“WHITEHALL, _October_ 10, 1841.
“MY DEAR MR. BUNSEN,—My note merely conveyed a request that you
would be good enough to meet Mr. Cornelius at dinner on Friday
last.
“I assure you that I have been amply repaid for any attention I
may have shown to that distinguished artist, in the personal
satisfaction I have had in the opportunity of making his
acquaintance. He is one of a noble people distinguished in every
art of war and peace. The union and patriotism of that people,
spread over the centre of Europe, will contribute the surest
guarantee for the peace of the world, and the most powerful check
upon the spread of all pernicious doctrines injurious to the cause
of religion and order, and that liberty which respects the rights
of others.
“My earnest hope is that every member of this illustrious race,
while he may cherish the particular country of his birth as he
does his home, will extend his devotion beyond its narrow limits,
and exult in the name of a German, and recognize the claim of
Germany to the love and affection and patriotic exertions of all
her sons.
“I hope I judge the feelings of every German by those which were
excited in my own breast (in the breast of a foreigner and a
stranger) by a simple ballad, that seemed, however, to concentrate
the will of a mighty people, and said emphatically,—
“They shall not have the Rhine.”
“_They_ will not have it: and the Rhine will be protected by a
song, if the sentiments which that song embodies pervade, as I
hope and trust they do, every German heart.
“You will begin to think that I am a good German myself, and so I
am, if hearty wishes for the union and welfare of the German race
can constitute one.
“Believe me, most faithfully yours,
“ROBERT PEEL.”
When Bunsen was on the point of leaving London, he received the unexpected
and unsolicited appointment of Prussian Envoy in England, an appointment
which he could not bring himself to decline, and which again postponed for
twelve years his cherished plans of an _otium cum dignitate_. What the
world at large would have called the most fortunate event in Bunsen’s life
proved indeed a real misfortune. It deprived Bunsen of the last chance of
fully realizing the literary plans of his youth, and it deprived the world
of services that no one could have rendered so well in the cause of
freedom of thought, of practical religion, and in teaching the weighty
lessons of antiquity to the youth of the future. It made him waste his
precious hours in work that any Prussian baron could have done as well, if
not better, and did not set him free until his bodily strength was
undermined, and the joyful temper of his mind saddened by sad experiences.
Nothing could have been more brilliant than the beginning of Bunsen’s
diplomatic career in England. First came the visit of the King of Prussia,
whom the Queen had invited to be godfather to the Prince of Wales. Soon
after the Prince of Prussia came to England under the guidance of Bunsen.
Then followed the return visit of the Queen at Stolzenfels, on the Rhine.
All this, no doubt, took up much of Bunsen’s time, but it gave him also
the pleasantest introduction to the highest society of England; for as
Baroness Bunsen shrewdly remarks, “there is nothing like standing within
the Bude-light of royalty to make one conspicuous, and sharpen perceptions
and recollections.” (II. p. 8.) Bunsen complained, no doubt, now and then,
about excessive official work, yet he seemed on the whole reconciled to
his position, and up to the year 1847 we hear of no attempts to escape
from diplomatic bondage. In a letter to Mrs. Fry he says:—
“I can assure you I never passed a more quiet and truly
satisfactory evening in London than the last, in the Queen’s
house, in the midst of the excitement of the season. I think this
is a circumstance for which one ought to be thankful; and it has
much reminded me of hours that I have spent at Berlin and Sans
Souci with the King and the Queen and the Prince William, and, I
am thankful to add, with the Princess of Prussia, mother of the
future King. It is a striking and consoling and instructive proof
that what is called the world, the great world, is not necessarily
worldly in itself, but only by that inward worldliness which, as
rebellion against the spirit, creeps into the cottage as well as
into the palace, and against which no outward form is any
protection. Forms and rules may prevent the outbreak of wrong, but
cannot regenerate right, and may quench the spirit and poison
inward truth. The Queen gives hours daily to the labor of
examining into the claims of the numberless petitions addressed to
her, among other duties to which her time of privacy is devoted.”
The Queen’s name and that of Prince Albert occur often in these memoirs,
and a few of Bunsen’s remarks and observations may be of interest, though
they contain little that can now be new to the readers of the “Life of the
Prince Consort” and of the “Queen’s Journal.”
First, a graphic description, from the hand of Baroness Bunsen, of the
Queen opening Parliament in 1842:—
“Last, the procession of the Queen’s entry, and herself, looking
worthy and fit to be the converging point of so many rays of
grandeur. It is self-evident that she is not tall; but were she
ever so tall, she could not have more grace and dignity, a head
better set, a throat more royally and classically arching; and one
advantage there is in her not being taller, that when she casts a
glance, it is of necessity upwards and not downwards, and thus the
effect of the eyes is not thrown away,—the beam and effluence not
lost. The composure with which she filled the throne, while
awaiting the Commons, was a test of character,—no fidget and no
apathy. Then her voice and enunciation could not be more perfect.
In short, it could not be said that _she did well_, but she _was_
the Queen,—she was, and felt herself to be, the acknowledged chief
among grand and national realities.” (Vol. II. p. 10.)
The next is an account of the Queen at Windsor Castle on receiving the
Princess of Prussia, in 1842:—
“The Queen looked well and _rayonnante_, with that expression that
she always has when thoroughly pleased with all that occupies her
mind, which you know I always observe with delight, as fraught
with that truth and reality which so essentially belong to her
character, and so strongly distinguish her countenance, in all its
changes, from the _fixed mask_ only too common in the royal rank
of society.” (Vol. II. p. 115.)