I have come upon few incidents of that first sad year. The Princess Alice was married very quietly at Osborne, and went away to her German home, where she lived for seventeen happy years, a noble and beneficent life. In character she was very like her father—to whose soul hers was so knit, that, when in her last illness, the anniversary of his death came round, she seemed to hear his call, and went to him at once in child- like obedience. She took that fatal illness—the diphtheria—from a dear child in a kiss, "the kiss of death," as Lord Beaconsfield called it.

The Rev. Norman McLeod has left a record of the widowed Queen's first visit to Balmoral. It seems he thought she was too unreconciled to her loss, and felt it his duty to preach what he believed to be "truth in God's sight, and that which I believe she needed," he said, "though I felt it would be very trying for her to receive it." She did receive it very sweetly, and wrote him "a kind, tender letter of thanks for it," She afterwards summoned him to the castle, and to her own room. He writes: "She was alone. She met me with an unutterably sad expression, which filled my eyes with tears, and at once began to speak about the Prince. ... She spoke of his excellencies—his love, his cheerfulness; how he was everything to her. She said she never shut her eyes to trials, but liked to look them in the face; how she would never shrink from duty, but that all was at present done mechanically; that her highest ideas of purity and love were obtained from him, and that God could not be displeased with her love."

No, we cannot love enough to displease the God of love, who is not, whatever men may preach, a "jealous God," in that small way; but perhaps we may grieve too much to please the Master of Life, of which, in His eyes, what we call death, is the immortal blossom and crowning.

It seems to me that in her loving tribute to the Prince, the Queen was a little unjust to her mother, to whose precepts and example she owed very high "ideas of purity" and that strong sense of duty, and that fortitude, essentially a womanly, not a manly, virtue, which preserved her through the temptations of a glad and splendid youth—through the trials and sorrows of maturer years, and which, when that time of bitterest trial came, braced up her shattered forces, and held together her broken heart.

Balmoral—the dear mountain-home, so entirely her husband's creation—now became more than ever dear to the Queen, and has never lost its charm for her. Her life there has been, from the first, almost pastoral in its simplicity.

The Highlanders about them, a primitive, but very proud people, regarded their Sovereign and her husband with no servile awe. With them, even respect begins, like charity, at home; what there is left, they give loyally to their superiors in rank. To the Queen and her family they have given more,—love and free-hearted devotion. Her Majesty has always gone about among the poorer tenants of the estate, like any laird's wife, in an unpretending, neighborly way; and they, thanks to their good Scotch sense and Highland pride, never take advantage of the uncondescending condescension, to offend her by too great familiarity, or shock her by servility. Taking up her "Journal," I have chanced upon an account given by Her Majesty of a round of visits to the cottages of certain "poor old women," and here is an entry or two:

"Before we went into any, we met a woman who was very poor, and eighty- eight years old. I gave her a warm petticoat, and the tears rolled down her old cheeks, and she shook my hands and prayed God to bless me: it was very touching.

"I went into a small cabin of old Kitty Kear's, who is eighty-six years old, quite-erect, and who welcomed us with a great air of dignity. She sat down and spun. I gave her, also, a warm petticoat. She said, 'May the Lord ever attend ye and yours, here and hereafter; and may the Lord be a guide to ye, and keep ye fra all harm.'"

Now, some readers, whose ideas of royal charities are derived from the kings and queens of melodrama, who fling about golden largess, or "chuck" plethoric purses at their poor subjects, may be amused at these entries in a great Queen's journal, but "let them laugh who win"—the flannel petticoats.

During a later visit to the widowed Queen at Balmoral, Dr. McLeod writes: "After dinner, the Queen invited me to her room, where I found the Princess Helena and the Marchioness of Ely. The Queen sat down to spin on a fine Scotch wheel, while I read Burns to her—'Tam O'Shanter,' and 'A Man's a Man for a' That'—her favorites."

In the Queen's book I find frequent pleasant mention of the young Highlander, John Brown—a favorite personal attendant, first of Prince Albert, and afterwards of Her Majesty.

She had the misfortune to lose this "good and faithful servant," in the early part of this year. In a foot-note in her "Journal," she paid a grateful tribute to his "attention, care and faithfulness"—to his rare devotion to her, especially during a period of physical weakness and nervous prostration, when such service as his was invaluable. She also says of him, "He has all the independence and elevation of feeling peculiar to the Highland race, and is singularly straightforward, simple- minded, kind-hearted and disinterested."

If there is something touching in the nearly life-long service and devotion of the Highlander, almost always seen so close behind his Liege Lady, when she appeared in public, that he was named "the Queen's shadow"—there is something admirable in her grateful appreciation of that service, in her frank acknowledgment of all she has owed of comfort, in a constant sense of security, to this man's steadfast faithfulness; and now that the "shadow" has gone before, I hold it is only fitting and loyal in her to acknowledge for him, as she does, "friendship," and even "affection"—not only to lay flowers on his grave, but to pay more enduring tribute to his honest memory. He was a Highland gillie, of simple Highland ways and words but "A man's a man for a' that." If Byron could nurse his dying dog, Boatswain, and erect a monument to his memory, and not lose, but gain, our respect by so doing, we surely might let pass, unquestioned, the Queen's grief for a faithful human creature— for thirty-four years devoted to her—ever at her call—looking up to her, yet watching over her; a friend, whose humble good sense and canny bits of counsel must often, in the simpler, yet not simple, affairs of her complex life, be sorely missed.

That is how it strikes an American, of democratic tendencies.

About a year after the death of Prince Albert, the Duchess of Sutherland presented to the Queen a richly-bound Bible, the offering of loyal "English widows."

In her letter of acknowledgment, Her Majesty gives very strong and clear expression to her faith, not only in the happy continued existence of her beloved husband, but in his "unseen presence" with her—a faith which she has often expressed. The letter runs thus:

"MY DEAREST DUCHESS:—I am deeply touched by the gift of a Bible 'from many widows,' and by the very kind and affectionate address which accompanied it. ... Pray express to all these kind sister-widows the deep and heartfelt gratitude of their widowed Queen, who can never feel grateful enough for the universal sympathy she has received, and continues to receive, from her loyal and devoted subjects. But what she values far more is their appreciation of her adored and perfect husband. To her, the only sort of consolation she experiences is in the constant sense of his unseen presence and the blessed thought of the Eternal Union hereafter, which will make the bitter anguish of the present appear as naught. That our Heavenly Father may impart to 'many widows' those sources of consolation and support, is their broken-hearted Queen's earnest prayer ... Believe me ever yours most affectionately, VICTORIA."

Dean Stanley is reported as telling of a touching little circumstance which he received from the Princess Hohenlohe (Feodore), from which it seems that Her Majesty was for a long time in the habit of going every morning to look at the cows on Prince Albert's model farm, because "he had been used to do so," feeling, perhaps, that the gentle creatures might miss him—that somewhere in their big dull brains, they might wonder where their friend could be, and why he did not come. The Princess also said that her poor sister found her only comfort in the belief that her husband's spirit was close beside her—for he had promised her that it should be so.



CHAPTER XXIX.

Arrival in England of the Princess Alexandra to wed the Prince of Wales— Garibaldi's visit to London—The Queen's first public appearance after her widowhood—Marriage of the Princess Louise—Illness of the Prince of Wales—Disaffection in Ireland—The Queen's sympathy during the illness of President Garfield.

On the 7th of March, 1863, all London and nearly all England went mad over the coming of the Princess Alexandra, from Denmark, to wed the Prince of Wales. Lord Ronald Gower, a son of the beautiful Duchess of Sutherland, gives in his "Reminiscences" a fine description of her arrival in London, and of the wedding at Windsor three days after. He says: "Probably since the day in Paris when Marie Antoinette was acclaimed in the gardens of the Tuileries, no Princess ever had so enthusiastic a reception, or so quickly won the hearts of thousands by the mere charm of her presence." This writer gives a very vivid description of the crowd which waited patiently for hours, of a cold, wretched day, for the sight of that sweet face whose sweetness has never yet cloyed upon them. At last, there came a small company of Life Guards, escorting an open carriage-and-four, containing the young Danish Princess and His Royal Highness Albert Edward, looking very happy and very conscious. The smiling, blushing, appealing face of the Princess warmed as well as won all hearts. There were few flowers at that season to scatter on her way, except flowers of poetry, of which there was no jack. Tennyson's pretty ode has not been forgotten, but all as noble and sweet was the greeting of her from whom I have before quoted; Mrs. Crosland. The most touching, though not the strongest verse in that poem, is this:

"She comes another child to be To that Crowned Widow of the land, Whose sceptre weighs more heavily Since One has ceased to hold her hand."

The Queen did not feel herself equal to taking any part in the marriage ceremony, but looked down upon the scene of grandeur and gayety from the Royal Gallery of St George's Chapel. The Duchess of Sutherland attended her then for the last time. She had been with her at her coronation and marriage; to-day they were both widows, and must have been at the moment living intensely and sorrowfully in the past. With the exception of the Crown Princess of Germany and the Duke of Edinburgh, all the Queen's children, down to little Beatrice, were present. The bride, it is stated, "looked lovely; she did not raise her eyes once in going into, and but little in going out of, the Chapel on her husband's arm."

This first daughter-in-law soon made a place for herself in the Queen's heart, by her grace and amiability. I have heard a pretty little story of an attempt of hers to lighten somewhat Her Majesty's heavy cloud of mourning. Millinery being one of her accomplishments, she prevailed upon the Queen to let her remodel her bonnet, which she did, principally by removing a small basketful of sombre weeds. The Queen saw through her little ruse and shook her head mournfully,—but wore the bonnet.

The next year London went still more mad over Garibaldi. His enthusiastic admirers almost mobbed Stafford House, at which he was entertained by the young Duke of Sutherland Lord Ronald Gower describes that memorable visit and the popular excitement very vividly.

The Italian hero entered that beautiful palace, where a grand company of the nobility were waiting to receive him, attired in a rough gray overcoat and trousers, a large pork-pie hat, a loose black neck-tie, and a red flannel shirt. This he never changed—I mean his style of dress, not the shirt—but Garibaldi would have been quite un-Garibaldi-ed in an English evening suit. Lord Ronald Gower writes that his noble, liberty- loving mother was very devoted to their guest, but does not add that by so doing she shocked the sensibilities of footmen and housemaids. One of the latter once told to another guest, a moving story of the strange habits of "Italian brigand": "Why, marm," she said, "he was such a common-looking person, and he would get up so awful early and go hobbling about in the garden. One morning at six o'clock, I looked out of my window, and there he was walking up and down, and the Duchess with him— my Duchess, walking and talking with the likes of him!"

The first public appearance of the widowed Queen was at the opening of Parliament, in 1866. I do not know whether the splendid chair of State she had provided for Prince Albert, in the happy old time, had been left in its place, to smite her eyes with its gilding and her heart with its emptiness; I do not know whether its presence or its absence would have grieved her most; but every sorrowing widow knows what it is to look on her husband's vacant chair. It does not matter whether it is made of rude, unpainted wood and woven rushes, or is a golden and velvet- cushioned chair of State,—it was his seat, and he is gone! Queen Victoria must have felt that day, in her lonely grandeur, like crying out with Constance,

"Here I and Sorrow sit. "

Lady Bloomfield gives a very touching account of her first visit to the widowed mistress, whom, nearly twenty years before, she had so gladly and proudly served—for true service is in the spirit, though the act may be limited to taking a part in a duet, or handing the daily bouquet. She wrote: "The Queen is dreadfully changed—most sad, but with the gentlest, most benevolent smile. Even when the tears rolled down her cheeks, she tried to smile." I think it was about this time that the Queen presented to our George Peabody her portrait, expressly painted for him, in recognition of his more than princely munificence in the gift of model lodging-houses to the London poor. It was a small portrait—enameled, I believe. I do not think it was an idealized picture, though the pencil was evidently guided by a delicate and reverential loyalty, "doing its spiriting gently," in marking the tracings of time and sorrow. In a description which I wrote at the tune of its exhibition in Philadelphia, I said: "With the exception of a touching expression of habitual sadness, this face is very like the one I looked down upon from the gallery of the House of Lords fifteen years ago. There is the same roundness of outline, only 'a little more so'—almost the same freshness of tints in the fair complexion. The soft brown hair is unchanged in color, if somewhat thinner; and the clear blue eyes have the same steady outlook. The whole figure is marked by a sort of regal rigidity. The face, if not positively unhappy in expression, is quite empty of happiness. There is about it an atmosphere of lonely state and absolute widowhood. The Mary Stuart cap is very becoming to Her Majesty, but the black dress mars the picturesque effect of the portrait. The neck and arms have all the roundness of youth, and are exquisitely painted. I remember hearing the late Mr. Gibson, who made several statues of the Queen, say that loyalty itself need not to flatter her arms or bust; in sculpture or painting, as they were really remarkably beautiful."

In 1868 the Queen had the misfortune to lose her "dearest Duchess"—that grandest daughter of the grand house of Howard, the Duchess of Sutherland. She floated all unconsciously out on the waves that wash against the restful palm-crowned shore, her last words being, "I think I shall sleep now—I am so tired."

The Princess Louise was married with really royal pomp and a brave attempt at the old gayety, in St. George's Chapel, Windsor, in March, 1871, to the Marquis of Lome.

The bride, who, according to Lord Ronald Gower, was. "very pale, but handsome as she always is," was accompanied by the Prince of Wales; her uncle, the Grand Duke of Coburg; and, to the great joy of all the assembly, by her mother, the Queen. The wedded pair went to Claremont for their honeymoon. As they drove away, "rice and white satin slippers were sent after them, and John Brown threw a new broom, Highland fashion."

The people were much comforted at this appearance of the Queen once more in the great gay world. They had begun to think that her social seclusion would never end. When she went down into the "valley of the shadow of death" with her beloved, though she struggled bravely up alone, she brought the shadow with her; it enveloped her and wrapped her away from her subjects—even the most loving and sympathetic. Now they took heart, believing that royalty was finally coming out from under its eclipse of mourning, that the Court would be re-established in Buckingham Palace, and things generally, go on as in the good old days. They never did, however, and never will, under her reign. It is too much to ask of her, it seems.

Whether it is true, as I hear, that the air of London is hurtful to her, giving her severe headaches, or that the scenes of her childhood and early queenhood, and of her marriage, are too much for her, and heart- ache is the matter, I know not; but it is undeniable that the Queen prefers any one of her other homes to Buckingham Palace. She only comes to it when absolute compelled by the duties of State. It is hard for London tradesmen and pleasure-seekers, who think Her Majesty's mourning immoderate, and doubt whether their wives would fret so long for them; but when, in the first year of her, reign, the pretty, wilful Victoria said to Lord Melbourne: "What is the use of being a Queen if one cannot do as one likes!" her people laughed and applauded. Surely, with years and trouble, and much faithful care and labor, and has not lost the right to have a mind of her own, or the will to maintain it.

Of late years I have seen Her Majesty some half dozen times; once on her way to prorogue Parliament, seated in the grand State coach, drawn by the superb, cream-colored State horses, in all imaginable splendor of trappings—escorted by the dashing Life Guards, and all the royal carriages, each with its resplendent coachman and footmen, most gorgeous of human creatures, and inside, very nice and respectable-looking people, with no particular air of pride or elation. The Queen wore a cloak of ermine, a tiara of diamonds, and a long, cloud-like veil of tulle, floating back from her face, which that day had a very pleasant, genial expression. She is changed,—of course she is; but she has even more of the old calm dignity, and when she smiles, the effect is magical; her youth flashes over her face, and quite the old look—the look he knew her by, comes back for a little while.

At other times I have had glimpses of her as her carriage dashed through the gateway to Marlborough House, on a garden-party day, or through the Park, as she was fleeing with all speed from the city, after a Drawing- room. Sometimes, she has bowed right and left, and smiled, as though pleased by the cheers of the people; but at other times she has scarcely inclined her head, and worn a look of unsmiling, utter weariness—proving that a woman may have much worldly goods, many jewels, and brave velvet gowns, and heaps of India shawls, and half a dozen grand mansions, with a throne in every one, and yet at times feel that this brief life of ours is "all vanity and vexation of spirit."

The Queen, though she had not kept up her intimate relations with the Emperor and Empress, was shocked at the utter ruin to them and their son, which resulted from the French and Prussian war, and she was not wanting in tender sympathy, when the poor frightened refugee, Eugenie, hid a tearful face against her sisterly breast, and sobbed out, "I have been too favorable to war." To the Emperor she granted an asylum and a grave.

I know not whether France will ever demand his dust, to give it sepulture under the dome of the Invalides; but he has already on the banks of the Seine the grandest of monuments—Paris. His memory stands fair and firm in stately buildings and massive bridges, and is renewed every year in the plane tree of noble Boulevards, those green longas vias, grander than the military highways of the Caesars.

In 1867 the Prince of Wales fell grievously ill, with the same fearful malady that had deprived him of his father. Intense was the anxiety not only of the Royal Family, but of all the English people the world over. Soon the sympathy of other nations was aroused, and prayers began to ascend to Heaven for the preservation of that precious life, not only from all Christian peoples, but from Hebrews, Mohammedans and Buddhists; in heathen lands the missionaries prayed, and in heathen portions of Christian cities the mission-children prayed, while on the high seas the sailors responded fervently when the captain. read in the Service the "Prayer for the Sick," meaning their Prince, "sick unto death." The fine old boast of England's power, that "her morning drum beats round the world," how poor it seems beside the thought, of this zone of prayer! There had been nothing like this in English history, and there was nothing like it in ours, till that heart-breaking time of the mortal illness of President Garfield. O, worthy should be, the life and manifold the good works of that man for whom so many peoples and tongues have given surety to Heaven by fervent intercessions and supplications.

This long sad time of anxiety and peril drew the Queen out of her sorrow as nothing had done before. She watched tenderly by the bedside of her son, and when he was recovered, and went to St. Paul's to return thanks, she sat by his side, and wore a white flower in her bonnet, and her grateful smile showed that there was a rift in the cloud of her mourning, and that God's sunlight was striking through.

Lord Ronald Gower quotes a letter from his sister, the Duchess of Westminster, describing the Prince and Princess of Wales as she saw them about this time. She said: "He is much thinner and his head shaved, but little changed in his face, and looking so grateful. She looks thin and worn, but so affectionate—tears in her eyes when talking of him, and his manner to her so gentle."

Surely convalescence is a "state of grace." Would that it might always last a lifetime with us!

During this year, Irish disaffection broke out very seriously in the great Fenian movement. An upheaval this, from the lowest stratum of society, with no gentlemen, or eloquent orators, for leaders, but all the more appalling for that. These rough, desperate men meant, as they said, "business." This movement <was suppressed, driven under the surface, but only to break out more appallingly than ever some ten or twelve years later, in brutal assassinations, which have curdled the blood of the world. Ah, must it always be so? Will this tiresome old Celtic Enceladus never lie quiet, and be dead, though the mountain sit upon him ever so solidly, and smoke ever so placidly above him?

Where now, we sadly ask, is the Ireland of Tom Moore, Father Prout, Lover and Lever? Not enough left of it to furnish a new drama for Mr. Boucicault. Donnybrook Fair has given place to midnight conspirations. Fox-hunts to the stalking of landlords—all the jolly old customs extinct, except the "wake." Peasant-life, over there, sometimes seems, at the best, one protracted "wake."

I suppose it is too late now, yet I can but think that if the Queen had built years ago, a palace in Ireland, at Killarney, or in lovely Wicklow, or in Dublin itself, and resided there a part of every year, things might have been better. She was so popular in that "distressful country" when, by frequent visits, she testified an interest in it, and her gentle, motherly presence might have had a more placating influence than any "Coercion bill." The money she would have spent there,—the very crumbs that would have fallen from her table, would have been a benefaction to that poor people.

The Fenian drama had its ghastly closing tableau in the hanging of the ringleaders, and the explosion at Clerkenwell. The hanging of those Fenians must have been about the last of that sort of a public entertainment, as a law was soon passed making all future executions strictly private. Among a certain class of Her Majesty's subjects this was a most unpopular measure. Pot-house politicians and gin-palace courtiers, both ladies and gentlemen, discussed it hotly and denounced it sternly, as an infringement on the sacred immemorial rights of British freemen and a blow to the British Constitution.

In 1874 Mr. Disraeli had become Prime Minister. He died in 1880—Lord Beaconsfield, sincerely lamented by the Queen, who was much attached to him as a friend, and greatly admired him as a man of genius. He was a brilliant novelist and a famous statesman; but the best things I know of him are the tender love and manly gratitude he always testified towards his devoted wife, and his pathetic mourning for her loss. He might have adopted for her tombstone the quaint, terse epitaph of an American husband—"Think what a wife should be, and she was that."

Through his means, the title of "Empress of India" was conferred on the Queen by act of Parliament. Some English people opposed it as superfluous, a sort of anti-climax of dignity, as "gilding the refined gold" of English Sovereignty with baser metal, as "painting the lily" of the noblest of English royal titles with India-ink; but it did no harm. It did not hurt the Radicals and it pleased the Rajahs.

Then came the Zulu war, with its awful disasters in the inglorious slaughter of some thousands of gallant young soldiers, among which, because of the power of romantic, historic associations, the death of the young Prince Imperial stands out in woful relief. This was a severe personal shock to the Queen. With all her tender sympathy she tried to console the inconsolable Empress, and with her sons paid funeral honors to the memory of the Prince, who had been almost as one of her family. The only time I ever saw him he was in their company, driving away from a royal garden-party.

The Prince of Wales visited India, traveled and hunted extensively, was feted after the most gorgeous Oriental style, and brought home rich presents enough to set up a grand Eastern bazaar in Marlborough House, and animals enough to start a respectable menagerie. Everywhere he went he inclined the hearts of the people to peace and loyalty, by his frank and genial ways. Does His Royal Highness ever propose such a tour in Ireland? He would not probably receive as tribute so much jewelry and gorgeous merchandise—so many tigers, pythons and other little things; but there is a fine chance for giving over there, and we read: "It is more blessed to give, than to receive."

I come now to that period of our national history with which the Queen of England so kindly, so "gently and humanly" associated herself—I mean the illness and death of President Garfield. To this day, that association is a drop of sweetness in the bitter cup of our sorrow and humiliation. From the 2d of July, 1881, the date of her first telegram of anxious inquiry addressed to our Minister, to the 27th of the following September, when she telegraphed her tender solicitude as to the condition of "the late President's mother," not a week went by that she did not send to Mr. Lowell sympathetic messages, asking for the latest news—congratulating or condoling, as the state of "the world's patient" fluctuated between life and death—and when all was over, she at once telegraphed directly to Mrs. Garfield in these words of tenderest commiseration, so worthy of her great heart:

"Words cannot express the deep sympathy I feel with you at this terrible moment. May God support and comfort you as He alone can."

She afterwards sent an autograph letter to Mrs. Garfield, and also asked for a photograph of the President.

No American who was in London at that time, especially on the day of or President's funeral, so universally observed throughout Great Britain, can ever forget the generous, whole-souled sympathy of the English people, in part at least, inspired by the words 'and acts of the English Queen. The intense interest with which she had watched that melancholy struggle between "the Two Angels," over that distant death-bed, and the grief with which she beheld the issue were known and responded to, and so the noble contagion spread. It was not needed, perhaps, that signs of mourning should be shown in her Palace windows, to have them appear as they did, all over the vast city, but it was something strange and affecting to see those blinds of a proud royal abode lowered out of respect for the memory of a republican ruler, and sympathy for an untitled "sister-widow."

We respected all those signs of mourning about us then—were grateful for them all, from the flag at half-mast and the tolling bell, to the closing of the shop of the small tradesman, and the bit of crape on the whip of the cabman.



CHAPTER XXX.

My reasons for Honoring the Queen—Anecdotes—Some democratic reflections upon the Queen's position and her Subjects' loyalty—The Royal Children— Last words.

My reasons for admiring and honoring Queen Victoria are, perhaps, amply revealed in this little book, but I will briefly recapitulate them: First, is her great power of loving, and tenacity in holding on to love. Next is her loyalty—that quality which makes her stand steadfastly by those she loves, through good and evil report, arid not afraid to do honor to a dead friend, be he prince or peasant—that quality which in her lofty position, makes her friendship for the unfortunate exile "as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land."

Next I place her sincerity, her downright honesty, which makes falsehood and duplicity in those she has to do with, something to be wondered over as well as scorned. Next, is her courage, so abundantly shown in the many instances in which her life has been menaced. I do not believe that a braver woman lives than Queen Victoria.

I admire her also for the respect and delicate consideration which she has always had for the royalty of intellect, for the pride and sensitiveness of genius. This peculiarity dates far back to when, as the young Princess Victoria, she timidly asked that such men as the poets Moore and Rogers, and the actors Charles Kemble and Macready might be presented to her. Thomas Campbell used to relate an incident showing what charming compliments she knew how to pay to poets. Wishing to witness the coronation, he wrote to the Earl Marshal, saying: "There is a place in the Abbey called 'The Poets' Corner,' which suggests the possibility of there being room in it for living poets also." This brought him a ticket of admission. His admiration of the young Queen's behavior was unbounded, and he says: "On returning home, I resolved out of pure esteem and veneration, to send her a copy of all say works. Accordingly I had them, bound up and went personally with them to Sir Henry Wheatley, who, when he understood my errand, told me that Her Majesty made it a rule to decline presents of this kind, as it placed her under obligations which were not pleasant to her. 'Say to Her Majesty, Sir Henry,' I replied, 'that there is nothing which the Queen can touch with her sceptre in any of her dominions which I covet; and I therefore entreat you to present them with my devotion as a subject.' But the next day they were returned. I hesitated to open the parcel, but on doing so I found to my inexpressible joy a note enclosed, desiring my autograph on them. Having complied with this wish, I again transmitted the books to Her Majesty, and in the course of a day or two, received in return this elegant portrait engraving, with Her Majesty's autograph, as you see, below."

The Queen was the friend of Charles Kingsley, and of Charles Dickens, in his later days. In presenting the latter with her. book, "Leaves from a Journal of Our Life in the Highlands" she spoke of herself as "the humblest of writers," and as almost ashamed to offer it, even with her priceless autograph, to "one of the greatest." Mr. Tennyson she delights to honor with her friendship. I have read a little story of her calling on him at his place, on the Isle of Wight. It seems he had not received due notice, or that, absorbed in writing, he had forgotten the hour. At all events, he was taken by surprise, and was obliged to run out to receive Her Majesty in his dressing-gown and slippers, and with his hair disheveled, as it had become in the fine frenzy of composition. Just think of Mr. Tennyson with his hair more than usually disheveled! Of course it was all right, as far as the Queen was concerned,—but then the footmen!

In her youth, the Queen was very fond of the drama, and did honor to its representations, as we have seen. Rachel used to show, with especial pride, a costly bracelet, within which was the inscription, "Victoria a Rachel." When the beautiful English actress, Mrs. Warner, was slowly dying of cancer, the Queen, I am told, used to send daily one of her carriages to take her out for a drive—as the actress could not afford herself such a luxury.

Of Americans distinguished for talent, Her Majesty has never failed to show, when in her power, a generous appreciation. As long ago as 1839, she invited to Buckingham Palace, Daniel Webster and Mrs. Webster. To our great statesman—who Miss Mitford, at the time, said was "the grandest- looking man" she had ever beheld, and whom Sydney Smith called, more tersely than elegantly, "a steam-engine in breeches"—the Queen was especially attentive, talking much with him; and he pronounced her "very intelligent." To Longfellow, purest of poets and sweetest of spirits, she showed a respect which was almost homage; and I am told that in Mr. Lowell, she respects the poet and the scholar, even more than the Minister. Ah, he is one whose poetic genius, whose scholarship, keen wit, and, above all, exquisite humor, the Prince-Consort would have appreciated and delighted in.

Artists and men of letters have never been behindhand in tributes to the Queen. Every sculptor and painter to whom she has sat, has had the same story as Gibson and Leslie to tell of her kindness, taste and intelligence. Miss Fox, writing of Landseer, says, "He deeply admires the Queen's intellect, which he thinks superior to any woman's in Europe. Her memory is so remarkable that he has known her recall exact words of speeches, made years ago, which the speakers themselves had forgotten."

That was saying too much, I think, when Mrs. Somerville, Miss Martineau, and Elizabeth Barrett were living, and working, in England. In the things pertaining to her station and vocation, Victoria doubtless was, and is, superior to any woman in Europe. The Duke of Wellington, who thought at fink that he could not get on with her, because he had "no small talk," finally enjoyed conversing with her on the most serious matters of State. Sir Archibald Alison, in describing an evening with her and Prince Albert, says: "The Queen took her full share in the conversation, and I could easily see, from her quickness of apprehension. And the questions she put to those around her, that she possessed uncommon talent, a great desire for information, and, in particular, great rapidity of thought—a faculty often possessed by persons of her rank, and arising not merely from natural ability, but from the habit of conversing with the first men of the age."

Ah, I wonder if Her Majesty has ever realized her blessed privilege in being able to converse freely with "the first men of the age"; to avow her interest in politics, which is history flowing by; in statesmanship, that cunning tapestry-work of empire, without fearing to be set down as "a strong-minded female out of her sphere."

Much has been told me of the Queen's shrewdness and perspicacity. An English gentleman, who has opportunities of knowing much of her, lately said to me: "Her Majesty has an eagle-eye; she sees everything—sees everybody—sees through everybody." And this reminded me of a little anecdote, told me many years before, by an English fellow-traveler,—the story of a little informal interview, which amusingly revealed not only the Queen's quickness of perception, but directness of character.

My informant was a young gentleman of very artistic tastes—a passionate picture-lover. He had seen all the great paintings in the public galleries of London, and had a strong desire to see those of Buckingham Palace, which, that not being a show-house, are inaccessible to an ordinary connoisseur. Fortune favored him at <last. He was the brother of a London carpet merchant, who had an order to put down new carpets in the State apartments of the palace; and so it chanced that the temptation came to my friend to put on a workman's blouse and thus enter the royal precincts, while the flag, indicating the presence of the august family, floated defiantly over the roof. So he effected an entrance, and, when once within the royal halls, dropped his assumed character and devoted himself to the pictures. It happened that he remained in one of the apartments after the workmen had left, and, while quite alone, the Queen came tripping in, wearing a plain white morning-dress, and followed by two or three of her younger children, dressed with like simplicity. She approached the supposed workman and, said: "Pray can you tell me when the new carpet will be put down in the Privy Council Chamber?" and he, thinking he had no right to appear to recognize the Queen under the circumstances, replied: "Really, madam—I cannot tell—but I will enquire." "Stay," she said abruptly, but not unkindly; "who are you? I perceive that you are not one of the workmen." Mr. W——, blushing and stammering somewhat, yet made a clean breast of it, and told the simple truth. The Queen seemed much amused with his ruse, and, for the sake of his love for art, forgave it; then added, smiling, "I knew, for all your dress, that you were a gentleman, because you did not address me as 'your Majesty.' Pray look at the pictures as long as you will. Good-morning! Come, chicks, we must go."

I hear that a distinguished American friend has expressed a fear that I shall "idealize Queen Victoria." I do not think I have done so. I leave that to her English biographers and eulogists. In my researches, I have come upon curious things, in the way of pompous panegyric, which would have made Minerva the Wise, feel foolish, and which Juno the Superb, would have pronounced "a little too strong, really." I have not, it is true, pointed out faults—I have not been near enough to "the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty" to become acquainted with them. I presume she has them—I hope she has. I think all writers who deny her human weaknesses, or betray surprise at any exhibition of ordinary human feeling, pay the Queen a very poor compliment. There is in England a good deal of exaggerated expression of loyalty. Such words as "gracious" and "condescending" are habits and forms of speech. Of the real sentiment of loyalty, I do not think there is an excess—at least not toward the Queen. When Her Majesty gives way to natural emotion over the death of a friend, or over a great public calamity, I do not believe she likes to have the fact made a circumstance of. For instance, when that dreadful tragedy occurred in the Victoria Hall, at Sunderland, when hundreds of children perished, by being trampled underfoot and suffocated, the Court intelligence, which seemed to deepen the sadness in many minds, was that "Her Majesty was observed to weep on reading the account." This item went the rounds, and called forth such expressions of sympathy that one would have supposed that it was the august mater patriae at Windsor, who had been bereaved, and not those poor distracted mothers at Sunderland. Why should the Queen not weep over such a "massacre of the innocents," like any other good, sympathetic, motherly woman? She has not wept away all her tears for herself.

I remember at the time of the death of Lady Augusta Stanley, who had formerly been one of Her Majesty's Maids of Honor, much was said of the Queen's sympathy with the Dean. She attended the funeral, and afterwards, it is said, "led the widowed mourner into his desolate home." This act, so simple and sweet in a friend, was, I know, looked upon' by some as "condescension," in a sovereign; but how could one sorrowing human soul condescend to another—and that other Arthur Stanley? Sorrow is as great a leveler as death. Tears wash away all poor human distinctions.

We also took the Queen's sympathy with us, in our great national- bereavement, too much as though it were something quite super-royal, if not superhuman. It was the exquisite wording of those telegrams which touched, melted our hearts; but we should have been neither surprised, nor overcome. It was beautiful, but it was natural. She could not have said less, or said it differently. It was very sweet of her to send that floral offering, known and dear to us all as "the Queen's Wreath," but she sacrificed no dignity in so doing, as her flowers were to lie on the coffin of the ruler of a great empire—a ruler who had been as much greater than an ordinary monarch as election is greater than accident.

Of course, as the Queen is the most interesting personage in all England, the least little things connected with her have an interest which Americans can hardly understand. In a handsome semi-official work called "A Diary of Royal Events," I find gravely related the story of an Osborne postman, who once lent the Queen and Prince Albert his umbrella, and was told to call for it at the great house, when he received it back, and with it a five-pound note. I see nothing very note-worthy in this, except the fact, honorable to humanity, of a borrowed umbrella being promptly returned, the owner calling for it. The five-pound note, though, was an "event" to the postman.

A few concluding words about the Queen's children, who with many grandchildren "rise up to call her blessed."

Victoria, the Crown Princess of Germany, is a fine-looking woman, with the same peculiarly German face, "round as an apple," which she had as a child. She is very clever, especially in art, and her character, formed under her father's hand, very noble. The Prince of Wales is a hard- working man in his way, which means in many ways, for the public benefit- -industrial, artistic, scientific and social. The people seem bent on making him true to his old Saxon motto—"Ich dien" (I serve). He is exceedingly popular, being very genial and affable—not jealous, it is said, of his dignity as a Prince, but very jealous of his dignity as a gentleman—and that is right; for kings may come, and kings may go, but the fine type of the English gentleman goes on forever. No revolution can depose it; no commune can destroy it—it is proof against dynamite.

A handsome man is the Duke of Edinburgh (Prince Alfred), who no longer follows the sea, but is settled down in England, with his wife, a daughter of the late Czar, who testified by this alliance his wish to let Crimean "by-gones be by-gones"—till the next time, at least.

The Duke resembles his father in his love for and cultivation of music. There does not seem to be any opening for him to play a part like that of Alfred the Great, but he can probably play the violin better than that monarch ever did. They drew another sort of a bow in those old days.

The Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein (Princess Helena) is in appearance most like her mother, and perhaps in character and tastes, as she lives a life of quiet retirement, is a devoted wife and-mother, yet often giving her time and energies to a good work, or an artistic enterprise. She also is exceedingly fond of music and is an accomplished pianist. A passion for music belongs to this family by a double inheritance. Even poor, old, blind George the Third consoled himself at his organ, for the loss of an empire and the darkening of as world.

The Duke of Connaught, whom we so pleasantly remember in America as Prince Arthur, is the soldier of the family—a real one, since he won his spars in Egypt. He has something of the grave, gentle look of his father, and is much liked and respected.

The Princess Louise (Marchioness of Lome) is a beautiful woman, but with a somewhat cold and proud expression, a veritable grande dame. She is remarkably clever and accomplished, especially in art—modeling admirably well—for a Princess.

Prince Leopold (Duke of Albany) is the scholar of the family— intellectually and morally more like Prince Albert, it is said, than any of his brothers. I was once told by the eminent Dr. James Martineau, who had met and conversed with him, that he was a young man of a very thoughtful mind, high aims, and quite remarkable acquirements. As Dr. Martineau is not of the church, being a Unitarian divine, he cannot be suspected, in pronouncing such eulogies on the Queen's darling son, of having an eye to preferment-of working for a "living." On the whole, Her Majesty's sons are a decided improvement on her six royal uncles, on the paternal side.

We come now to the youngest, the darling and delight of her father, the little one who "stood and looked at him," when he lay ill, marveling at the mysterious change in his dear face;—the Princess Beatrice—as closely associated, as constantly with her mother as was the Princess Victoria with the Duchess of Kent. She also is accomplished and clever, nor appears in any way to "unbeseem the promise of her spring." She also has the love of music which marks her race. She was little more than a baby when her father went away, and her innocent wonder and questioning must often have pierced her mother's wounded heart anew; and yet those little loving hands must have helped to draw that mother from the depths of gloom and despair in which she was so nearly engulfed. Though the youngest of all, her father seems to have delegated to her much of his dearest earthly care, and she the good daughter, is, it may be, led by unseen hands, and inspired by unspoken words of counsel and acceptance. So, though the life of the Princess Beatrice is not abounding in the Court gayeties and excitements which usually fall to the lot of a Princess, "young, and so fair," none, can question its happiness, for it is a life of duty and devotion.

* * * * *

And now my little biography is finished—"would it were worthier!"—and I must take leave of my illustrious subject, "kissing hands" in imagination, with profound respect. If I back out of the presence, it is not in unrepublican abasement, but because I am loath to turn my eyes away, from the kindly and now familiar face of the good woman, and the good Queen—VICTORIA.

THE END.