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'etat. 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 frere" (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 frere"; 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'etat, 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 Amelie. 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, Eugenie,—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 Eugenie 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 fetes 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 Elysee 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: "Eugenie, 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-a-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 chasseing, 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 fete, 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 feting 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 frere" 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 Paestum. 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."