like his old enemy, seen through a reversed field-glass. Very likely the Queen's "full-grown" Java horse turned out to be a young colt. After the dwarf, came the giant--the tallest and grandest of the sovereigns of Europe, Nicholas, the Emperor of all the Russias. He came on one of his war-ships, but with the friendliest feelings, and "just dropped in" on the Queen, with only a few hours' notice. It was a pleasant little way he had of surprising his friends. However, he was made welcome, and everything possible was done to entertain and do him honor during his stay. He had visited England before, when he was much younger and handsomer. Baron Stockmar met him at Claremont, in the time of the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold, and quotes a compliment paid him by a Court lady, in the refined language of the Regency: "What an amiable creature! He is devilish handsome! He will be the handsomest man in Europe." And so he might have been, had he possessed a heart and soul. But his expression was always, if not actually bad, severe and repellant. The look his large, keen eyes, which had very pale lashes, and every now and then showed the white all round the iris, is said to have been quite awful. He was a soldier above all things, and told the Queen he felt very awkward in evening-dress, as though in leaving off his uniform he had "taken off his skin." He must have been rather a discommoding guest, from a little whim he had of sleeping only on straw. He always had with him a leathern case, which at every place he stopped, was filled with fresh straw from the stables. He was an excessively polite man--this towering Czar; but for all that, a very cruel man--a colossal embodiment of the autocratic principle-- selfish and cold and hard--though he did win upon the Queen's heart by praise of her husband. He said: "Nowhere will you find a handsomer young man; he has such an air of nobility and goodness." It was a mystery how he could so well appreciate that pure and lovable character, for the Prince Consort must always have been a mystery to men like the Czar Nicholas. CHAPTER XIX. Old homes and new--A visit from the King of France--The Queen and Prince Albert make their first visit to Germany--Incidents of the trip--A new seaside home on the Isle of Wight--Repeal of the Corn Laws--Prince Albert elected Chancellor of Cambridge University--Benjamin Disraeli. This year--1844--there was a death in the household at Windsor, and a birth. The death was that of Eos, the favorite greyhound of Prince Albert. "Dear Eos," as the Queen called her, was found dead one morning. The Prince wrote the next day to his grandmother, "You will share my sorrow at this loss. She was a singularly clever creature and had been for eleven years faithfully devoted to me. How many recollections are linked with her." This beautiful and graceful animal, almost human in her love, and in something very like intellect and soul, appears in several of Landseer's pictures. I will not apologize for keeping a Royal Prince waiting while I give this space to her. This Prince, born at Windsor, in August, was the present Duke of Edinburgh. He was christened Alfred Ernest Albert. The Queen in her journal wrote: "The scene in the chapel was very solemn. ... To see those two children there too" (the Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales), "seemed such a dream to me. May God bless them all, poor little things!" Her Majesty adds that all through the service she fervently prayed that this boy might be "as good as his beloved father." How is it, your Royal Highness? This year they went again to the Highlands for a few weeks. The Queen's journal says: "Mama came to take leave of us. Alice and the baby were brought in, poor little things! to bid us good-bye. Then good Bertie came down to see us, and Vicky appeared as _voyageuse_, and was all impatience to go." "Bertie" is the family name for the Prince of Wales. I believe that at heart he is still "good Bertie." "Vicky" was the Princess Royal. The Queen further on remarks: "I said to Albert I could hardly believe that our child was traveling with us; it put me so in mind of myself when I was the little Princess.'" This year Louis Philippe came over to return the visit of the Queen and the Prince, and there were great festivities and investings at Windsor with all possible kindness and courtesy, and I hope the wily old King went home with gratitude in his heart, as well as the garter on his leg. This year too the Queen and Prince made their first visit to Germany together. The picture the Queen paints of the morning of leaving and the parting from the children is very domestic, sweet, and motherly: "Both Vicky and darling Alice were with me while I dressed. Poor dear Puss wished much to go with us and often said, 'Why am I not going to Germany?' Most willingly would I have taken her. I wished much to take one of dearest Albert's children with us to Coburg; but the journey is a serious undertaking and she is very young still." ... "It was a painful moment to drive away with the three poor little things standing at the door. God bless them and protect them--which He will." The English Queen and the Prince-Consort were received with all possible royal honors and popular respect at Aix-la-Chapelle and Cologne, and at the Royal Palace at Brühl. It was past midnight when they reached that welcome resting-place, and yet, as an account before me states, they were regaled by a military serenade "in which seven hundred performers were engaged!" A German friend of ours from that region supplements this story by stating that five hundred of those military performers were drummers; that they were accompanied by torch-bearers; that they came under the Queen's windows, wakened her out of her first sleep, and almost drove her wild with fright. With those tremendous trumpetings and drum-beatings, "making night hideous" with their storm of menacing, barbaric sound, and with the fierce glare of the torchlight, it might have seemed to her that Doomsday had burst on the world, and that the savage old Huns of Attila were up first, ready for war. The next day they all went up the Rhine to the King's Palace of Stolzenfels. Never perhaps was even a Rhine steamer so heavily freighted with royalty--a cargo of Kings and Queens, Princes and Archdukes. It was all very fine, as were the royal feasts and festivals, but the Queen and Prince were happiest when they had left all this grandeur and parade behind them and were at Coburg amid their own kin--for there, impatiently awaiting them, were the mother of Victoria and the brother of Albert, and "a staircase full of cousins," as the Queen says. They stopped at lovely Rosenau, and the Queen, with one of her beautiful poetic impulses, chose for their chamber the room in which her husband was born. She wrote in her journal, "How happy, how joyful we were, on awaking, to find ourselves here, at the dear Rosenau, my Albert's birth-place, the place he most loves. ... He was so happy to be here with me. It was like a beautiful dream." The account of the rejoicings of the simple Coburg people, and especially of the children, over their beloved Prince, and over the visit of his august wife, is really very touching. Their offerings and tributes were mostly flowers, poems and music--wonderfully sweet chorales and gay _réveils_ and inspiriting marches. There was a great _fête_ of the peasants on Prince Albert's birthday, with much waltzing, and shouting, and beer-quaffing, and toast-giving. The whole visit was an Arcadian episode, simple and charming, in the grand royal progress of Victoria's life. But the royal progress had to be resumed--the State called back its bond-servants; and so, after a visit to the dear old grandmother at Gotha--the parting with whom seemed especially hard to Prince Albert, as though he had a presentiment it was to be the last-- they set out for home. They took their yacht at Antwerp, and after a flying visit to the King and Queen of France at Eu, were soon at Osborne, where their family were awaiting them. The Queen wrote: "The dearest of welcomes greeted us as we drove up straight to the house, for there, looking like roses, so well and so fat, stood the four children, much pleased to see us!" Ah, often the best part of going away is coming home. During this year the Royal Family were very happy in taking possession of their new seaside palace on the Isle of Wight, and I believe paid no more visits to Brighton, which was so much crowded in the season as to make anything like the privacy they desired impossible. During her last stay at the Pavilion the Queen was so much displeased at the rudeness of the people who pressed about her and Prince Albert, when they were trying to have a quiet little walk on the breezy pier, that I read she appealed to the magistrates for protection. There was such a large and ever-growing crowd of excited, hurrying, murmuring, staring Brightonians and strangers about them that it seemed a rallying cry had gone through the town, from lip to lip: "The Queen and Prince are out! To the pier! To the pier!" The Pavilion was never a desirable Marine Palace, as it commanded no good views of the sea; so Her Majesty's new home in the Isle of Wight had for her, the Prince and the children every advantage over the one in Brighton except in bracing sea-air. Osborne has a broad sea view, a charming beach, to which the woods run down--the lovely woods in which are found the first violets of the spring and to which the nightingales first come. The grounds were fine and extensive, to the great delight of the Prince Consort, who had not only a peculiar passion, but a peculiar talent for gardening. Indeed, when this many-sided German was born a Prince, a masterly landscape-gardener was lost to the world--that is, the world outside the grounds of Windsor, Osborne and Balmoral, which indeed "keep his memory green." The Queen writing from Osborne says: "Albert is so happy here--out all day planting, directing, etc., and it is so good for him. It is a relief to get away from the bitterness which people create for themselves in London."--But I am not writing the Life of Prince Albert;--I often forget that. The year of 1846 was gloriously marked by the repeal of the Corn Laws; a measure of justice and mercy, the withholding of which from the people had for several years produced much distress and commotion. Some destructive work had been done by mobs on the houses of the supporters of the old laws; they had even stoned the town residence of the Duke of Wellington, Apsley House. The stern old fighter would have been glad at the moment to have swept the streets clear with cannon, but he contented himself with putting shutters over his broken windows, to hide the shame. I believe they were never opened again while he lived. The great leaders in this Corn Laws agitation were Mr. Cobden and Mr. Bright. These great- hearted men could not rest for the cries which came up to them from the suffering people. There were sore privations and "short commons" in England, and in Ireland, starvation, real, honest, earnest starvation. The poverty of the land had struck down into the great Irish stand-by, the potato, a deadly blight. A year or two later the evil took gigantic proportions; the news came to us in America, and an alarm was sounded which roused the land. We sent a divine Armada against the grim enemy which was wasting the Green Isle; ships, which poured into him broadsides of big bread-balls, and grape-shot of corn, beans and potatoes. It is recorded that "in one Irish seaport town the bells were kept ringing all day in honor of the arrival of one of these grain-laden vessels." I am afraid these bells had a sweeter sound to the poor people than even those rung on royal birthdays. Strangely enough, after the passage of measures which immortalized his ministerial term, Sir Robert Peel was ejected from power. The Queen parted from him with great regret, but quietly accepted his successor, Lord John Russell. Six years had now gone by since the marriage of Victoria and Albert, and the family had grown to be six, and soon it was seven, for in May the Princess Helena Augusta Victoria was born. Her godmother was Hélène, the widowed Duchess of Orleans, the mother of the gallant young men, the Count de Paris and the Duke de Chartres, who during our great war came over to America to see service under General McClellan. About this time the Prince-Consort was called to Liverpool to open a magnificent dock named after him, which duty he performed in the most graceful manner. The next day he laid the foundation-stone for a Sailors' Home. The Queen, who was not able to be with him on these occasions, wrote to the Baron: "I feel very lonely without my dear master, and though I know other people are often separated, I feel that I could never get accustomed to it. ... Without him everything loses its interest. It will always cause a terrible pang for me to be separated from him even for two days, and I pray God not to let me survive him. I glory in his being seen and loved." In September they went into the new Marine Palace at Osborne. On the first evening, amid the gaieties of the splendid house-warming festival, the Prince very solemnly repeated a hymn of Luther's, sung in Germany on these occasions. Translated it is: "God bless our going out, nor less Our coming in, and make them sure; God bless our daily bread, and bless Whate'er we do--whate'er endure; In death unto His peace awake us, And heirs of His salvation make us." They were very happy amid all the political trouble and perplexity-- almost too happy, considering how life was going on, or going off in poor Ireland. Doubtless the cries of starving children and the moans of fever- stricken mothers must often have pierced the tender hearts of the Queen and Prince; but the calamity was so vast, so apparently irremediable, that they turned their thoughts away from it as much as possible, as we turn ours from the awful tragic work of volcanoes in the far East and tornadoes in the West. It was a sort of charmed life they lived, with its pastoral peace and simple pleasures. Lady Bloomfield wrote: "It always entertains me to see the little things which amuse Her Majesty and the Prince, instead of their looking bored, as people so often do in English society." One thing, however, did "bore" him, and that, unfortunately, was riding--"for its own sake." So it was not surprising that after a time the Queen indulged less in her favourite pastime. She still loved a romping dance now and then, but she was hardly as gay as when Guizot first saw and described her. Writing from Windsor to his son he gives a picture of a royal dinner party: "On my left sat the young Queen whom they tried to assassinate the other day, in gay spirits, talking a great deal, laughing very often and longing to laugh still more; and filling with her gaiety, which contrasted with the already tragical elements of her history, this ancient castle which has witnessed the career of all her predecessors." The political affairs which tried and troubled the Queen and the Prince were not merely English. They were much disturbed and shocked by the unworthy intrigues and the unkingly bad faith shown by Louis Philippe in the affair of the "Spanish Marriages"--a complicated and rather delicate matter, which I have neither space nor desire to dwell upon here. It had a disastrous effect on the Orleans family, and perhaps on the history of France. It has been mostly interesting to me now for the manner in which the subject was, handled by the Queen, whose letters revealed a royal high spirit and a keen sense of royal honor. She regretted the heartless State marriage of the young Queen of Spain, not only from a political but a domestic point of view. She saw poor Isabella forced or tricked into a distasteful union, from which unhappiness must, and something far worse than unhappiness might, come. Many and great misfortunes did come of it and to the actors in it. In the spring of 1847 the Prince-Consort was elected Chancellor of the University of Cambridge--a great honor for so young a man. The Queen was present at the installation, and there was a splendid time. Wordsworth wrote an ode on the occasion. It was not quite equal to his "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality." In truth, Mr. Wordsworth did not shine as Poet Laureate. Mr. Tennyson better earns his butt of Malmsey. Seated on the throne in the great Hall of Trinity, the Queen received the new Chancellor, who was beautifully dressed in robes of black and gold, with a long train borne by two of his officers. He read to her a speech, to which she read a reply, saying that on the whole she approved of the choice of the University. "I cannot say," writes the Queen, "how it agitated and embarrassed me to have, to receive this address, and hear it read by my beloved Albert, who walked in at the head of the University, and who looked dear and beautiful in his robes." Happy woman! When ordinary husbands make long, grave speeches to their wives, they do not often look "dear and beautiful!" This year a new prima-donna took London by storm and gave the Queen and Prince "exquisite enjoyment." Her Majesty wrote: "Her acting alone is worth going to see, and the _piano_ way she has of singing, Lablache says, is unlike anything he ever heard. He is quite enchanted. There is a purity in her singing and acting which is quite indescribable." That singer was Jenny Lind. About this time lovers of impassioned oratory felt the joy which the astronomer knows "_when a new comet swims into his ken_" in the appearance of a brilliant political orator, of masterly talent and more masterly will. This still young man of Hebraic origin, rather dashing and flashing in manner and dress, had not been thought to have any very serious purpose in life, and does not seem to have much impressed the Queen or Prince Albert at first; but the time came when he, as a Minister and friend, occupied a place in Her Majesty's respect and regard scarcely second to the one once occupied by Lord Melbourne. This orator was Benjamin Disraeli. CHAPTER XX. A Troublous Time--Louis Philippe an Exile--The Purchase of Balmoral--A Letter of Prince Albert's--Another attempt on the Queen's Life--The Queen's instructions to the Governess of her Daughters--A visit to Ireland--Death of Dowager Queen Adelaide. At last came 1848--a year packed with political convulsions and overthrows. The spirit of revolution was rampant, bowling away at all the thrones of Europe. England heard the storm thundering nearly all round the horizon, for in the sister isle the intermittent rebellion broke out, chiefly among the "Young Ireland" party, led by Mitchel, Meagher and O'Brien. This plucky little uprising was soon put down. The leaders were brave, eloquent, ardent young men, but their followers were not disposed to fight long and well--perhaps their stomachs were too empty. The Chartists stirred again, and renewed their not unreasonable or treasonable demands; but all in vain. There is really something awful about the strength and solidity and impassivity of England. When the French monarchy went down in the earthquake shock of that wild winter, and a republic came up in its place, it surely would have been no wonder if a vast tidal-wave of revolution caused by so much subsidence and upheaving had broken disastrously on the English shores. But it did not. The old sea-wall of loyalty and constitutional liberty was too strong. There were only floated up a few waifs, and among them a "_forlorn and shipwrecked brother_," calling himself "John Smith," and a poor, gray- haired, heart-broken woman, "Mrs. Smith," for the nonce. When these came to land they were recognized as Louis Philippe and Marie Amélie of France. Afterwards most of their family, who had been scattered by the tempest, came also, and joined them in a long exile. The English asylum of the King and Queen was Claremont, that sanctuary of love and sorrow, which the Queen, though loving it well, had at once given over to her unfortunate old friends, whom she received with the most sympathetic kindness, trying to forget all causes of ill-feeling given her a year or two before by the scheming King and his ambitious sons. In the midst of the excitement and anxiety of that time, a gentle, loving, world-wearied soul passed out of our little mortal day at Gotha, and a fresh, bright young soul came into it in London. The dear old grandmother of the Prince died, in her palace of Friedrichsthal, and his daughter, Louise Caroline Alberta, now Marchioness of Lorne, was born in Buckingham Palace. Among those ruined by the convulsions in Germany were the Queen's brother, Prince Leiningen, and her brother-in-law, Prince Hohenlohe. So the thunderbolt had struck near. At one time it threatened to strike still nearer, for that spring the Chartists made their great demonstration, or rather announced one. It was expected that they would assemble at a given point and march, several hundred thousand strong, on Parliament, bearing a monster petition. What such a mighty body of men might do, what excesses they might commit in the capital, nobody could tell. The Queen was packed off to Osborne with baby Louise, to be out of harm's way, and 170,000 men enrolled themselves as special constables. Among these was Louis Napoleon, longing for a fight of some sort in alliance with England. He did net get it till some years after. There was no collision, in fact no large compact procession; the Chartists, mostly very good citizens, quietly dispersed and went home after presenting their petition. The great scare was over, but the special constables were as proud as Wellington's army after Waterloo. When the Chartist leaders had been tried for sedition and sentenced to terms of imprisonment, and the Irish leaders had been transported, things looked so flat in England that the young French Prince turned again to France to try his fortune. It was his third trial. The first two efforts under Louis Philippe to stir up a revolt and topple the citizen king from the throne had ended in imprisonment and ridicule; but now he would not seem to play a Napoleonic game. He would fall in with republican ideas and run for the Presidency, which he did, and won. But as the countryman at the circus, after creating much merriment by his awkward riding in his rural costume, sometimes throws it off and appears as a spangled hero and the very prince of equestrians; so this "nephew of his uncle," suddenly emerging from the disguise of a republican President, blazed forth a full-panoplied warrior-Emperor. But this was not yet. In September of this year the Queen and Prince first visited a new property they had purchased in the heart of the Highlands. The Prince wrote of it: "We have withdrawn for a short time into a complete mountain solitude, where one rarely sees a human face, where the snow already covers the mountain-tops and the wild deer come creeping stealthily round the house. I, naughty man, have also been creeping stealthily after the harmless stags, and today I shot two red deer." ... "The castle is of granite, with numerous small turrets, and is situated on a rising-ground, surrounded by birchwood, and close to the river Dee. The air is glorious and dear, but icy cold." What a relief it must have been to them to feel themselves out of the reach of runaway royalties, and "surprise parties" of Emperors and Grand Dukes. In March, 1849, the Prince laid the foundation-stone for the Great Grimsby Docks, and made a noble speech on the occasion. From that I will not quote, but I am tempted to give entire a charming note which he wrote from Brocklesby, Lord Yarborough's place, to the Queen. It runs thus: "Your faithful husband, agreeably to your wishes, reports: 1. That he is still alive. 2. That he has discovered the North Pole from Lincoln Cathedral, but without finding either Captain Ross or Sir John Franklin. 3. That he arrived at Brocklesby and received the address. 4. That he subsequently rode out and got home quite covered with snow and with icicles on his nose. 5. That the messenger is waiting to carry off this letter, which you will have in Windsor by the morning. 6. Last, but not least, that he loves his wife and remains her devoted husband." We may believe the good, fun-loving wife was delighted with this little letter, and read it to a few of her choicest friends. A few months later, while the Queen was driving with her children in an open carriage over that assassin-haunted Constitution Hill, she was fired at by a mad Irishman--William Hamilton. She did not lose for a moment her wonderful self-possession, but ordered the carriage to move on, and quieted with a few calm words the terror of the children. We have seen that at the time of Oxford's attempt she "laughed at the thing"; but now there had been so many shootings that "the thing" was getting tiresome and monotonous, and she did not interfere with the carrying out of the sentence of seven years' transportation. This was not the last. In 1872 a Fenian tried his hand against his widowed sovereign, and we all know of the shocking attempt of two years ago at Windsor. In truth, Her Majesty has been the greatest royal target in Europe. _Messieurs les assassins_ are not very gallant. All this time the Prince-Consort was up to his elbows in work of many kinds. That which he loved best, planning and planting the grounds of Osborne and Balmoral and superintending building, he cheerfully sacrificed for works of public utility. He inaugurated and urged forward many benevolent and scientific enterprises, and schools of art and music. This extraordinary man seemed to have a prophetic sense of the value and ultimate success of inchoate public improvements, and when he once adopted a scheme allowed nothing to discourage him. He engineered the Holborn Viaduct enterprise, and I notice that at a late meeting of the brave Channel Tunnel Company, Sir E. W. Watkin claimed that "the cause had once the advocacy of the great Prince-Consort, the most sagacious man of the century." With all these things he found time to carefully overlook the education of his children. The Prince of Wales was now thought old enough to be placed under a tutor, and one was selected--a Mr. Birch (let us hope the name was not significant), "a young, good-looking, amiable man," who had himself taken "the highest honors at Cambridge";--doubtless a great point those highest Cambridge honors, for the instructor of an eight-years-old boy. For all the ability and learning of his tutor, it is said that the Prince of Wales never took to the classics with desperate avidity. He was never inclined to waste his strength or dim his pleasant blue eyes over the midnight oil. Prince Albert never gave the training of his boys up wholly to the most accomplished instructors. His was still, while he lived, the guiding, guarding spirit. The Queen was equally faithful in the discharge of her duties to her children--especially to her daughters. In her memoranda I find many admirable passages which reveal her peculiarly simple, domestic, affectionate system of home government. The religious training of her little ones she kept as much as possible in her own hands, still the cares of State and the duties of royal hospitality would interfere, and, writing of the Princess Royal, in 1844, she says: "It is a hard case for me that my occupations prevent me from being with her when she says her prayers." Some instructions which she gave to this child's governess should be printed in letters of gold: "I am quite clear that she should be taught to have great reverence for God and for religion, but that she should have the feeling of devotion and love which our heavenly Father encourages His earthly children to have for Him, and not one of fear and trembling; and that thoughts of death and an after life should not be represented in an alarming and forbidding view; and that she should be made to know as yet no difference of creeds, and not think that she can only pray on her knees, or that those who do not kneel are less fervent or devout in their prayers." In August of this year the Queen and Prince sailed in their favorite yacht, the _Victoria and Albert_, for Ireland, taking with them their three eldest children, the better to show the Irish people that their sovereign had not lost confidence in them for their recent bit of a rebellion, which she believed was one-half Popery and the other half potato-rot. The Irish people justified that faith. At the Cove of Cork, where the Royal party first landed, and which has been Queenstown ever since, their reception was most enthusiastic, as it was also in Dublin, so lately disaffected. The common people were especially delighted with the children, and one "stout old woman" shouted out, "Oh, Queen, dear, make one o' thim darlints Patrick, and all Ireland will die for ye!" They afterwards got their "Patrick" in the little Duke of Connaught, but I fear were none the more disposed to die for the English Queen. Perhaps he came a little too late. The Queen on this trip expressed the intention of creating the Prince of Wales Earl of Dublin, by way of compliment and conciliation, and perhaps she did, but still Fenianism grew and flourished In Ireland. The passage from Belfast to Loch Ryan was very rough--a regular rebellion against, "the Queen of the Seas," as the Emperor of France afterwards called Victoria. She records that, "Poor little Affie was knocked down and sent rolling over the deck, and was completely drenched." The poor little fellow, Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, the bold mariner of the family, probably cried out then that he would "never, never be a sailor." In a letter from Balmoral, written on his thirtieth birthday, the Prince- Consort says: "Victoria is happy and cheerful--the children are well and grow apace; the Highlands are glorious." I do not know that the fact has anything to do with Her Majesty's peculiar love for Scotland, but she came very near being born in that part of her dominions--the Duke of Kent having proposed a little while before her birth to take a place in Lanarkshire, belonging to a friend. Had he done so his little daughter would have been a Highland lassie. I don't think the Queen would have objected. She said to Sir Archibald Alison, "I am more proud of my Scotch descent than of any other. When I first came into Scotland I felt as if I were coming home." With the occupation of Balmoral this home feeling increased: The Queen was ever impatient to seek that mountain retreat and regretful to leave it. She loved above all the outdoor life there--the rough mountaineering, the deer hunts, the climbing, the following up and fording streams, the picnics on breezy hill-sides; she loved to get out from under the dark purple shadow of royalty and nestle down among the brighter purple of the heather; she loved to go off on wild incognito expeditions and be addressed by the simple peasants without her awesome titles; even loved to be at times like the peasants in simplicity and naturalness, to feel with her "guid mon," like a younger Mistress Anderson with her "jo John." She seemed to enjoy all weathers at Balmoral. I am told that she used to delight in walking in the rain and wind and going out protected only by a thick water-proof, the hood drawn over her head; and that she liked nothing better than driving in a heavy snow-storm. After the return from Scotland, the Queen was to have opened the new Coal Exchange in London, but was prevented by an odd and much-belated ailment, an attack of chicken-pox. Prince Albert went in her place and took the Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales, who, Lady Lyttelton writes: "behaved very civilly and nicely." There was an immense crowd, all shouting and cheering, and smiling kindly on the children. Some official of immense size, with a big cloak and wig, and a big voice, is described as making a pompous speech to little Albert Edward, looking down on him and addressing him as "Your Royal Highness, the pledge, and promise of a long race of Kings." Lady Lyttelton adds: "Poor Princey did not seem to guess at all what he meant." Soon after this grand affair, a very _grand personage_ came not unwillingly to the end of all earthly affairs. Adelaide, Dowager Queen of England, died after a long and painful illness. She had lived a good life; she was a sweet, charitable, patient, lovable woman. The Queen and Prince-Consort were deeply grieved. The Queen wrote: "She was truly motherly in her kindness to us and our children. ... Poor mama is very much cut up by this sad event. To her the Queen is a great and serious loss." Queen Adelaide left directions that her funeral should be as private as possible, and that her coffin should be carried by sailors--a tribute to the memory of the Sailor-King. From an English gentleman, who has exceptional opportunities of knowing much of the private history of Royalty, I have received an anecdote of this good woman and wife, when Duchess of Clarence--something which our friend thinks does her more honor than afterwards did her title of Queen. When she was married she knew, for everybody knew, of the left-hand marriage of the Duke with the beautiful actress, Mrs. Jordan, from whom he was then separated. The Duke took his bride to Bushey Park, his residence, for the honeymoon, and himself politely conducted her to her chamber. She looked about the elegant room well pleased, but was soon struck by the picture of a very lovely woman, over the mantel. "Who is that?" she asked. The poor Duke was aghast, but he had at least the kingly quality of truth-telling, and stammered out: "That, my dear Adelaide, is a portrait of Mrs. Jordan. I humbly beg your pardon for its being here. I gave orders to have it removed, but those stupid servants have neglected to do it. I will have it done at once--only forgive me." The Duchess took her husband's hand and said: "No, my dear William, you must not do it! I know what Mrs. Jordan has been to you in the past--that you have loved her--that she is the mother of your children, and I wish her portrait to remain where it is." And it did remain. This was very noble and generous, certainly; but I cannot help thinking that the Duchess was not very much in love. CHAPTER XXI The Great Exhibition--Birth of the Duke of Connaught--Death of Sir Robert Peel and Louis Philippe--Prince Albert's speech before the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts. Early in this year of 1850, Prince Albert, though not in his usual health, began in deadly earnest on his colossal labors in behalf of the great "World's Exhibition." England owed that magnificent manifestation of her resources and her enterprise far more to him than to any other man. He met with much opposition from that conservative class who, from the start, denounce all new ideas and innovations, shrinking like owls from the advancing day; and that timid class who, while admitting the grandeur of the idea, feared it was premature. "The time has not come," they said; "wait a century or two." Some opposed it on the ground that it would bring to London a host of foreigners, with foreign ideas and perilous to English morals and religion. In the garden of a certain grand English country-place there is a certain summer-house with a closed door, which, if a curious visitor opens, lets off some water-works, which give him a spray-douche. So the Prince received, at door after door, a dash of cold water for his "foreign enterprise." But he persevered, letting nothing dishearten him--toiling terribly, and inspiring others to toil, till at last the site he desired for the building was granted him, and the first Crystal Palace--the first palace for the people in England--went slowly up, amid the sun-dropped shades of Hyde Park. Temporary as was that marvelous structure, destined so soon to pass away, like "the baseless fabric of a vision," I can but think it the grandest of the monuments to the memory of the Prince- Consort, though little did he so regard it. To his poetic yet practical mind it was the universal temple of industry and art, the valhalla of the heroes of commerce, the fane of the gods of science--the caravansery of the world. That Exhibition brought together the ends of the earth,--long- estranged human brethren sat down together in pleasant communion. It was a modern Babel, finished and furnished, and where there was almost a fusion, instead of, a confusion, of tongues. The "barbarous Turk" was there, the warlike Russ, the mercenary Swiss, the passionate Italian, the voluptuous Spaniard, the gallant Frenchman,--and yet foreboding English citizens did not find themselves compelled to go armed, or to lock up their plate, or their wives and daughters. In fact, this beautiful realized dream, this accomplished fact, quickened the pulses of commerce, the genius of invention, the soul and the arm of industry, the popular zeal for knowledge, as nothing had ever done before. To go back a little to family events:--On May 1st, 1850, Prince Albert, in writing to his step-mother at Coburg, told a bit of news very charmingly: "This morning, after rather a restless night (being Walpurgis night, that was very appropriate), and while the witches were careering on the Blocksberg, under Ernst Augustus' mild sceptre, a little boy glided into the light of day and has been received by the sisters with _jubilates_. 'Now we are just as many as the days of the week!' was the cry, and a bit of a struggle arose as to who was to be Sunday. of well-bred courtesy the honor was conceded to the new-comer. Victoria is well, and so is the child." This Prince was called Arthur William Patrick Albert. The first name was in honor of the Duke of Wellington, on whose eighty-first birthday the boy was born; William was for the Prince of Prussia, now Emperor of Germany; Patrick was for Ireland in general, and the "stout old woman" of Dublin in particular. This year both the Queen and the country lost a great and valued friend in Sir Robert Peel, who was killed by being thrown from his horse. There was much mourning in England among all sorts of people for this rarely noble, unennobled man. The title of Baronet he had. inherited; it is said he declined a grander title, and he certainly recorded in his will a wish that no one of his sons should accept a title on account of _his_ services to the country--which was a great thing for a man to do in England; and after his death, his wife was so proud of bearing his name that she declined a peerage offered to her--which was a greater thing for a woman to do in England. Not long after, occurred the death of the ex-King of France, at Claremont. McCarthy sums up his character very tersely, thus: "The clever, unwise, grand, mean old man." Louis Philippe's meanness was in his mercenary and plotting spirit, when a rich man and a king--his grand qualities were his courage and cheerfulness, when in poverty and exile. The Royal Family again visited Edinburgh, and stopped for a while at Holyrood--that quaint old Palace of poor Mary Stuart, whose sad, sweet memory so pervades it, like a personal atmosphere, that it seems she has only gone but for a little walk, or ride, with her four Maries, and will soon come in, laughing and talking French, and looking passing beautiful. Queen Victoria had then a romantic interest in the hapless Queen of Scots. She said to Sir Archibald Alison, "I am glad I am descended from Mary; I have nothing to do with Elizabeth." From Edinburgh to dear Balmoral, from whence the Prince writes: "We try to strengthen our hearts amid the stillness and solemnity of the mountains." The Queen's heart especially needed strengthening, for she was dreading a blow which soon fell upon her in the death of her dearest friend, her aunt, the Queen of the Belgians. She mourned deeply and long for this lovely and gifted woman, this "angelic soul," as Baron Stockmar called her. On April 29, 1851, the Queen paid a private visit to the Exhibition, and wrote: "We remained two hours and a half, and I came back quite beaten, and my head bewildered from the myriads of beautiful and wonderful things which now quite dazzle one's eyes. Such efforts have been made, and our people have shown such taste in their manufactures. All owing to this great Exhibition, and to Albert--all to _him_!" May 1st, which was the first anniversary of little Arthur's birth, was the great opening-day, when Princes and people took possession of that mighty crystal temple, and the "Festival of Peace" began. The Queen's description in her diary is an eloquent outpouring of pride and joy, and gratitude. One paragraph ends with these words: "God bless my dearest Albert. God bless my dearest country, which has shown itself so great to-day! One felt so grateful to the great God, who seemed to pervade and bless all." Her Majesty wrote that the scene in the Park as they drove through--the countless carriages, the vast crowd, the soldiers, the music, the tumultuous, yet happy excitement everywhere, reminded her of her coronation day; but when she entered that great glass house, over which floated in the sunny air the flags of all nations, within which were the representatives of all nations, and when she walked up to her place in the centre, conducted by the wizard who had conjured up for the world that magic structure, and when the two stood there, with a child on either hand, before the motley multitude, cheering in all languages-- then, Victoria _felt her name_, and knew she had come to her real coronation, as sovereign, wife, and mother. Shortly after this great day, Prince Albert distinguished himself by a remarkably fine speech at an immense meeting of the "Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts." Such shoals of foreigners being then in London, the Society felt that they must be casting in their nets. Lord John Russell wrote to congratulate the Queen, who, next to the heathen, was most interested in the success of this speech. Her reply was very characteristic. After saying that she had been quite "sure that the Prince would say the right thing, from her entire confidence in his tact and judgment," she added, "The Queen at the risk of not appearing sufficiently modest (and yet why should a Woman ever be modest about her husband's merits?) must say that she thinks Lord John will admit now that the Prince is possessed of very extraordinary powers of mind and heart. She feels so proud of being his wife, that she cannot refrain from paying herself a tribute to his noble character." Ah, English husbands should be loyal beyond measure to the illustrious lady, who has set such a matchless example of wifely faith, pride and devotion. But it will be a pity if in preaching up to their wives her example, they forget the no less admirable example of the Prince-Consort. CHAPTER XXII Close of the Great Exhibition-Anecdote--Louis Kossuth--Napoleon III.--The writer's first visit to England--Description of a Prorogation of Parliament. The great Exhibition was closed about the middle of October, on a dark and rainy day. The last ceremonies were very solemn and impressive. It had not remained long enough for people to be wearied of it. The Queen, the Prince and their children seemed never to tire of visiting it, and the prospect of a sight of them was one of the greatest attractions of the place to other visitors, especially to simple country-folk--though these were sometimes disappointed at not beholding the whole party wearing crowns and trailing royal robes. I remember a little anecdote of one of Her Majesty's visits to the Crystal Palace. Among the American manufactures were some fine soaps, and among these a small head, done in white Castile, and so exactly like marble that the Queen doubted the soap story, and in her impulsive, investigating way was about to test it with a scratch of her shawl-pin, when the Yankee exhibitor stayed her hand, and drew forth a courteous apology by the loyal remonstrance--"Pardon, your Majesty,--_it is the head of Washington_!" Soon after the Princes and Kings went home, there arrived in London a man whose heroism and eloquence had thrilled the hearts and filled the thoughts of the world as those of no monarch living had ever done. He was not received with royal honors, though with some generous enthusiasm, by the people. He was looked upon, in high places as that most forlorn being, an unsuccessful adventurer;--so he turned his face, his sad eyes wistful with one last hope, towards the setting sun. Alas, his own political sun had already set! This man was Louis Kossuth. About the same time another man, without heroism, without eloquence, but with almost superhuman audacity, struck a famous political blow, in Paris, called a _coup d'état_. He exploded a secret mine, which shattered the republic and heaved him up on to an imperial throne. Of course this successful adventurer was Louis Napoleon. I cannot find that, as the Prince-President of that poor, poetic, impracticable thing, the French Republic, much notice had been taken of him by the English Government;--but "Emperor" was a more respectable title, even worn in this way, snatched in the twinkling of an eye by a political _prestidigitateur_, and it was of greater worth--it had cost blood. So Napoleon III. was recognized by England, and at last by all great powers--royal and republican. Still, for a while, they showed a wary coldness towards the new Emperor; and he was unhappy because all the great European sovereigns hesitated to concede his equality to the extent of addressing him as "_mon frère_" (my brother). He seemed to take this so to heart that, after this solemn declaration that his empire meant peace and not war, the Queen of England put out her friendly little hand and said frankly, "mon frère"; and the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Austria followed her example; but the Czar of Russia, put his iron-gloved hand behind his back and frowned. Louis Napoleon did not forget that ever--but remembered it "excellent well" a few years later, when he was sending off his noble army to the Crimea. I find two charming domestic bits, in letters of the Queen and Prince, written in May, 1852, from Osborne. After saying that her birthday had passed very happily and peacefully, Her Majesty adds: "I only feel that I never can be half grateful enough for so much love, devotion and happiness. My beloved Albert was, if possible, more than usually kind and good in showering gifts on me. Mama was most kind, too; and the children did everything they could to please me." It is pleasant to see that the dear mother and grandmother never forgot those family anniversaries, and never was forgotten. Prince Albert writes, in a letter to the Dowager Duchess of Saxe-Coburg: "The children are well. They grow apace and develop new virtues daily, and also new naughtinesses. The virtues we try to retain, and the naughtinesses we throw away." This year was a memorable one for the writer of this little book, for it was that of her first visit to England,--of her first sight of London and Charles Dickens, of Westminster Abbey and the Duke of Wellington, Windsor Castle and Queen Victoria. I had brought a letter, from one of his most esteemed American friends, to the Earl of Carlisle, and from that accomplished and amiable nobleman I received many courtesies,--chief among them a ticket, which he obtained from Her Majesty direct, to one of her reserved seats in the Peeresses' Gallery of the House of Lords, to witness the prorogation of Parliament. I trust I may be pardoned if I quote a portion of my description of that wonderful sight,--written, ah me! so long ago: ... "I found that my seat was one most desirable both for seeing the brilliant assembly and the august ceremony; it was near the throne, yet commanded a view of every part of the splendid chamber. "The gallery was soon filled with ladies, all in full-dress, jewels, flowers and plumes. Many of the seats of the Peers were also filled by their noble wives and fair daughters, most superbly and sweetly arrayed... Among those conspicuous for elegance and loveliness were the young Duchess of Northumberland and Lady Clementina Villiers, the famous Court beauty. "Toward one o'clock the Peers began to come in, clad in their robes of State. Taken as a whole they are a noble and refined-looking set of men. But few eyes dwelt on any of these, when there slowly entered, at the left of the throne, a white-haired old man, pale and spare, bowed with years and honors, the hero of many battles in many lands, the conqueror of conquerors,--the Duke! Leaning on the arm of the fair Marchioness of Douro, he stood, or rather tottered, before us, the grandest ruin in England. He presently retired to don his ducal robes and join the royal party at the entrance by the Victoria tower. ... The pious bishops, in their sacerdotal robes, made a goodly show before an ungodly world. The judges came in their black gowns and in all the venerable absurdity of their enormous wigs. Mr. Justice Talfourd the poet, a small, modest- looking man, was quite extinguished by his. The foreign Ministers assembled, nation after nation, making, when standing or seated together, a most peculiar and picturesque group. They shone in all colors and dazzled with stars, orders and jewel-bitted swords. ... "Next to me sat the eleven-year-old Princess Gouromma, daughter of the Rajah of Coorg. The day before she had received Christian baptism, the Queen standing as godmother. She is a pretty, bright-looking child, and was literally loaded with jewels. Opposite her sat an Indian Prince--her father, I was told. He was magnificently attired--girded about with a superb India shawl, and above his dusky brow gleamed star-like diamonds, for the least of which many a hard-run Christian would sell his soul. ... "At last, the guns announced the royal procession, and in a few moments the entire house rose silently to receive Her Majesty. The Queen was conducted by Prince Albert, and accompanied by all the great officers of State. The long train, borne by ladies, gentlemen and pages, gave a certain stateliness to the short, plump little person of the fair sovereign, and she bore herself with much dignity and grace. Prince Albert, it is evident, has been eminently handsome, but he is growing a little stout and slightly bald. Yet he is a man of right noble presence. Her Majesty is in fine preservation, and really a pretty and lovable- looking woman. I think I never saw anything sweeter than her smile of recognition, given to some of her friends in the gallery--to the little Indian Princess in especial. There is much in her face of pure womanliness and simple goodness; yet it is by no means wanting in animated intelligence. In short, after seeing her, I can well understand the loving loyalty of her people, and can heartily join in their prayer of 'God Save the Queen!' "Her Majesty wore a splendid tiara of brilliants, matched by bracelets, necklace and stomacher. Her soft brown hair was dressed very plainly. Her under-dress was of white satin, striped with gold; her robe was, of course, of purple velvet, trimmed with gold and ermine." "The Queen desired the lords to be seated, and commanded that her 'faithful Commons' should be summoned. When the members of. the lower House had come in, the speaker read a speech, to which, I have recorded, Her Majesty listened, in a cold, quiet manner, sitting perfectly motionless, even to her fingers and eyelids. The Iron Duke standing at her left, bent, and trembled slightly--supporting with evident difficulty the ponderous sword of State. Prince Albert, sitting tall and soldier- like, in his handsome Field-Marshal's uniform, looked nonchalant and serene, but with a certain far-away expression in his eyes. The Earl of Derby held the crown on its gorgeous-cushion gracefully, like an accomplished waiter presenting a tray of ices. On a like occasion, some time ago, I hear the Duke of Argyle had the ill-luck to drop this crown from the cushion, when some of the costly jewels, jarred from their setting, flew about like so many bits of broken glass. But there was no need to cry, 'Pick up the pieces!' "After the reading of this speech, certain bills were read to Her Majesty, for her assent, which she gave each time with a gracious inclination of the head, shaking sparkles from her diamond tiara in dew- drops of light. At every token of acquiescence a personage whom I took for a herald, bowed low towards the Queen, then performed a similar obeisance towards the Commons--crying '_La Reine le veut!_'" "Why he should say it in French--why he did not say "The Queen wills it," in her own English, I don't yet know." I went on: "This ceremony gone through with, the Lord Chancellor, kneeling at the foot of the throne, presented a copy of the Royal speech to the Queen (I had supposed she would bring it in her pocket), which she proceeded to read, in a manner perfectly simple, yet impressive, and in a voice singularly melodious and distinct. Finer reading I never heard anywhere; every syllable was clearly enunciated, and the emphasis fell with unerring precision, though gently, on the right word. "The Lord Chancellor having formally announced that Parliament stood prorogued until the 20th of August, Her Majesty rose as majestically as could be expected from one more remarkable for rosy plumptitude than regal altitude; Prince Albert took his place at her side; the crown and sword bearers took theirs in front, the train-bearers theirs in the rear, and the royal procession swept slowly forth, the brilliant house broke up and followed, and so the splendid pageant passed away--faded like a piece of fairy enchantment." That's the way they do it,--except that nowadays the Queen does not read her own speech. CHAPTER XXIII. Death of the Duke of Wellington--Birth of the Duke of Albany--The Crimean War--Slanders upon Prince Albert--The Prince of Wales takes a place for the first time upon the Throne--Incidents of Domestic Life--Prince Albert visits the Emperor of France--Incidents of the War. At Balmoral the following autumn, the Queen heard of the death of her most illustrious subject--the Duke of Wellington, and green are those "Leaves" in the journal of her "life in the Highlands," devoted to his memory. She wrote of him as a sovereign seldom writes of a subject,-- glowingly, gratefully, tenderly. "One cannot think of this country, without 'the Duke,' our immortal hero"--she said. There was a glorious state and popular funeral for the grand old man, who was laid away with many honors and many tears in the crypt of St. Paul's Cathedral, where his brother hero, Nelson, was waiting to receive him. When early in 1853, the news came to Windsor Castle that the French Emperor had selected a bride, not for her wealth, or high birth, or royal connections, but for her beauty, and grace, and because he loved her, Victoria and Albert, as truly lovers as when they entered the old castle gates, as bride and bridegroom, felt more than ever friendly to him, and desirous that he should have a fair field, if no favor, to show what he could do for France. I am afraid they half forgot the _coup d'état_, and the widows, orphans and exiles it had made. In April, the Queen's fourth son, who was destined to "carry weight" in the shape of names,--Leopold George Duncan Albert--now Duke of Albany, was born in Buckingham Palace. During this year "the red planet Mars" was in the ascendant. The ugly Eastern Trouble, which finally culminated in the Crimean War, began to loom in the horizon, and England to stir herself ominously with military preparations. Drilling and mustering and mock combats were the order of the day, and the sound of the big drum was heard in the land. They had a grand battle-rehearsal at Chobham, and the Queen and Prince went there on horseback; she wearing a military riding-habit, and accompanied by the Duke of Coburg and her cousin George, King of Hanover. The weather was genuine "Queen's weather," bright and warm; but Prince Albert, who returned a few days later, to rough it, in a season of regular camp-life, was almost drowned out of his tent by storms. In fact, the warrior bold went home with a bad cold, which ended in an attack of measles. There was enough of this disease to go through the family, Queen and all. Even the guests took it, the Crown Prince of Hanover and the Duke and Duchess of Coburg, who on going home gave it to the Duke of Brabant and the Count of Flanders. I suppose there never was known such a royal run of measles. This year the Queen and Prince went again to Ireland, to attend the Dublin Industrial Exhibition, and were received with undiminished enthusiasm. It is remarkable that in Ireland the Queen was not once shot at, or struck in the face, or insulted in any way, as in her own capital. All the most chivalric feeling of that mercurial, but generous people, was called out by the sight of her frank and smiling face. She trusted them, and they proved worthy of the trust. After their return to Balmoral, the Prince wrote: "We should be happy here were it not for that horrible Eastern complication. A European war would be a terrible calamity. It will not do to give up all hope; still, what we have is small." It daily grew smaller, as the war-clouds thickened and darkened in the political sky. During those troublous times, when some men's hearts were failing them for fear, and some men's were madly panting for the fray, asking nothing better than to see the Lion of England pitted against the Bear of Russia, the Prince was in some quarters most violently and viciously assailed, as a designing, dangerous "influence behind the throne"--treacherous to England, and so to England's Queen. So industriously was this monstrous slander spread abroad, that the story went, and by some simple souls was believed, that "the blameless Prince" had been arrested for high treason, and lodged in the Tower! Some had it that he had gone in through the old Traitors' Grate, and that they were furbishing up the old axe and block for his handsome head! Then the rumor ran that the Queen had also been arrested, and was to be consigned to the grim old fortress, or that she insisted on going with her husband and sharing his dungeon. Thousands of English. people actually assembled about the Tower to see them brought in,--and yet this was not on All- Fools' Day. Poor Baron Stockmar was also suspected of dark political intrigues and practices detrimental to the peace and honor of England. He was, in fact, accused of being a spy and a conspirator--which was absurdity itself. He was, it seems to me, a high-minded, kindly old man, a political philosopher and moralist--rather opinionated always, and at times a little patronizing towards his royal pupils; but if they did not object to this, it was no concern of other people. He certainly had a shrewd, as well as a philosophic mind--was a sagacious "clerk of the weather" in European politics,--and I suppose a better friend man or woman never had than the Prince and the Queen found in this much distrusted old German Baron. Though Prince Albert wrote at this time about having "a world of torment," he really took matters very patiently and philosophically. In the devotion of his wife, in the affection of his children, in his beloved organ, "the only instrument," he said, "for expressing one's feelings," he found consolation and peace. He wrote,--"Victoria has taken the whole affair greatly to heart, and is excessively indignant at the attacks." But a triumphant refutation, in both Houses of Parliament, of all these slanders, consoled her much; and on the anniversary of her marriage she was able to write--"This blessed day is full of joyful and tender emotions. Fourteen happy years have passed, and I confidently trust many more will pass, and find us in old age, as we are now, happily and devotedly united! Trials we must have; but what are they if we are together?" In March, 1854, the Queen and Prince went to Osborne to visit the magnificent fleet of vessels which had been assembled at Spithead. Her Majesty wrote to Lord Aberdeen--"We are just starting to see the fleet, which is to sail at once for its important destination. It will be a solemn moment! Many a heart will be very heavy, and many a prayer, including our own, will be offered up for its safety and glory!" Ah! when those beautiful ships went sailing away, with their white sails spread, and the royal colors flying, death sat "up aloft," instead of the "sweet little cherub" popularly supposed to be perched there, and winds from the long burial-trenches of the battle-field played among the shrouds. King Frederick William of Prussia seemed to think that he could put an end to this little unpleasantness, and wrote a long letter to the Queen of England, paternally advising her to make some concessions to the Emperor of Russia, which concessions she thought would be weak and unworthy. Her reply reveals her characteristic high courage. One quotation, which she makes from Shakspeare, is admirable: "Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear't, that the opposed may beware, of thee." Still, as we look back, it does seem as though with the wit of the Queen, the wisdom of Prince Albert, the philosophy of Baron Stockmar,--the philanthropy of Exeter Hall, and the piety of the Bench of Bishops, some sort of peaceful arrangement might have been effected, and the Crimean war left out of history. But then we should not have had the touching picture of the lion and the unicorn charging on the enemy together, not for England or France, but all for poor Turkey; and Mr. Tennyson could not have written his "Charge of the Light Brigade," which would have been a great loss to elocutionists. There were in Parliament a few poor- spirited economists and soft-hearted humanitarians who would fain have prevented that mighty drain of treasure and of the best blood of England- holding, with John Bright, that this war was "neither just nor necessary"; but they were "whistling against the wind." There was one rich English quaker, with a heart like a tender woman's and a face like a cherub's, who actually went over to Russia to labor with "friend Nicholas" against this war. All in vain! the Czar was deeply moved, of course, but would not give in, or give up. On the 3d of March the Queen went to Parliament to receive the address of both Houses in answer to her message which announced the opening of the war. On this important occasion the young Prince of Wales took a place for the first time with his mother and father on the throne. He looked taller and graver than usual. His heart glowed with martial fire. His voice, too, if he had been allowed to speak, would have been all for war. A few days before this, the Queen, after seeing off the first division of troops for the Baltic, had so felt the soldier-blood of her father tingling in her veins, that she wrote: "I am very enthusiastic about my dear army and navy, and I wish I had two sons in both now." But in later years the widowed Queen is said to have been not eager to have any of her sons, _his_ sons, peril their lives in battle. Though the Prince of Wales now had assigned to him a more honorable place on the British throne than the British Constitution permitted his father, to occupy, he was still perfectly amenable to that father's authority. An English gentleman lately told me of an instance of the wise exercise of that authority. The Prince-Consort and his son were riding across a London toll-bridge, the keeper of which, on receiving his toll, respectfully saluted them. Prince Albert courteously inclined his head, touching his hat, but Prince Albert Edward dashed carelessly on, yet only to return a minute after, laughing and blushing, to obey his father's command--"My son, go back and return that man's salute." The Queen was so enthusiastic that she with pleasure saw launched-- indeed, christened herself--a war-vessel bearing the name and likeness of her "dearest Albert"--that humane, amiable, peace-loving man! There was something incongruous in it, as there is in all associations between war and good peace-lovers and Christ-lovers. Amid these wars and rumors of wars, it is comforting to read in that admirable and most comprehensive work, "The Life of His Royal Highness, the Prince-Consort, by Sir Theodore Martin, K.C.B.," of pleasant little domestic events, like a children's May-day ball at Buckingham Palace, given on Prince Arthur's birthday, when two hundred children were made happy and made others happier. Then there were great times at Osborne for the Royal children on their mother's birthday, when a charming house--the Swiss cottage--and its grounds, were made over to them, to have and to hold, as their very own. It was not wholly for a play-house and play- ground, but partly as a means of instruction in many things. In the perfectly-appointed kitchen of the cottage the little Princesses learned to perform many domestic tasks, and to cook different kinds of plain dishes as well as cakes and tarts--in short, to perform the ordinary duties of housekeepers; while in the grounds and gardens the young Princes used to work two or three hours a day under the direction of a gardener, getting regular certificates of labor performed, which they presented to their father, who always paid them as he would have paid any laborer for the same amount and quality of work--never more, never less. Each boy had his own hoe and spade, which not a Princeling among them all considered it _infra-dig._ to use. The two eldest boys, Albert Edward and Alfred, also constructed under their father's directions a small fortress perfect in all its details. All the work on this military structure, even to the making of the bricks, was done by the Princes. The little Princesses also worked in the gardens, each having her own plot, marked with her own name, from Victoria to Beatrice. There was a museum of natural history attached to the cottage, and we can easily imagine the wonderful specimens of entomology and ornithology there to be found. Ah! have any of the grown-up Royal Highnesses ever known the comfort and fun in their grand palaces that they had in the merry old Swiss cottage days? In the autumn of 1854 Prince Albert went over to Boulogne for a little friendly visit to England's chief ally, taking with him little Arthur. He seems to have found the French Emperor a little stiff and cold at first, as he wrote to the Queen, "The Emperor thaws more and more." In the sunshine of that genial presence he had to thaw. The Prince adds: "He told me one of the deepest impressions ever made upon him was when he arrived in London shortly after King William's death and saw you at the age of eighteen going to open Parliament for the first time." The Prince made a deep impression on the Emperor. Two men could not be more unlike. The character of the one was crystal clear, and deeper than it appeared--the character of the other was murky and mysterious, and shallower than it seemed. This must have been a season of great anxiety and sadness for the Queen. The guns of Alma and Sebastopol echoed solemnly among her beloved mountains. In her journal there is this year only one Balmoral entry--not the account of any Highland expedition or festivity, but the mention of an eloquent sermon by the Rev. Norman McLeod, and of his prayer, which she says was "very touching," and added, "His allusions to us were so simple, saying after his mention of us, 'Bless their children.' It gave me a lump in my throat, as also when he prayed for the dying, the wounded, the widow, and the orphan." There came a few months later a ghastly ally of the Russians into the fight--cholera--which, joined to the two terrible winter months, "Generals January and February," as the Czar called them, made sad havoc in the English and French forces, but did not redeem the fortunes of the Russians. Much mal-administration in regard to army supplies brought terrible hardships upon the English troops, and accomplished the impossible in revealing in them new qualities of bravery and heroic endurance. It was an awful war, and it lasted as long as, and a little longer than, the Czar, who died in March, 1855. "of pulmonary apoplexy," it was announced, though the rumor ran, that, resolved not to survive Sebastopol, he had taken his own unhappy life. With his death the war was virtually ended, and his son Alexander made peace as soon as he decently could with the triumphant enemies of his father. Through all this distressful time the Queen and the Prince-Consort manifested the deepest sympathy for, as well as pride in, the English soldiers. They had an intense pity for the poor men in the trenches, badly clad and half starved, grand, patient, ill-used, uncomplaining fellows! "My heart bleeds to think of it," wrote the Prince, of the army administration. He corresponded with Florence Nightingale, and encouraged her in her brave and saintly mission. When the sick and wounded began to arrive, in England both he and the Queen were faithful in visiting them in the hospitals, and Her Majesty had a peculiar sad joy in rewarding the bravest of the brave with the gift of the Crimean medal. In a private letter she gives a description of the touching scene. She says: "From the highest Prince of the blood to the lowest private, all received the same distinction for the bravest conduct in the severest actions.... Noble fellows! I own I feel for them as though they were my own children.... They were so touched, so pleased! Many, I hear, cried, and they won't hear of giving up their medals to have their names engraved upon them for fear that they may not receive the identical ones put into their hands by me. Several came by in a sadly mutilated state." One of these heroes, young Sir Thomas Trowbridge, who had had one leg and the foot of the other carried away by a round shot at Inkermann, was dragged in a Bath-chair to the Queen, who, when she gave him his medal, offered to make him one of her _Aides-de-Camp_, to which the gallant and loyal soldier replied, "I am amply repaid for everything." Poor fellow! I wonder if he continued to say that all his mutilated life? Whenever during this war there was a hitch, or halt, in the victorious march of English arms, any disaster or disgrace in the Crimea, the attacks upon the Prince-Consort were renewed,--there were even threats of impeachment;--but when the "cruel war was over," the calumnies were over also. They were always as absurd as unfounded. Aside from his manly sense of honor the Prince had by that time, at least, ten good reasons for being loyal to England--an English wife and nine English children. CHAPTER XXIV. The Emperor and Empress of France visit Windsor--They are entertained by the City of London--Scene at the Opera--The Queen returns the Emperor's call--Splendor of the Imperial Hospitality. The Queen's kind heart was really pained by the sudden death of the Czar, her sometime friend and "brother"--whose visit to Windsor was brought by the startling event vividly to her mind--yet she turned from his august shade to welcome one of his living conquerors, the Emperor Napoleon, who, with his beautiful wife, came this spring to visit her and the Prince. She had had prepared for the visitors the most splendid suite of apartments--among them the very bedroom once occupied by the Emperor Nicholas. It was the best "spare room" of the Castle, and the one generally allotted to first-class monarchs--Louis Philippe had occupied it. What stuff for ghosts for the bedside of Louis Napoleon did he and the Czar supply! A few days before the Emperor and Empress arrived, the Queen had a visit from the poor ex-Queen, Marie Amélie. There is a touching entry in Her Majesty's diary, regarding this visit. By the way, I would state that whenever I quote from Her Majesty's diary, it is through the medium of Sir Theodore Martin's book, and by his kind permission. The Queen wrote: "It made us both so sad to see her drive away in a plain coach, with miserable post-horses, and to think that this was the Queen of the French, and that six years ago her husband was surrounded by the same pomp and grandeur which three days hence would surround his successor." There is something exquisitely tender and pitiful in this. Most people, royal or republican, would "consider it not so deeply." The world has grown so familiar with the see-saw of French royalty, that a fall or a flight, exile or abdication moves it but little. In the old _guillotine_ times, there _were_ sensations. England's great ally, and his lovely wife, Eugénie,--every inch an Empress,--were received with tremendous enthusiasm. Their passage through London was one long ovation. The Times of that date gives allowing account of the crowds and the excitement. It states also, that as they were passing King Street, the Emperor "was observed to draw the attention of the Empress to the house which he had occupied in former days,"-- respectable lodgings, doubtless, but how different from the Tuileries! The Queen gives an interesting account of what seemed a long, and was an impatient waiting for her guests, whom the Prince-Consort had gone to meet. At length, they saw "the advanced guard of the escort--then the cheers of the crowd broke forth. The outriders appeared--the doors opened, I stepped out, the children close behind me; the band struck up '_Partant pour la Syrie_,' the trumpets sounded, and the open carriage, with the Emperor and Empress, Albert sitting opposite them, drove up and they got out... I advanced and embraced the Emperor, who received two salutes on either cheek from me--having first kissed my hand." The English Queen did not do things by halves, any more than the English people. She then embraced the Empress, whom she describes as "very gentle and graceful, but evidently very nervous." The children were then presented, "Vicky, with alarmed eyes, making very low curtsies," and Bertie having the honor of an embrace from the Emperor. Then they all went up-stairs, Prince. Albert conducting the Empress, who at first modestly declined to precede the Queen. Her Majesty followed on the arm of the Emperor, who proudly informed her that he had once been in her service as special constable against those unstable enemies, the Chartists. The Queen and Prince soon came to greatly like the Emperor and admire the Empress. The Queen wrote of the former: "He is very quiet and amiable, and easy to get on with... Nothing can be more civil and well-bred than the Emperor's manner--so full of tact." Of Eugenie she wrote: "She is full of courage and spirit, and yet so gentle, with such innocence; ... with all her great liveliness, she has the prettiest and most modest manner." Later, Her Majesty, with a rare generosity, showing that there was not room in her large heart even, for any petty feeling, wrote in her private diary, of that beautiful and brilliant woman: "I am delighted to see how much Albert likes and admires her." There was a State-ball at Windsor, at which Eugénie shone resplendent. The Queen danced with the Emperor--and with her imaginative mind, found cause for wondering reflection in the little circumstance, for she says: "How strange to think that I, the granddaughter of George III., should dance with the Emperor Napoleon III.--nephew of England's greatest enemy, now my dearest and most intimate ally--in the _Waterloo Room_, and this ally only six years ago, living in this country an exile, poor and unthought of!" The Queen, of course, invested the Emperor with the Order of the Garter. It has been in its time bestowed on monarchs less worthy the honor. It is true, he did not come very heroically by his imperial crown--but when crowns are lying about loose, who can blame a man for helping himself? The city gave the Emperor and Empress a great reception and banquet at Guildhall, and in the evening there was a memorable visit to the opera. The imperial and royal party drove from Buckingham Palace through a dense crowd and illuminated streets. Arrived at the royal box, the Queen took the Emperor by the hand, and smiling her sweetest--which is saying a good deal--presented him to the audience. Immense enthusiasm! Then Prince Albert led forward the lovely Empress, and the enthusiasm was unbounded. It must be that this still beautiful, though sorrowful woman, on whose head a fierce tempest of misfortune has beaten--the most piteous, discrowned, blanched head since Marie Antoinette--sometimes remembers those happy and glorious days, and that the two august widows talk over them together. At last came the hour of farewells, and the Emperor departed with his pretty, tearful wife--the band playing his mother's air, _Partant pour la Syrie_, and his heart full of pride and gratitude. In a letter which he addressed to the Queen, soon after reaching home, is revealed one cause of his gratitude. After saying many pleasant things about the kind and gracious reception which had been accorded him, and the impression which the sight of the happy home-life of Windsor had made upon him, he says: "Your Majesty has also touched me to the heart by the delicacy of the consideration shown to the Empress; for nothing pleases more than to see the person one loves become the object of such flattering attention." That summer there appeared among the royal children at Osborne a sudden illness, which soon put on royal livery, and was recognized as scarlet fever. There was, of course, great alarm--but nothing very serious came of it. The two elder children escaped the infection, and were allowed to go to Paris with their parents, who in July returned the visit of the Emperor and Empress. They went in their yacht to Boulogne, where the Emperor met them and escorted them to the railway on horseback. He looked best, almost handsome, on horseback. Arrived at Paris, they found the whole city decorated, as only the French know how to decorate, and gay, enthusiastic crowds cheering, as only the French know how to cheer. They drove through splendid boulevards, through the Bois de Boulogne, over the bridge, to the Palace of St. Cloud--and everywhere there were the imperial troops, artillery, cavalry and zouaves, their bands playing "God Save the Queen." Those only who knew Paris under the Empire, can realize what that reception was, and how magnificent were the _fêtes_ and how grand the reviews of the next ten days. Of the arrival at St. Cloud the Queen writes: "In all the blaze of light from lamps and torches, amidst the roar of cannon and bands and drums and cheers, we reached the palace. The Empress, with the Princess Mathilde and the ladies, received us at the door, and took us up a beautiful staircase, lined with the splendid _Cent-Guardes,_ who are magnificent men, very like our Life Guards... We went through the rooms at once to our own, which are charming... I felt quite bewildered, but enchanted, everything is so beautiful." This palace we know was burned during the siege. The last time I visited the ruins, I stood for some minutes gazing through a rusty grating into the noble vestibule, through which so many royal visitors had passed. Its blackened walls and broken and prostrate marbles are overspread by a wild natural growth--a green shroud wrapping the ghastly ruin;--or rather, it was like an incursion of a mob of rough vegetation, for there were neither delicate ferns, nor poetic ivy, but democratic grass and republican groundsel and communistic thistles and nettles. In place of the splendid _Cent-Guardes_ stood tall, impudent weeds; in place of courtiers, the supple and bending briar; while up the steps, which the Queen and Empress and their ladies ascended that night, pert little _grisettes_ of _marguerites_ were climbing. So perfect was the hospitality of the Emperor that they had things as English as possible at the Palace-even providing an English chaplain for Sunday morning. In the afternoon, however, he backslid into French irreligion and natural depravity, and they all went to enjoy the fresh air, the sight of the trees, the flowers and the children in the Bois de Boulogne. The next day they went into the city to the _Exposition des Beaux Arts,_ and to the _Elysée_ for lunch and a reception--then they all drove to the lovely _Sainte Chapelle_ and the _Palais de Justice_. There the Emperor pointed out the old _Conciergerie_, and said--"There is where I was imprisoned." Doubtless he thought that was a more interesting historical fact than the imprisonment of poor Marie Antoinette, in the same grim building. There was also a visit to the Italian opera, where a very pretty surprise awaited the guests. At the close of the ballet, the scene suddenly changed to a view of Windsor--including the arrival of the Emperor and Empress. "_God Save the Queen_" was sung superbly, and rapturously applauded. One day the Queen, Prince, and Princess Royal, dressed very plainly, took a hired carriage and had a long _incognito_ drive through Paris. They enjoyed this "lark" immensely. Then there was a grand ball at the _Hotel de Ville_, and a grand review on the _Champ de Mars_, and a visit by torchlight to the tomb of _the_ Napoleon, under the dome of the _Invalides_, with the accompaniment of solemn organ- playing within the church, and a grand midsummer storm outside, with thunder and lightning. The French do so well understand how to manage these things! The grandest thing of all was a State ball in Versailles;--that magnificent but mournful, almost monumental pile, being gaily decorated and illuminated--almost transformed out of its tragic traditions. What a charming picture of her hostess the Queen gives us: "The Empress met us at the top of the staircase, looking like a fairy queen, or nymph, in a white dress, trimmed with grass and diamonds,--a beautiful _tour de corsage_ of diamonds round the top of her dress;--the same round her waist, and a corresponding _coiffure_, with her Spanish and Portuguese orders." She must have been a lovely vision. The Emperor thought so, for (according to the Queen) forgetting that it is not "good form" for a man to admire or compliment his own wife, he exclaimed, as she appeared: "_Comme tu es belle! _" ("How beautiful you are!") I am afraid he was not always so polite. During her first season at the Tuileries, which she called "a beautiful prison," and which is now as much a thing of the past as the Bastile, she often in her gay, impulsive way offended against the stern laws of Court etiquette, and was reproved for a lack of dignity. Once at a reception she suddenly perceived a little way down the line an old school-friend, and, hurrying forward, kissed her affectionately. It was nice for the young lady, but the Emperor frowned and said, in that cold marital tone which cuts like an east wind: "Madame, you forget that you are the Empress!" In a letter from the Prince to his uncle Leopold I find this suggestive sentence in reference to the ball at Versailles: "Victoria made her toilette in Marie Antoinette's boudoir." It would almost seem the English Queen might have feared to see in her dressing-glass a vision of the French Queen's proud young head wearing a diadem as brilliant as her own, or perhaps that cruel crown of silver--her terror-whitened hair. The parting was sad. The Empress "could not bring herself to face it"; so the Queen went to her room with the Emperor, who said: "Eugénie, here is the Queen." "Then," adds Her Majesty, "she came and gave me a beautiful fan and a rose and heliotrope from the garden, and Vicky a bracelet set with rubies and diamonds containing her hair, with which Vicky was delighted." The Emperor went with them all the way to Boulogne and saw them on board their yacht; then came embracings and _adieux_, and all was over. The next morning early they reached Osborne and were received at the beach by Prince Alfred and his little brothers, to whom Albert Edward, big with the wonders of Paris, was like a hero out of a fairy book. Near the house waited the sisters, Helena and Louise, and in the house the invalid--"poor, dear Alice!"--for whom the joy of that return was almost too much. CHAPTER XXV. Betrothal of the Princess Royal--Birth of the Prince Imperial of France-- More visitors and visitings--The Emperor And Empress of Mexico--Marriage of the Princess Royal--The attendant festivities. At Balmoral, where they took possession of the new Castle, the Queen and Prince received the news of the approaching fall of Sebastopol, for it was not down yet. It finally fell amid a scene of awful conflagration and explosions--the work of the desperate Russians themselves. The peace-rejoicings did not come till later, but in the new house at Balmoral there was a new joy, though one not quite unmixed with sadness, in the love and happy betrothal of the Princess Victoria. In her journal the Queen tells the old, old story very quietly: "Our dear Victoria was this day engaged to Prince Frederick William of Prussia. He had already spoken to us of his wishes, but were uncertain, on account of her extreme youth, whether he should speak to her or wait till he should come back again. However, we felt it was better he should do so, and, during our ride up Craig-na-Ban this afternoon; he picked a piece of white heather (the emblem of good luck), which he gave to her." This it seems broke the ice, and so the poetic Prince (all German Princes, except perhaps Bismarck, are poetic and romantic) told his love and offered his hand, which was not rejected. Then came a few weeks of courtship, doubtless as bright and sweet to the royal pair of lovers as was a similar season to Robert Burns and "Highland Mary"--for love levels up and levels down-- and then young Fritz returned to Germany, leaving behind him a fond heart and a tearful little face round and fair. From this time till the marriage of the Princess Royal, which was not till after her seventeenth birthday in 1858, the Prince-Consort devoted himself more and more to the education of this beloved daughter--in history, art, literature, and religion. He conversed much and most seriously with her in preparation for her confirmation. He found that this work of mental and moral development was "its own exceeding great reward." The character of the Princess Royal seems to have been in some respects like that of the Princess Charlotte of Wales. She was as high-spirited, strong-willed, gay, free, and fearless; but with infinitely better and purer domestic and social influences, she grew up into a nobler and more gracious young womanhood. Intellectually and morally, she was her father's creation; intellectually and morally, poor Princess Charlotte was worse than fatherless. But I must hurry on with the hurrying years. The Prince, writing to Baron Stockmar in March, 1856, says: "The telegraph has just brought the news of the Empress having been safely delivered of a son. Great will be the rejoicing in the Tuileries." This baby born in the purple was the Prince Imperial, whose fate beggars tragedy; who went to gather laurels on an African desert and fell a victim to a savage ambuscade--his beautiful body stuck almost as full of cruel darts as that of the martyred young St. Sebastian. On March 21st the long-delayed treaty of peace was signed. After all the waste, the agony, the bloodshed, the Prince wrote: "It is not such as we could have wished." But he had learned to bear these little disappointments. Prince Alfred began his studies for the navy. Fritz of Prussia came over on a visit to his betrothed, and his father and mother soon followed-- coming to get better acquainted with their daughter-in-law to be. Then into the royal circle there came another royal guest, all unbidden--the king whose name is Death. The Prince of Leiningen--the Queen's half- brother in blood, but whole brother in heart--died, to her great grief; and soon after there passed away her beloved aunt, the Duchess of Gloucester, a good and amiable woman, and the last of the fifteen children of George the Third and Queen Charlotte. But here life balanced death, for on April 14th another daughter was born in Buckingham Palace. The Prince in a letter to his step-mother speaks of the baby as "thriving famously, and prettier than babies usually are." He adds, "Mama--Aunt, Vicky and her bridegroom are to be the little one's sponsors, and she is to receive the historical, romantic, euphonious, and melodious names of Beatrice Mary Victoria Feodora." That summer there came two very interesting royal visitors to Windsor-- the young Princess Charlotte of Belgium and her betrothed husband, the Archduke Maximilian of Austria. Prince Albert wrote of the young girl: "Charlotte's whole being seems to me to have been warmed and unfolded by the love which is kindled in her heart." To his uncle Leopold he wrote:" I wish you joy at having got such a husband for dear Charlotte, as I am sure he is quite worthy of her and will make her happy." Just ten years from that time the Emperor Maximilian, standing before a file of Mexican soldiers at Queretaro, took out his watch, which he would never more need, and, pressing a spring, revealed in its case a miniature of the lovely Empress Charlotte, which he kissed tenderly. Then, handing the watch to the priest at his side, he said: "Carry this souvenir to my dear wife in Europe, and if she ever be able to understand you, say that my eyes closed with the impression of her image, which I shall carry with me above." She never did understand. She lives in a phantom Court, believing herself still Empress of Mexico, and that the Emperor will soon come home from the wars to her and the throne. There was this summer a memorable show in Hyde Park, when Queen Victoria on horseback, in her becoming military dress, pinned with her own hands on to the coats of a large number of heroes of the great war the coveted Victoria Cross. Ah! they were proud and she was prouder. She is a true soldier's daughter; her heart always thrills at deeds of valor and warms at sight of a hero, however humble. The Prince went over to his cousin Charlotte's wedding, and the Queen, compelled to stay behind, wrote to King Leopold that her letting her husband, go without her was a great proof of her love for her uncle. "You cannot think," she said, "how completely forlorn I feel when he is away, or how I count the hours till he returns. All the children are as nothing when he is away. It seems as if the whole life of the house and home were gone." Again, how like a loving Scotch peasant wife: "There's na luck about the house, There's na luck at a'-- There's little pleasure in the house, When my guid mon's awa'." In August the Emperor and Empress made a flying visit in their yacht to Osborne and talked over the latest political events, the new phases of affairs, and, doubtless, the new babies; and, a little later, the Queen and Prince ran over to Cherbourg in their yacht, taking six of the children. There was a perfect nursery of the little ones, "rocked in the cradle of the deep." This was such a complete "surprise party," that the Emperor and Empress away in Paris, knew nothing about it. They all took a pleasant little excursion into the lovely country of Normandy in _chars-à-bancs_, with bells on the post-horses, doubtless, and everything gay and delightful and novel to the children,--especially French sunshine. This year the Balmoral stay was greatly saddened by the news of the Sepoy rebellion, of the tragedies of Cawnpore, and the unspeakable atrocities of Nana Sahib. Young people nowadays know little about that ghastly war, except as connected with the pretty poetical story of the relief of Lucknow, and Jessie Brown; but, at the time, it was an awfully real thing, and not in the least poetical or romantic. The marriage of the Princess Royal was fixed for January 25, 1858. Her father wrote from Balmoral hi the autumn; "Vicky suffers under the feeling that every spot she visits she has to greet for the last time as home... The departure from here will, be a great trial to us all, especially to Vicky, who leaves it for good and all; and the good, simple Highlanders, who are very fond of us, are constantly saying to her, and often with tears, 'I suppose we shall never see you again?' which naturally makes her feel more keenly." At last the wedding day approached and the royal guests began to arrive at Buckingham Palace, and they poured in till on fair days a King or Queen, a Prince or Princess looked out of nearly every window; and when there was a fog, collisions of crowned heads occurred in the corridors. On the day the Court left Windsor the Queen wrote: "Went to look at the rooms prepared for Vicky's honeymoon; very pretty... We took a short walk with Vicky, who was dreadfully upset at this real break in her life; the real separation from her childhood." These be little things perhaps, but beautiful little human things, showing the warm love and tender sympathy which united this family, supposed to be lifted high and dry above ordinary humanity, among the arid and icy grandeurs of royalty. There was a gay little ball one evening with Highnesses and Serenities dancing and whirling and chasséing, and a "_grande chaine_" of half of the sovereigns of Europe--all looking very much like other people. The Queen wrote: "Ernest (Duke of Coburg) said it seemed like a dream to see Vicky dance as a bride, just as I did eighteen years ago, and I still (so he said) looking very young. In 1840, poor dear papa (late Duke of Coburg) danced with me as Ernest danced with Vicky." Afterwards there was a grand ball, attended by over a thousand of the elect, and for the multitude there were dramatic and musical entertainments. At Her Majesty's Theatre one night the famous tragedian, Mr. Phelps, and the great actress, Miss Helen Faucit, in the tragedy of _Macbeth_, froze the blue blood of a whole tier of royal personages and made them realize what crowns were worth, and how little they had earned theirs, by showing what men and women will go through with to secure one. The Emperor and Empress of France were not among the guests. They had been a little upset by an event more tragic than are most marriages--the attempt of Orsini to blow up their carriage, by the explosion of hand-grenades near the entrance of the Italian Opera. They had been only slightly hurt, but some eighty innocent people in the crowd had been either killed or wounded. The white dress of the Empress was sprinkled with blood, yet she went to her box and sat out the performance. What nerve these imperial people have! The Queen's account of this glad, sad time of the marriage is very natural, moving and maternal. First, there was the domestic and Court sensation of the arrival of the bridegroom, Prince "Fritz," whom the Prince-Consort had gone to meet, and all the Court awaited. "I met him," says the Queen, "at the bottom of the staircase, very warmly; he was pale and nervous. At the top of the staircase Vicky received him, with Alice." That afternoon all the royal people witnessed a grand dramatic performance of "Taming the Horse," with Mr. Rarey as "leading man." In the evening they went to the opera. The next day, Sunday, the presents were shown--a marvelous collection of jewels, plate, lace and India shawls, and they had service and listened to a sermon. It is wonderful what these great people can get through with! Coming in from a walk they found a lot of new presents added to the great pile. The Queen writes: "Dear Vicky gave me a brooch, a very pretty one, containing her hair, and clasping me in her arms, said,' I hope to be worthy to be your child.'" From all I hear I should say that fond hope has been realized in a noble and beneficent life. The Crown Princess of Germany is a woman greatly loved and honored. On the wedding day the Queen wrote: "The second most eventful day of my life, as regards feelings; I felt as if I were being married over again myself... While dressing, dearest Vicky came in to see me, looking well and composed." The Princess Royal, like her mother, was married in the Chapel of St. James' Palace, and things went on very much as on that memorable wedding day--always spoken of by the Queen as "blessed." She now could describe more as a spectator the shouting, the bell-ringing, the cheering and trumpetings, and the brave sight of the procession. Prince Albert and King Leopold and "the two eldest boys went first. Then the three girls (Alice, Helena and Louise), in pink satin, lace and flowers." There were eight bridesmaids in "white tulle, with wreaths and bouquets of roses and white heather." That was a pretty idea, using the simple betrothal flower of the Prince and Princess-for "luck." The Queen speaks of "Mama looking so handsome in violet velvet; trimmed with ermine." Ah, the young Victoria was the only daughter of _her_ Victoria, who as a bride was to receive on her brow that grandmother's kiss--dearer and holier than any priestly benediction. I like to read that immediately after the ceremony the bride "kissed her grandmama." After the wedding breakfast at the Palace the bridal pair, Victoria and Frederick William, drove away just as eighteen years before Victoria and Albert had driven away--the same state, the same popular excitement, in kind if not in degree, and, let us trust, a like amount of love and joy. But this happy pair did not drive all the way to Windsor. The waiting train, the iron horse snorting with impatience, showed how the world had moved on since that other wedding; but the perennial Eton boys were on hand for these lovers also, wearing the same tall hats and short jackets, cheering in the same mad way, so that the Queen herself would hardly have suspected them to be the other boys' sons, or younger brothers. They "scored one" above their honored predecessors by dragging the carriage from the Windsor station to the Castle. The Court soon followed to Windsor with thirty-five of the royal guests, and there were banquets and more investings, till it would seem that the Queen's stock of jeweled garters must be running low. Then back to town for more presents and operas and plays, and addresses of congratulation, and at last came the dismal morning of separation. The day before, the Queen had written: "The last day of our dear child being with us, which is incredible, and makes me feel at times quite sick at heart." She records that that poor child exclaimed, "I think it will kill me to take leave of dear papa!" The next morning, she writes," Vicky came with a very sad face to my room. Here we embraced each other tenderly, and our tears flowed fast." Then there were leave-takings from the loving grandmama and the younger brothers and sisters ("Bertie" and Alfred going with their father to Gravesend, to see the bridal party embarked), and hardest of all, the parting of the child from the mother. To quote again: "A dreadful moment and a dreadful day! Such sickness came over me--real heart-ache,--when I thought of our dearest child being gone, and for so long... It began to snow before Vicky went, and continued to do so without intermission all day." In spite of the dreary weather, I am told that thousands of London people were assembled in the streets to catch a last glimpse of the popular Princess Royal. They could hardly recognize her pleasant, rosy, child- like face--it was so sad, so swollen with weeping. They did not then look with much favor on the handsome Prussian Prince at her side--and one loyal Briton shouted out, "If he doesn't treat you well, come back to us!" That made her laugh. I believe he did treat her well, and that she has been always happy as a wife, though for a time she is said to have fretted against the restraints of German Court etiquette, which bristled all round her. She found that the straight and narrow ways of that princely paradise were not hedged with roses, as at home, but with briars. Some she respected, and some she bravely broke through. The little bride was most warmly received in her new home, and about the anniversary of her own marriage-day, the Queen had the happiness of receiving from her new son this laconic telegram: "The whole royal family is enchanted with my wife. F. W." Afterwards, in writing to her uncle, of her daughter's success at the Prussian Court, and of her happiness, the Queen says: "But her heart often yearns for home and those she loves dearly--above all, her dear papa, for whom she has _un culte_ (a worship) which is touching and delightful to see." Her father returned this "worship" by tenderness and devotion unfailing and unwearying. His letters to the Crown Princess are perhaps the sweetest and noblest, most thoughtful and finished of his writings. They show that he respected as well as loved his correspondent, of whom, indeed, he had spoken to her husband as one having "a man's head and a child's heart." His letters to his uncle and the Baron are full of his joy, intellectual and affectional, in this his first-born daughter; but the last-born was not forgotten. In one letter he writes: "Little Beatrice is an extremely attractive, pretty, intelligent child; indeed, the most amusing baby we have had." Again--"Beatrice on her first birthday looks charming, with a new light-blue cap. Her table of birthday gifts has given her the greatest pleasure; especially a lamb." I know these are little, common domestic bits--that is just why I cull them out of grave letters, full of great affairs of State. CHAPTER XXVI. Visiting and counter-visiting--Charming domestic gossip--The Queen's first grandchild--The Prince of Wales' trip to America--Another love- affair--Death of the Duchess of Kent. In May, Prince Albert ran over to Germany to visit his old home, and his new son, and his darling daughter, whom he found well and happy. In one of his letters to the Queen from Gotha, he says: "I enclose a forget-me- not from grandmama's grave." There is in that simple sentence an exquisite indication of his affectionate and constant nature. This was a hurried visit, with many interests and excitements, and yet the grave of that infirm, deaf, old Dowager Duchess, who had, as practical people say, "outlived her usefulness," was not found "out of the way." There was little need of the dear grandmama calling softly through that tender blue flower-- "_Vergiss mein nicht, mein Engel Albert!_" He never forgot. In July, the Queen and Prince took to their yacht again, for a visit to the Emperor and Empress, at Cherbourg, and had a grand reception, and there was a great _fête_, and fireworks and bombs and rockets; but the account is not half so interesting to me as the one given by Her Majesty, of their return to Osborne; an exquisite picture that, which I feel I must reproduce almost entire: ... "At twenty minutes to five, we landed at our peaceful Osborne. ... The evening was very warm and calm. Dear Affie was on the pier, and we found all the other children, including Baby, standing at the door. Deckel (a favorite dog), and our new charming kennel-bred Dachs 'Boy,' also received us with joy." I like that bringing in of the dogs to complete the-picture. The Queen continues: "We went to see Affie's (Alfred's) table of birthday presents--entirely nautical. ... We went with the children, Alice and I driving, to the Swiss Cottage, which was all decked out with flags in honor of Affie's birthday. ... I sat (at dinner) between Albert and Affie. The two little boys (Princes Arthur and Leopold) appeared. A band played, and after dinner we danced, with the three boys and three girls, a merry country dance on the terrace." A little later, the Queen and Prince made a visit to their daughter in Germany. Her Majesty's description of the happy meeting is very sweet. "There on the platform stood our darling child, with a nosegay in her hand. She stepped in, and long and warm, was the embrace. ... So much to say and to tell and ask, yet so unaltered--looking well--quite the old Vicky still." From beautiful Babelsberg, she wrote: "Vicky came and sat with me. I felt as if she were my own again." This was not a long, but a very happy visit; the Queen and Prince had received many courteous attentions from the Prussian Court, and had found their beloved daughter proud and content. From Osborne, in a letter to his daughter, the Prince-Consort writes: "Alfred looks very nice and handsome in his new naval cadet's uniform--the round-jacket and the long- tailed coat, with the broad knife by his side." The next month the Prince went to Spithead, to see this son off on a two-years' cruise--and felt that his family had indeed begun to break up. The next exciting public matter was the news of Louis Napoleon's alliance with King Victor Emmanuel in the war against Austria. And this was the Emperor who, had given out that his empire was "peace"--that the only clang of arms henceforth to be heard therein would be a mighty beating of swords and spears into plow-shares and pruning-hooks. The next domestic excitement was caused by a telegram from Berlin, announcing the birth of a son to the Crown Prince and Princess, and that mother and child were doing well. Queen Victoria was a grandmother, and prouder, I doubt not, than when afterwards she was made Empress of India. For her mother's birthday, in May, 1859, the Crown Princess came over and made a delightful little visit. The Queen wrote of her: "Dear Vicky is a charming companion." Of the Princess Alice she had before written: "She is very good, sensible and amiable, and a real comfort to me." Mothers know how much there is in those words--"a real comfort to me." The Crown Princess found most change in baby--Beatrice--and after her return home, her father often wrote to her of this little sister: "The little aunt," he says, "makes daily progress, and is really too comical. When she tumbles, she calls out, in bewilderment, 'She don't like it! She don't like it!'--and she-came into breakfast a short time ago, with her eyes full of tears, moaning, 'Baby has been so naughty,--poor baby so naughty!' as one might complain of being ill, or of having slept badly." Later in the year the Prince writes: "Alice comes out admirably, and is a great support to her mother. Lenchen (the Princess Helena) is very distinguished, and little Arthur amiable and full of promise as ever." In November, Prince Frederick William and his Princess came over on a visit--and the fond father wrote: "Vicky has developed greatly of late-- and yet remains quite a child; of such, indeed, 'is the kingdom of heaven.'" Of the Prince he said: "He has quite delighted us." So all was right then. About this time he said of his daughter, Alice, that she had become "a handsome young woman, of graceful form and presence, and is a help and stay to us all in the house." What a rich inheritance such praise! In the Queen's diary there was, on July 24, 1860, an interesting entry: "Soon after we sat down to breakfast came a telegram from Fritz--Vicky had got a daughter, at 8:10, and both doing well! What joy! Children jumping about, every one delighted--so thankful and relieved." The Prince wrote to his daughter as only _he_ could write--wisely and thoughtfully, yet tenderly and brightly. There was in this letter a charming passage about his playfellow, Beatrice. After saying of his new grandchild, "The little girl must be a darling," he adds, "Little girls are much prettier than boys. I advise her to model herself after her Aunt Beatrice. That excellent lady has now not a moment to spare. 'I have no time,' she says, when she is asked for anything, 'I must write letters to my niece.'" Shortly after his first little niece was born, the Prince of Wales made his first acquaintance with the New World. He went over to America to visit the vast domain which was to be his, some day, and the vaster domain which might have been his, but for the blind folly of his great- grandfather, George III. and his Ministers, who, like the rash voyagers of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainment," kindled a fire on the back of a whale, thinking it "solid land," till the leviathan "put itself in motion," and flung them and their "merchandise" off into the sea. He was a fine young fellow, the Prince, and was received with loyal enthusiasm, and heartily liked in the Canadas. I believe we of the States treated him very well, also--and that he had what Americans call "a good time," dancing with pretty girls in the Eastern cities, and shooting prairie- chickens on the Western plains. I think we did not overdo the matter in fêting and following the son of the beloved Queen of England. We had other business on hand just then--a momentous Presidential election--the election of Abraham Lincoln. In our capital he was treated to a ball, a visit to the Patent-Office and the tomb of Washington, and such like gaieties. President Buchanan entertained him as handsomely as our national palace, the White House, would allow; and afterwards wrote a courtly letter to Queen Victoria, congratulating her on the charming behavior of her son and heir--"_the expectancy and rose of the fair State_." The Queen replied very graciously and even gratefully, addressing Mr. Buchanan as "my good friend." That was the most she could do, according to royal rules. The elected temporary ruler of our great American empire, even should it become greater by the annexation of Cuba and Mexico, can never expect to be addressed as "_mon frère_" by regularly born, bred, crowned and anointed sovereigns--or even by a reigning Prince or Grand Duke; can never hope to be embraced and kissed on both cheeks by even the Prince of Monaco, the King of the Sandwich Islands, or the Queen of Madagascar. We must make up our minds to that. In the early autumn of 1860, the Queen, Prince, and Princess Alice went over to Germany for another sight of their dear ones. It was the last visit that the Queen was to pay with the Prince to his beloved fatherland. They were delighted with their grandson, and I hope with their granddaughter also. Of baby Wilhelm the Queen writes: "Such a little love. ... He is a fine, fat child, with a beautiful, soft white skin, very fine shoulders and limbs, and a very dear face. ... He has Fritz's eyes and Vicky's mouth, and very fair, curling hair." Afterwards she wrote: "Dear little William came to me, as he does every morning. He is such a darling, so intelligent." I believe this darling grandchild was the "little love" who gave to the Queen her first great-grandchild. At Coburg the Prince-Consort came frightfully near being killed by the running away of his carriage-horses. The accident was a great shock to the Queen, and the escape an unspeakable joy. At Mayence Her Majesty confided a family secret to her discreet diary. During a visit from the Prince and Princess Charles of Hesse-Darmstadt it was settled that the young Prince Louis should come to England to get better acquainted with the Princess Alice, whom he already greatly admired. So everything was arranged and the way smoothed for these lovers, and in this case the union proved as happy as though brought about in the usual hap-hazard way of marriages in common life. The next November the Prince wrote from Windsor: "The Prince Louis of Hesse is here on a visit. The young people seem to like each other. He is very simple, natural, frank and thoroughly manly." The next day the Queen jotted down in her diary the simple story of the betrothal in a way to reveal how fresh in her own heart was the romance of her youth: "After dinner, while talking to the gentlemen, I perceived Alice and Louis talking before the fireplace more earnestly than usual, and when I passed to go to the other room both came up to me, and Alice in much agitation said he had proposed to her, and he begged for my blessing. I could only squeeze his hand and say 'Certainly,' and that we would see him in my room later. Got through the evening, working as well as we could. Alice came to our room. ... Albert sent for Louis to his room, then called Alice and me in. ... Louis has a warm, noble heart. We embraced our dear Alice and praised her much to him. He pressed and kissed my hand and I embraced him." The Queen was right, as she generally was in her estimate of character. This son-in-law, of whom she has always been especially fond, is a Prince of amiable and noble disposition, good ability and remarkable cultivation; not exactly a second Prince Albert-- _he_ was a century plant. At this Christmas time the Queen's two eldest sons were at home and full of strange stories of strange lands. Soon after, the Prince of Wales went to Cambridge and Prince Alfred joined his ship. Before that cruise was over a deeper, darker sea rolled between the sailor lad and his father. On February 9, 1861, Prince Albert wrote Baron Stockmar: "To-morrow our marriage will be twenty-one years old. How many storms have swept over it, and still it continues green and fresh." The anniversary occurring on Sunday was very quietly observed, chiefly by the performance in the evening of some fine sacred music, the appropriateness of which was scarcely realized at the time. In a very sweet letter to the Duchess of Kent, such a letter as few married men write to their mothers-in-law, the Prince says: ... "To-day our marriage comes of age, according to law. We have faithfully kept our pledge for better and for worse,' and have only to thank God that He has vouchsafed so much happiness to us. May He have us in His keeping for the days to come! You have, I trust, found good and loving children in us, and we have experienced nothing but love and kindness from you." This dear "Mama-aunt" had been in delicate health for some time, and once or twice seriously ill, but she seemed better, her physicians were encouraging and all were hopeful till the 12th of March, when the Queen and Prince were suddenly summoned from London to Frogmore by the news of a very alarming relapse. They went at once with all speed, yet the Queen says "the way seemed so long." When they readied the house, the Queen writes: "Albert went up first, and when he returned with tears in his eyes, I saw what awaited me. ... With a trembling heart I went up the staircase and entered the bedroom, and here on a sofa, supported by cushions, sat leaning back my beloved Mama, breathing rather heavily, but in her silk dressing-gown, with her cap on, looking quite herself. ... I knelt before her, kissed her dear hand and placed it next my cheek; but though she opened her eyes she did not, I think, know me. She brushed my hand off, and the dreadful reality was before me that for the first time, she did not know the child she had ever received with such tender smiles." The further description given by the Queen of this first great sorrow of her life, is exceedingly pathetic and vivid. It is the very poetry of grief. I cannot reproduce it entire, nor give that later story of incalculable loss as related by her in that diary, through which her very heart beats. It is all too unutterably sad. There are passages in this account most exquisitely natural and touching. When all was over, the poor daughter tried to comfort herself with thoughts of the blessed rest of the good mother, of the gentle spirit released from the pain-racked body, but the heart would cry out: "But I--I, wretched child, who had lost the mother I so tenderly loved, from whom for these forty-one years I had never been parted, except for a few weeks, what was my case? My childhood, everything seemed to crowd upon me at once... What I had dreaded and fought--off the idea of, for years, had come, and must be borne... Oh, if I could nave been with her these last weeks! How I grudge every hour I did not spend with her! ... What a blessing we went on Tuesday. The remembrance of her parting blessing, of her dear, sweet smile, will ever remain engraven on my memory." During all this time, the Queen received the most tender sympathy and care from her children, and Prince Albert, was--_Prince Albert_;-- weeping with her, yet striving to comfort her, full of loving kindness and consideration. The Queen's grief was perhaps excessive, as her love had been beyond measure, but he was not impatient with it, though he writes from Osborne, some weeks after the funeral of the Duchess: "She (the Queen) is greatly upset, and feels her childhood rush back upon her memory with the most vivid force. Her grief is extreme... For the last two years her constant care and occupation have been to keep watch over her mother's comfort, and the influence of this upon her own character has been most salutary. In body she is well, though terribly nervous, and the children are a great disturbance to her. She remains almost entirely alone." How true to nature! When the first love of a life is suddenly uprooted, all the later growths, however strong, seem to have been torn up with it. When the mother goes, only the child seems to remain. Victoria, tender mother as she herself was, and adoring wife, was now the little girl of Kensington and Claremont, whose little bed was at the side of her mother's, and who had waked to find that mother's bed empty, and forever empty! And yet she said in her first sense of the loss: "I seemed to have lived through a life; to have become old." We may say that with the coming of that first sorrow went out the youth of the Queen; for it seems that while her mother lives, a woman is always young, that there is something of girlhood, of childhood even, lingering in her life while she can lay her tired head on her mother's knee, or hide her tearful face against her mother's breast, that most sweet and restful refuge from the trials and weariness of life. Her Majesty's sister, Feodore, strove to comfort her; the dear daughter Victoria came to her almost immediately; her people's tears and prayers were for her, and amid the quiet and seclusion of Osborne she slowly regained her cheerfulness; but the old gladness and content never came back. The children, too, with all the natural gayety of their years, found that something of sweetness and comfort had dropped out of life-- something of the charm and dearness of home was gone with "grandmama," from the Palace, the Castle, the seaside mansion, as well as from pleasant Frogmore, where they were always so welcome. Not till then, perhaps, had they known all she was to them--what a blessed element in their lives was her love, so tender and indulgent. Age is necessary to the family completeness. We do not even in our humbler condition, always realize, this--do not see how the quiet waning life in the old arm-chair gives dignity and serenity to the home, till the end comes--till the silver-haired presence is withdrawn. PART IV. WIDOWHOOD. CHAPTER XXVII. Failing health of Prince Albert--His last visit to Balmoral--His influence upon the policy of England in the _Trent_ difficulty with the United States--Strange revolution in English sentiment in respect to American slavery--The setting of the sun. All this time while the Queen was absorbed by anxious care, or passionate grief for her mother, the health of the Prince-Consort was slowly but surely failing. The keen blade of his active mind was wearing out its sheath. His vital forces must have begun to give out long before actual illness, or he would not so easily have resigned himself to the thought of the long rest,--still young as he was, with so much to enjoy in life, and so much to do. It is said that he had premonitions of early death, and tried to prepare the Queen for his going first--but the realization of a loss so immense could not find lodgment in her mind. Yet though often feeling weak and languid, he did not relax his labors--spurring up his flagging powers. He never lost his interest in public affairs, or in his children's affairs of the heart. He was happy in contemplating the happiness of his daughter Alice, and followed with his heart the journey of his son, Albert Edward, in his visit to the country of the fierce old Vikings, to woo the daughter of a King of another sort--a Princess so fair and fresh that she could --"_with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose_." That summer his daughter Victoria, with her husband (now Crown Prince) and their children, came again, for a long visit, and there were many other guests, and much was done to cheer the Queen; but her first birthday in orphanage was hopelessly sad, and when that of the Prince came round, his last--though she wrote to her uncle, "This is the dearest of days, and one which fills my heart with love and gratitude," she murmured, because her "beloved mama" was not there to wish him joy. Ah, what an acting, unreasoning thing is the human heart! Yet the Queen seems to have had a brief return of happiness--to have been upborne on a sudden tide of youthful joyance, during their autumn stay at Balmoral. She wrote: "Being out a good deal here and seeing new and fine scenery does me good." Of their last great Highland excursion, she said: "Have enjoyed nothing so much, or felt so much cheered by anything since my great sorrow." Because of this intense love of nature--not the holiday, dressed-up nature, of English parks, streams and lakes--but as she appears in all her wildness, ruggedness, raggedness and simple grandeur, in the glorious land of Scott and Burns, the Queen's journal, though a little clouded at the last, by that "great sorrow," is very pleasant, breezy reading. It gives one a breath of heather, and pine and peat-smoke. After coming from Balmoral, and its bracing outdoor avocations and amusements, the Prince-Consort's health seemed to decline again. He suffered from rheumatic pains and sleeplessness, and he began to feel the chill shadows of the valley he was nearing, creeping around him. The last work of his beneficent life was one of peculiar interest to Americans. It was the amicable arrangement, in conjunction with the Queen, of the ugly affair of the _Trent_. That was a trying time for Americans in England, unless they were of the South, southerly. We of the North, in the beginning of our war for the Union, found to our sad surprise that the sympathies of perhaps the majority of the English were on the side of our opponents. These very people had been ever before, so decidedly and ardently anti-slavery in their sentiments--had counseled such stern and valiant measures for the removal of our "national disgrace," that their new attitude amazed us. We could not understand what sort of a moral whirlwind it was that had caught them up, turned them round, borne them off and set them down on the other side of Mason and Dixon's Line. It was strange, but with the exception of a few such clear-headed, steadfast "friends of humanity" as Cobden and Bright, and such heroes as those glorious operatives of Lancashire, all seemed changed. Even the sentiments of prominent. Exeter Hall, anti-slavery philanthropists had suffered a secession change, "into something new and strange," especially after the battle of Bull Run--that fortunate calamity for us, as it proved. Most people here were captivated by the splendid qualities of the Confederates--their gallantry, their enthusiasm, their bravery. Before these practical revolutionists, those "moral suasion" agitators, the Northern Abolitionists, made no great show. Garrison with his logic, Burritt with his languages, Douglas with his magnificent eloquence, were as naught to Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee, and that soldier of the fine old Cromwellian type--Stonewall Jackson. The "institution" was pronounced in Parliament "not so bad a thing, after all," and the pathetic "Am-I-not-a-Man-and-a-Brother" of Clarkson, became the Sambo of Christie and the "Quashee" of Carlyle. In the midst of this ill-feeling on one side, and sore-feeling on the other, the rash act of a U. S. Naval Officer, in boarding the British steamer _Trent_ and seizing the Confederate Envoys, Mason and Slidell, gave England cause, had our Government endorsed that act, for open hostility. So ready, so eager did the English Government seem for a war with America, that it did not wait for an apology, before making extensive military preparations. With that brave but cool-headed Captain on our Ship of State, Abraham Lincoln, and that prudent helmsman, William H. Seward, we could not easily have been driven into a war with England at this time; but we might have been humiliated even more than we were, by the peremptory demands of Lord Palmerston--might have been obliged to eat a piece of "humble pie," so big, hot, and heavy, that it would have remained undigested to this day-- had it not been for the prudence, the courtesy, good sense, and admirable tact of the Queen and Prince-Consort in modifying and softening the tone of that important State paper, the demand for an official apology, and the liberation of the Confederate Envoys. It is for this that Americans of the North, and I believe of the South, love Queen Victoria, and not alone for her sake, bless the memory of "Albert the Good." I know of nothing in literature so exquisite in its pathos and childlike simplicity, as the Queen's own account, in the diary kept faithfully at the time, of the last illness of the Prince-Consort. In it we see the very beatings of her heart, in its hope and fear, love and agony--can mark all the stages of the sacred passion of her sorrow. It is a wonderful psychological study. That illness in its serious phases, lasted about two weeks. It was a low, slow fever, which at first was not recognized as fever at all, but only a heavy cold. I have been told that the Prince himself had from the first, an impression that he should not recover, and that he talked of his probable death very calmly with his noble daughter Alice, saying: "Your mother cannot bear to hear me speak of it yet." The Queen, though very restless and distressed, and at times shaken with wild alarms, could not face the coming calamity; could not admit the possibility that the sands of that precious life--golden sands, were running out. The alternations of hope and fear, must have been terrible. One morning the Queen records that on going to the Prince she found him looking very wretched: "He did not smile, or take much notice of me. His manner all along was so unlike himself, and he had sometimes, such a strange, wild look." In the evening she writes: "I found my Albert most dear and affectionate and quite himself, when I went in with little Beatrice, whom he kissed. He laughed at some of her new French verses which I made her repeat, then he. held her little hand in his for some time, and she stood looking, at him." For several days he wished to be read to, and the Queen and faithful Alice read his favorite authors; he also asked for music, and Alice played for him some fine German airs. He even wished often to look at a favorite picture, one of Raphael's Madonnas, saying, "It helps me through the day." At length the fever took on a typhoid form, congestion of the lungs set in, and there was no longer reason for hope,--though they did hope, till almost the last hour. Now, it seems that from the first, even when he did not apparently suffer, except from mortal weariness, there were little fatal indications. One morning he told the Queen that as he lay awake he heard the little birds outside, and "thought of those he used to hear at the Rosenau, in his childhood"; and on the last morning the Queen writes that he "began arranging his hair just as he used to do when well and he was dressing." It seemed to the poor Queen as though he were "preparing for another and a greater journey" than they had ever taken together. His tenderness towards her through all this sad fortnight, was very touching. It was not calculated to loosen the detaining, clinging clasp of her arms; but it must be very sweet for her to remember. After the weariness of watching, the prostration of fever, he welcomed always the good-morning caress of his "dear little wife." Through the gathering mists of unconsciousness, through the phantom-shades of delirium, his love for her struggled forth, in a tender word, a wistful look, a languid smile, a feeble stroking of the cheek. It was "wondrous pitiful," but it was very beautiful. Even at the last, when he knew no one else, he knew her; and when she bent over him and whispered, "Tis your own little wife," he bowed his head and kissed her. After she knew that all hope must be given up, the Queen still was able to sit calmly by his bedside, and not trouble with the sound of weeping the peace of that loving, passing soul. Occasionally she felt that she must leave the room and weep, or her suppressed grief would kill her. But she counted the moments and stayed her soul with prayer, to go back to her post. It was on the night of December 14, 1861, that the beloved Prince-Consort passed away,--quietly and apparently painlessly, from the station he had ennobled, from the home he had blessed. Unconsciously he drifted out on the unknown, mysterious sea, nor knew that loving feet followed him to the strand, and that after him were stretched yearning arms. That death-bed scene passed in a solemn hush, more mournful than any outcry of passionate grief could be. On one side, knelt the Queen, holding her husband's hand, trying to warm it with kisses and tears; on the other, knelt the Princess Alice. At the foot of the bed, the Prince of Wales and the Princess Helena were kneeling together. It is probable that all the younger children were sleeping in quiet unconsciousness of the presence of the dread angel in the Castle. The Dean of Windsor, Prince Ernest Leiningen,--secretaries, physicians and attached attendants were grouped around. All was silent, save that low, labored breathing, growing softer and softer, and more infrequent, and then--it ceased forever. I have been told by a lady who had had good opportunities of knowing about the sad circumstances of that death, that the Queen retained perfect possession of herself to the last, and that after the lids had been pressed down over the dear eyes whose light had passed on, she rose calmly, and courteously thanked the physicians in attendance, saying that she knew that everything which human skill and devotion could accomplish, had been done for her husband, whom God had taken. Then she walked out of the death-chamber, erect,--still the Queen, wearing "sorrow's crown of sorrow," and went to her chamber, and shut herself in--her soul alone with God, her heart alone for evermore. Ah, we may not doubt that this royal being, in whose veins beats the blood of a long, long race of Kings, was brought low enough then,--to her knees, to her face, "_For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop_." So absorbing and unwavering had been the love of the Queen for her husband, who to her, was "nobler than the noblest"; such a proud homage of the soul had there been--such a dear habit of the heart, in one with whom habit counted for much, that her people were filled with the most intense anxiety on her behalf. They feared that this cruel stroke which lopped off the best part of her life, would kill her, or plunge her into a depth of melancholy, sadder than death. For some time she was not able to sleep. The thought of that chamber, so lately the scene of all the anxious activity of the sickroom, wherein softly moved troubled physicians and nurses, tearful attendants and awe-struck children, but where now there were shadowed lights, and solemn silence, and where lay that beautiful, marble-like shape, so familiar, yet so strange--that _something_ which was not _he_, yet was inexpressibly dear, kept her awake, face to face with her sorrow,--and when at last, the bulletin from Windsor announced, "The Queen has had some hours' sleep," her people all in mourning as they were, felt like ringing joy-bells. The friend from whom I have before quoted, Mrs. Crosland, a most loyal lady, wrote on this text a very sweet poem, from which I am tempted to give a few verses: "Sleep, far the night is round thee spread, Thou daughter of a line of kings; Sleep, widowed Queen, white angels' wings Make canopy above thy head! "Sleep, while a million prayers rise up To Him who knew all earthly sorrow, That day by day, each soft to-morrow May melt the bitter from thy cup. . . . . . . . . "Long life ask for thee, dear Queen, And moonlight peace, since joy is set. And Time's soft touch on dark regret. And memories calm of what has been! "Long life for thee--for our best sake. To be our stay 'mid hopes and fears. Through many far-off future years, Till thou by Albert's side shall wake!" It seems Her Majesty could not bear the thought of her beloved Albert, whose nature was so bright and joyous, and beauty-loving, resting amid the darkness and heavy silence and "cold obstruction" of the royal vault; so, as early as the 18th of December, she drove with the Princess Alice to Frogmore, where they were-received by the Prince of Wales, Prince Louis of Hesse, and several officers of the Royal Household. Then, leaning on the arm of her noble daughter, the Queen walked about the pleasant gardens, till she fixed upon the spot, where now stands the magnificent mausoleum, which, splendid and beautiful as art can make it, is like a costly casket, for the dust, infinitely more precious to her than all the jewels of her crown. It was sweet for her to feel that thus under the shadow of her mother's dear home, the two most sacred loves and sorrows of her life would be forever associated. There was great and sincere mourning in England among all classes, not alone for the Queen's sake, but for their own, for the Prince-Consort had finally endeared himself to this too long jealous and distrustful people. They had named him "alien," at first; they called him "angel," at last. He was not _that_, but a most rare man, of a nature so sweet and wholesome, of a character so well-balanced and symmetrical, of a life so pure and blameless, that the English cannot reasonably hope to "look upon his like again," not even among his own sons. Some of his contemporaries, while admitting his grace and elegance, were blind to his strength of character, forgetting that a shining column of the Parthenon may be as strong as one of the dark rough-hewn columns of Pæstum. Morally, I believe, the Prince-Consort stands alone in English royal history. What other youth of twenty-one, graceful, beautiful and accomplished, has ever forborne what he forbore?--Ever fought such a good fight against temptations manifold? He was the Sir Galahad of Princes. Being human, he must have been tempted,--if not to a life of sybaritic pleasure, to one of ease, through his delicate organization,--and, through his refined tastes, to one of purely artistic and esthetic culture, which for him, where he was, would have been but splendid selfishness. Though my estimate of the Prince-Consort is based on his own good words and works, to which I have paid tribute of sincerest praise, it is strengthened and justified by a knowledge of the loving reverence in which his name is held to this day, by the English people of the better class, who honor the Queen for her love stronger than death, and love her the better for it; for I hold, ----"the soul must cast All weakness from it, all vain strife, And tread God's ways through this sad life, To be thus grandly mourned at last." CHAPTER XXVIII. The Twilight Life after--Marriage of the Princess Alice--Incidents of the Queen's life at Balmoral--John Brown--A letter from the Queen to the Duchess of Sutherland. "There is no one near me to call me 'Victoria' now!" is said to have been the desolate cry of the Queen, when, on waking from that first sleep, the cruel morning light, smote upon her with a full consciousness of her bereavement, and a new sense of her royal isolation. She was on a height where the storm beat fiercest and there was the least shelter. Her sacred grief was the business of the world;--she could not long shut herself up with it, and fold her hands in "blameless idleness"; but as the widowed mother and housekeeper in humble life struggles up from the great stroke, and staggers on, resolutely driving back the tears which "hinder needle and thread," and choking down her sobs, to go wearily about her household tasks,--so Victoria, after a little time, rose trembling to her feet, and went through with such imperative State duties as could be delegated to no one. To a near friend, who expressed joy to find her more calm than at the time of her mother's death, she said simply, "I have had God's teaching, and learned to bear all He lays upon me." There is a record by Lord Beaconsfield of her faithful discharge of such duties a few years later; but what was true of her then, was almost as true an account of the routine of her official life, during a large part of the first years of her widowhood. In a public speech, Beaconsfield said: "There is not a dispatch received from abroad, or sent from this country abroad, which is not submitted to the Queen. The whole of the internal administration of this country greatly depends upon the sign- manual of our Sovereign, and it may be said that her signature has never been placed to any public document of which she did not know the purpose and of which she did not approve. Those cabinet councils of which you all hear, and which are necessarily the scene of anxious and important deliberation, are reported, on their termination, by the Minister to the Sovereign, and they often call from her critical remarks requiring considerable attention; and I will venture to say that no person likely to administer the affairs of this country would be likely to treat the suggestions of Her Majesty with indifference, for at this moment there is probably no person living who has such complete control over the political condition of England as the Sovereign herself." I have come upon few incidents of that first sad year. The Princess Alice was married very quietly at Osborne, and went away to her German home, where she lived for seventeen happy years, a noble and beneficent life. In character she was very like her father--to whose soul hers was so knit, that, when in her last illness, the anniversary of his death came round, she seemed to hear his call, and went to him at once in child- like obedience. She took that fatal illness--the diphtheria--from a dear child in a kiss, "the kiss of death," as Lord Beaconsfield called it. The Rev. Norman McLeod has left a record of the widowed Queen's first visit to Balmoral. It seems he thought she was too unreconciled to her loss, and felt it his duty to preach what he believed to be "truth in God's sight, and that which I believe she needed," he said, "though I felt it would be very trying for her to receive it." She did receive it very sweetly, and wrote him "a kind, tender letter of thanks for it," She afterwards summoned him to the castle, and to her own room. He writes: "She was alone. She met me with an unutterably sad expression, which filled my eyes with tears, and at once began to speak about the Prince. ... She spoke of his excellencies--his love, his cheerfulness; how he was everything to her. She said she never shut her eyes to trials, but liked to look them in the face; how she would never shrink from duty, but that all was at present done mechanically; that her highest ideas of purity and love were obtained from him, and that God could not be displeased with her love." No, we cannot love enough to displease the God of love, who is not, whatever men may preach, a "jealous God," in that small way; but perhaps we may grieve too much to please the Master of Life, of which, in His eyes, what we call death, is the immortal blossom and crowning. It seems to me that in her loving tribute to the Prince, the Queen was a little unjust to her mother, to whose precepts and example she owed very high "ideas of purity" and that strong sense of duty, and that fortitude, essentially a womanly, not a manly, virtue, which preserved her through the temptations of a glad and splendid youth--through the trials and sorrows of maturer years, and which, when that time of bitterest trial came, braced up her shattered forces, and held together her broken heart. Balmoral--the dear mountain-home, so entirely her husband's creation--now became more than ever dear to the Queen, and has never lost its charm for her. Her life there has been, from the first, almost pastoral in its simplicity. The Highlanders about them, a primitive, but very proud people, regarded their Sovereign and her husband with no servile awe. With them, even respect begins, like charity, at home; what there is left, they give loyally to their superiors in rank. To the Queen and her family they have given more,--love and free-hearted devotion. Her Majesty has always gone about among the poorer tenants of the estate, like any laird's wife, in an unpretending, neighborly way; and they, thanks to their good Scotch sense and Highland pride, never take advantage of the uncondescending condescension, to offend her by too great familiarity, or shock her by servility. Taking up her "Journal," I have chanced upon an account given by Her Majesty of a round of visits to the cottages of certain "poor old women," and here is an entry or two: "Before we went into any, we met a woman who was very poor, and eighty- eight years old. I gave her a warm petticoat, and the tears rolled down her old cheeks, and she shook my hands and prayed God to bless me: it was very touching. "I went into a small cabin of old Kitty Kear's, who is eighty-six years old, quite-erect, and who welcomed us with a great air of dignity. She sat down and spun. I gave her, also, a warm petticoat. She said, 'May the Lord ever attend ye and yours, here and hereafter; and may the Lord be a guide to ye, and keep ye fra all harm.'" Now, some readers, whose ideas of royal charities are derived from the kings and queens of melodrama, who fling about golden largess, or "chuck" plethoric purses at their poor subjects, may be amused at these entries in a great Queen's journal, but "let them laugh who win"--the flannel petticoats. During a later visit to the widowed Queen at Balmoral, Dr. McLeod writes: "After dinner, the Queen invited me to her room, where I found the Princess Helena and the Marchioness of Ely. The Queen sat down to spin on a fine Scotch wheel, while I read Burns to her--'_Tam O'Shanter_,' and '_A Man's a Man for a' That_'--her favorites." In the Queen's book I find frequent pleasant mention of the young Highlander, John Brown--a favorite personal attendant, first of Prince Albert, and afterwards of Her Majesty. She had the misfortune to lose this "good and faithful servant," in the early part of this year. In a foot-note in her "Journal," she paid a grateful tribute to his "attention, care and faithfulness"--to his rare devotion to her, especially during a period of physical weakness and nervous prostration, when such service as his was invaluable. She also says of him, "He has all the independence and elevation of feeling peculiar to the Highland race, and is singularly straightforward, simple- minded, kind-hearted and disinterested." If there is something touching in the nearly life-long service and devotion of the Highlander, almost always seen so close behind his Liege Lady, when she appeared in public, that he was named "the Queen's shadow"--there is something admirable in her grateful appreciation of that service, in her frank acknowledgment of all she has owed of comfort, in a constant sense of security, to this man's steadfast faithfulness; and now that the "shadow" has gone before, I hold it is only fitting and loyal in her to acknowledge for him, as she does, "friendship," and even "affection"--not only to lay flowers on his grave, but to pay more enduring tribute to his honest memory. He was a Highland gillie, of simple Highland ways and words but "_A man's a man for a' that._" If Byron could nurse his dying dog, _Boatswain_, and erect a monument to his memory, and not lose, but gain, our respect by so doing, we surely might let pass, unquestioned, the Queen's grief for a faithful human creature-- for thirty-four years devoted to her--ever at her call--looking up to her, yet watching over her; a friend, whose humble good sense and canny bits of counsel must often, in the simpler, yet not simple, affairs of her complex life, be sorely missed. That is how it strikes an American, of democratic tendencies. About a year after the death of Prince Albert, the Duchess of Sutherland presented to the Queen a richly-bound Bible, the offering of loyal "English widows." In her letter of acknowledgment, Her Majesty gives very strong and clear expression to her faith, not only in the happy continued existence of her beloved husband, but in his "unseen presence" with her--a faith which she has often expressed. The letter runs thus: "MY DEAREST DUCHESS:--I am deeply touched by the gift of a Bible 'from many widows,' and by the very kind and affectionate address which accompanied it. ... Pray express to all these kind sister-widows the deep and heartfelt gratitude of their widowed Queen, who can never feel grateful enough for the universal sympathy she has received, and continues to receive, from her loyal and devoted subjects. But what she values far more is their appreciation of her adored and perfect husband. To her, the only sort of consolation she experiences is in the constant sense of his unseen presence and the blessed thought of the Eternal Union hereafter, which will make the bitter anguish of the present appear as naught. That our Heavenly Father may impart to 'many widows' those sources of consolation and support, is their broken-hearted Queen's earnest prayer ... Believe me ever yours most affectionately, VICTORIA." Dean Stanley is reported as telling of a touching little circumstance which he received from the Princess Hohenlohe (Feodore), from which it seems that Her Majesty was for a long time in the habit of going every morning to look at the cows on Prince Albert's model farm, because "_he_ had been used to do so," feeling, perhaps, that the gentle creatures might miss him--that somewhere in their big dull brains, they might wonder where their friend could be, and why he did not come. The Princess also said that her poor sister found her only comfort in the belief that her husband's spirit was close beside her--for he had promised her that it should be so. CHAPTER XXIX. Arrival in England of the Princess Alexandra to wed the Prince of Wales-- Garibaldi's visit to London--The Queen's first public appearance after her widowhood--Marriage of the Princess Louise--Illness of the Prince of Wales--Disaffection in Ireland--The Queen's sympathy during the illness of President Garfield. On the 7th of March, 1863, all London and nearly all England went mad over the coming of the Princess Alexandra, from Denmark, to wed the Prince of Wales. Lord Ronald Gower, a son of the beautiful Duchess of Sutherland, gives in his "Reminiscences" a fine description of her arrival in London, and of the wedding at Windsor three days after. He says: "Probably since the day in Paris when Marie Antoinette was acclaimed in the gardens of the Tuileries, no Princess ever had so enthusiastic a reception, or so quickly won the hearts of thousands by the mere charm of her presence." This writer gives a very vivid description of the crowd which waited patiently for hours, of a cold, wretched day, for the sight of that sweet face whose sweetness has never yet cloyed upon them. At last, there came a small company of Life Guards, escorting an open carriage-and-four, containing the young Danish Princess and His Royal Highness Albert Edward, looking very happy and very conscious. The smiling, blushing, appealing face of the Princess warmed as well as won all hearts. There were few flowers at that season to scatter on her way, except flowers of poetry, of which there was no jack. Tennyson's pretty ode has not been forgotten, but all as noble and sweet was the greeting of her from whom I have before quoted; Mrs. Crosland. The most touching, though not the strongest verse in that poem, is this: "She comes another child to be To that Crowned Widow of the land, Whose sceptre weighs more heavily Since One has ceased to hold her hand." The Queen did not feel herself equal to taking any part in the marriage ceremony, but looked down upon the scene of grandeur and gayety from the Royal Gallery of St George's Chapel. The Duchess of Sutherland attended her then for the last time. She had been with her at her coronation and marriage; to-day they were both widows, and must have been at the moment living intensely and sorrowfully in the past. With the exception of the Crown Princess of Germany and the Duke of Edinburgh, all the Queen's children, down to little Beatrice, were present. The bride, it is stated, "looked lovely; she did not raise her eyes once in going into, and but little in going out of, the Chapel on her husband's arm." This first daughter-in-law soon made a place for herself in the Queen's heart, by her grace and amiability. I have heard a pretty little story of an attempt of hers to lighten somewhat Her Majesty's heavy cloud of mourning. Millinery being one of her accomplishments, she prevailed upon the Queen to let her remodel her bonnet, which she did, principally by removing a small basketful of sombre weeds. The Queen saw through her little _ruse_ and shook her head mournfully,--but wore the bonnet. The next year London went still more mad over Garibaldi. His enthusiastic admirers almost mobbed Stafford House, at which he was entertained by the young Duke of Sutherland Lord Ronald Gower describes that memorable visit and the popular excitement very vividly. The Italian hero entered that beautiful palace, where a grand company of the nobility were waiting to receive him, attired in a rough gray overcoat and trousers, a large pork-pie hat, a loose black neck-tie, and a red flannel shirt. This he never changed--I mean his style of dress, not the shirt--but Garibaldi would have been quite un-Garibaldi-ed in an English evening suit. Lord Ronald Gower writes that his noble, liberty- loving mother was very devoted to their guest, but does not add that by so doing she shocked the sensibilities of footmen and housemaids. One of the latter once told to another guest, a moving story of the strange habits of "Italian brigand": "Why, marm," she said, "he was such a common-looking person, and he would get up so awful early and go hobbling about in the garden. One morning at six o'clock, I looked out of my window, and there he was walking up and down, and the Duchess with him-- _my_ Duchess, walking and talking with the likes of him!" The first public appearance of the widowed Queen was at the opening of Parliament, in 1866. I do not know whether the splendid chair of State she had provided for Prince Albert, in the happy old time, had been left in its place, to smite her eyes with its gilding and her heart with its emptiness; I do not know whether its presence or its absence would have grieved her most; but every sorrowing widow knows what it is to look on her husband's vacant chair. It does not matter whether it is made of rude, unpainted wood and woven rushes, or is a golden and velvet- cushioned chair of State,--it was _his_ seat, and he is gone! Queen Victoria must have felt that day, in her lonely grandeur, like crying out with Constance, "_Here I and Sorrow sit. _" Lady Bloomfield gives a very touching account of her first visit to the widowed mistress, whom, nearly twenty years before, she had so gladly and proudly served--for true service is in the spirit, though the act may be limited to taking a part in a duet, or handing the daily bouquet. She wrote: "The Queen is dreadfully changed--most sad, but with the gentlest, most benevolent smile. Even when the tears rolled down her cheeks, she tried to smile." I think it was about this time that the Queen presented to our George Peabody her portrait, expressly painted for him, in recognition of his more than princely munificence in the gift of model lodging-houses to the London poor. It was a small portrait--enameled, I believe. I do not think it was an idealized picture, though the pencil was evidently guided by a delicate and reverential loyalty, "doing its spiriting gently," in marking the tracings of time and sorrow. In a description which I wrote at the tune of its exhibition in Philadelphia, I said: "With the exception of a touching expression of habitual sadness, this face is very like the one I looked down upon from the gallery of the House of Lords fifteen years ago. There is the same roundness of outline, only 'a little more so'--almost the same freshness of tints in the fair complexion. The soft brown hair is unchanged in color, if somewhat thinner; and the clear blue eyes have the same steady outlook. The whole figure is marked by a sort of regal rigidity. The face, if not positively unhappy in expression, is quite empty of happiness. There is about it an atmosphere of lonely state and absolute widowhood. The Mary Stuart cap is very becoming to Her Majesty, but the black dress mars the picturesque effect of the portrait. The neck and arms have all the roundness of youth, and are exquisitely painted. I remember hearing the late Mr. Gibson, who made several statues of the Queen, say that loyalty itself need not to flatter her arms or bust; in sculpture or painting, as they were really remarkably beautiful." In 1868 the Queen had the misfortune to lose her "dearest Duchess"--that grandest daughter of the grand house of Howard, _the_ Duchess of Sutherland. She floated all unconsciously out on the waves that wash against the restful palm-crowned shore, her last words being, "I think I shall sleep now--I am so tired." The Princess Louise was married with really royal pomp and a brave attempt at the old gayety, in St. George's Chapel, Windsor, in March, 1871, to the Marquis of Lome. The bride, who, according to Lord Ronald Gower, was. "very pale, but handsome as she always is," was accompanied by the Prince of Wales; her uncle, the Grand Duke of Coburg; and, to the great joy of all the assembly, by her mother, the Queen. The wedded pair went to Claremont for their honeymoon. As they drove away, "rice and white satin slippers were sent after them, and John Brown threw a new broom, Highland fashion." The people were much comforted at this appearance of the Queen once more in the great gay world. They had begun to think that her social seclusion would never end. When she went down into the "valley of the shadow of death" with her beloved, though she struggled bravely up alone, she brought the shadow with her; it enveloped her and wrapped her away from her subjects--even the most loving and sympathetic. Now they took heart, believing that royalty was finally coming out from under its eclipse of mourning, that the Court would be re-established in Buckingham Palace, and things generally, go on as in the good old days. They never did, however, and never will, under her reign. It is too much to ask of her, it seems. Whether it is true, as I hear, that the air of London is hurtful to her, giving her severe headaches, or that the scenes of her childhood and early queenhood, and of her marriage, are too much for her, and heart- ache is the matter, I know not; but it is undeniable that the Queen prefers any one of her other homes to Buckingham Palace. She only comes to it when absolute compelled by the duties of State. It is hard for London tradesmen and pleasure-seekers, who think Her Majesty's mourning immoderate, and doubt whether their wives would fret so long for them; but when, in the first year of her, reign, the pretty, wilful Victoria said to Lord Melbourne: "What is the use of being a Queen if one cannot do as one likes!" her people laughed and applauded. Surely, with years and trouble, and much faithful care and labor, and has not lost the right to have a mind of her own, or the will to maintain it. Of late years I have seen Her Majesty some half dozen times; once on her way to prorogue Parliament, seated in the grand State coach, drawn by the superb, cream-colored State horses, in all imaginable splendor of trappings--escorted by the dashing Life Guards, and all the royal carriages, each with its resplendent coachman and footmen, most gorgeous of human creatures, and inside, very nice and respectable-looking people, with no particular air of pride or elation. The Queen wore a cloak of ermine, a tiara of diamonds, and a long, cloud-like veil of tulle, floating back from her face, which that day had a very pleasant, genial expression. She is changed,--of course she is; but she has even more of the old calm dignity, and when she smiles, the effect is magical; her youth flashes over her face, and quite the old look--the look _he_ knew her by, comes back for a little while. At other times I have had glimpses of her as her carriage dashed through the gateway to Marlborough House, on a garden-party day, or through the Park, as she was fleeing with all speed from the city, after a Drawing- room. Sometimes, she has bowed right and left, and smiled, as though pleased by the cheers of the people; but at other times she has scarcely inclined her head, and worn a look of unsmiling, utter weariness--proving that a woman may have much worldly goods, many jewels, and brave velvet gowns, and heaps of India shawls, and half a dozen grand mansions, with a throne in every one, and yet at times feel that this brief life of ours is "all vanity and vexation of spirit." The Queen, though she had not kept up her intimate relations with the Emperor and Empress, was shocked at the utter ruin to them and their son, which resulted from the French and Prussian war, and she was not wanting in tender sympathy, when the poor frightened refugee, Eugenie, hid a tearful face against her sisterly breast, and sobbed out, "I have been too favorable to war." To the Emperor she granted an asylum and a grave. I know not whether France will ever demand his dust, to give it sepulture under the dome of the Invalides; but he has already on the banks of the Seine the grandest of monuments--_Paris_. His memory stands fair and firm in stately buildings and massive bridges, and is renewed every year in the plane tree of noble Boulevards, those green _longas vias_, grander than the military highways of the Caesars. In 1867 the Prince of Wales fell grievously ill, with the same fearful malady that had deprived him of his father. Intense was the anxiety not only of the Royal Family, but of all the English people the world over. Soon the sympathy of other nations was aroused, and prayers began to ascend to Heaven for the preservation of that precious life, not only from all Christian peoples, but from Hebrews, Mohammedans and Buddhists; in heathen lands the missionaries prayed, and in heathen portions of Christian cities the mission-children prayed, while on the high seas the sailors responded fervently when the captain. read in the Service the "Prayer for the Sick," meaning their Prince, "sick unto death." The fine old boast of England's power, that "her morning drum beats round the world," how poor it seems beside the thought, of this zone of prayer! There had been nothing like this in English history, and there was nothing like it in ours, till that heart-breaking time of the mortal illness of President Garfield. O, worthy should be, the life and manifold the good works of that man for whom so many peoples and tongues have given surety to Heaven by fervent intercessions and supplications. This long sad time of anxiety and peril drew the Queen out of her sorrow as nothing had done before. She watched tenderly by the bedside of her son, and when he was recovered, and went to St. Paul's to return thanks, she sat by his side, and wore a white flower in her bonnet, and her grateful smile showed that there was a rift in the cloud of her mourning, and that God's sunlight was striking through. Lord Ronald Gower quotes a letter from his sister, the Duchess of Westminster, describing the Prince and Princess of Wales as she saw them about this time. She said: "He is much thinner and his head shaved, but little changed in his face, and looking so grateful. She looks thin and worn, but so affectionate--tears in her eyes when talking of him, and his manner to her so gentle." Surely convalescence is a "state of grace." Would that it might always last a lifetime with us! During this year, Irish disaffection broke out very seriously in the great Fenian movement. An upheaval this, from the lowest stratum of society, with no gentlemen, or eloquent orators, for leaders, but all the more appalling for that. These rough, desperate men meant, as they said, "business." This movement