CHAPTER IV. MARRIAGE

I

It was decidedly a family match. Prince Francis Charles Augustus Albert

Emmanuel of Saxe-Coburg--Gotha--for such was his full title--had been

born just three months after his cousin Victoria, and the same midwife

had assisted at the two births. The children's grandmother, the Dowager

Duchess of Coburg, had from the first looked forward to their marriage,

as they grew up, the Duke, the Duchess of Kent, and King Leopold came

equally to desire it. The Prince, ever since the time when, as a child

of three, his nurse had told him that some day "the little English May

flower" would be his wife, had never thought of marrying anyone else.

When eventually Baron Stockmar himself signified his assent, the affair

seemed as good as settled.

The Duke had one other child--Prince Ernest, Albert's senior by one

year, and heir to the principality. The Duchess was a sprightly and

beautiful woman, with fair hair and blue eyes; Albert was very like her

and was her declared favourite. But in his fifth year he was parted from

her for ever. The ducal court was not noted for the strictness of its

morals; the Duke was a man of gallantry, and it was rumoured that the

Duchess followed her husband's example. There were scandals: one of the

Court Chamberlains, a charming and cultivated man of Jewish extraction,

was talked of; at last there was a separation, followed by a divorce.

The Duchess retired to Paris, and died unhappily in 1831. Her memory was

always very dear to Albert.

He grew up a pretty, clever, and high-spirited boy. Usually

well-behaved, he was, however, sometimes violent. He had a will of

his own, and asserted it; his elder brother was less passionate, less

purposeful, and, in their wrangles, it was Albert who came out top. The

two boys, living for the most part in one or other of the Duke's country

houses, among pretty hills and woods and streams, had been at a very

early age--Albert was less than four--separated from their nurses and

put under a tutor, in whose charge they remained until they went to the

University. They were brought up in a simple and unostentatious manner,

for the Duke was poor and the duchy very small and very insignificant.

Before long it became evident that Albert was a model lad. Intelligent

and painstaking, he had been touched by the moral earnestness of his

generation; at the age of eleven he surprised his father by telling him

that he hoped to make himself "a good and useful man." And yet he was

not over-serious; though, perhaps, he had little humour, he was full

of fun--of practical jokes and mimicry. He was no milksop; he rode, and

shot, and fenced; above all did he delight in being out of doors, and

never was he happier than in his long rambles with his brother through

the wild country round his beloved Rosenau--stalking the deer, admiring

the scenery, and returning laden with specimens for his natural

history collection. He was, besides, passionately fond of music. In one

particular it was observed that he did not take after his father: owing

either to his peculiar upbringing or to a more fundamental idiosyncrasy

he had a marked distaste for the opposite sex. At the age of five, at a

children's dance, he screamed with disgust and anger when a little girl

was led up to him for a partner; and though, later on, he grew more

successful in disguising such feelings, the feelings remained.

The brothers were very popular in Coburg, and, when the time came for

them to be confirmed, the preliminary examination which, according to

ancient custom, was held in public in the "Giants' Hall" of the

Castle, was attended by an enthusiastic crowd of functionaries, clergy,

delegates from the villages of the duchy, and miscellaneous onlookers.

There were also present, besides the Duke and the Dowager Duchess, their

Serene Highnesses the Princes Alexander and Ernest of Wurtemberg,

Prince Leiningen, Princess Hohenlohe-Langenburg, and Princess

Hohenlohe-Schillingsfurst. Dr. Jacobi, the Court chaplain, presided at

an altar, simply but appropriately decorated, which had been placed at

the end of the hall; and the proceedings began by the choir singing the

first verse of the hymn, "Come, Holy Ghost." After some introductory

remarks, Dr. Jacobi began the examination. "The dignified and decorous

bearing of the Princes," we are told in a contemporary account,

"their strict attention to the questions, the frankness, decision, and

correctness of their answers, produced a deep impression on the numerous

assembly. Nothing was more striking in their answers than the evidence

they gave of deep feeling and of inward strength of conviction. The

questions put by the examiner were not such as to be met by a simple

'yes' or 'no.' They were carefully considered in order to give the

audience a clear insight into the views and feelings of,the young

princes. One of the most touching moments was when the examiner asked

the hereditary prince whether he intended steadfastly to hold to the

Evangelical Church, and the Prince answered not only 'Yes!' but added in

a clear and decided tone: 'I and my brother are firmly resolved ever

to remain faithful to the acknowledged truth.' The examination having

lasted an hour, Dr. Jacobi made some concluding observations, followed

by a short prayer; the second and third verses of the opening hymn were

sung; and the ceremony was over. The Princes, stepping down from the

altar, were embraced by the Duke and the Dowager Duchess; after which

the loyal inhabitants of Coburg dispersed, well satisfied with their

entertainment."

Albert's mental development now proceeded apace. In his seventeenth year

he began a careful study of German literature and German philosophy.

He set about, he told his tutor, "to follow the thoughts of the great

Klopstock into their depths--though in this, for the most part," he

modestly added, "I do not succeed." He wrote an essay on the "Mode

of Thought of the Germans, and a Sketch of the History of German

Civilisation," "making use," he said, "in its general outlines, of

the divisions which the treatment of the subject itself demands," and

concluding with "a retrospect of the shortcomings of our time, with an

appeal to every one to correct those shortcomings in his own case, and

thus set a good example to others." Placed for some months under the

care of King Leopold at Brussels, he came under the influence of Adolphe

Quetelet, a mathematical professor, who was particularly interested

in the application of the laws of probability to political and moral

phenomena; this line of inquiry attracted the Prince, and the friendship

thus begun continued till the end of his life. From Brussels he went to

the University of Bonn, where he was speedily distinguished both by his

intellectual and his social activities; his energies were absorbed

in metaphysics, law, political economy, music, fencing, and amateur

theatricals. Thirty years later his fellow--students recalled with

delight the fits of laughter into which they had been sent by Prince

Albert's mimicry. The verve with which his Serene Highness reproduced

the tones and gestures of one of the professors who used to point to

a picture of a row of houses in Venice with the remark, "That is the

Ponte-Realte," and of another who fell down in a race and was obliged to

look for his spectacles, was especially appreciated.

After a year at Bonn, the time had come for a foreign tour, and Baron

Stockmar arrived from England to accompany the Prince on an expedition

to Italy. The Baron had been already, two years previously, consulted

by King Leopold as to his views upon the proposed marriage of Albert

and Victoria. His reply had been remarkable. With a characteristic

foresight, a characteristic absence of optimism, a characteristic sense

of the moral elements in the situation, Stockmar had pointed out what

were, in his opinion, the conditions essential to make the marriage a

success. Albert, he wrote, "was a fine young fellow, well grown for his

age, with agreeable and valuable qualities; and it was probable that

in a few years he would turn out a strong handsome man, of a kindly,

simple, yet dignified demeanour. Thus, externally, he possesses

all that pleases the sex, and at all times and in all countries must

please." Supposing, therefore, that Victoria herself was in favour of

the marriage, the further question arose as to whether Albert's mental

qualities were such as to fit him for the position of husband of the

Queen of England. On this point, continued the Baron, one heard much to

his credit; the Prince was said to be discreet and intelligent; but

all such judgments were necessarily partial, and the Baron preferred to

reserve his opinion until he could come to a trustworthy conclusion from

personal observation. And then he added: "But all this is not enough.

The young man ought to have not merely great ability, but a right

ambition, and great force of will as well. To pursue for a lifetime a

political career so arduous demands more than energy and inclination--it

demands also that earnest frame of mind which is ready of its own accord

to sacrifice mere pleasure to real usefulness. If he is not satisfied

hereafter with the consciousness of having achieved one of the most

influential positions in Europe, how often will he feel tempted to

repent his adventure! If he does not from the very outset accept it as a

vocation of grave responsibility, on the efficient performance of

which his honour and happiness depend, there is small likelihood of his

succeeding."

Such were the views of Stockmar on the qualifications necessary for the

due fulfilment of that destiny which Albert's family had marked out for

him; and he hoped, during the tour in Italy, to come to some conclusion

as to how far the prince possessed them. Albert on his side was much

impressed by the Baron, whom he had previously seen but rarely; he

also became acquainted, for the first time in his life, with a young

Englishman, Lieutenant Francis Seymour, who had been engaged to

accompany him, whom he found sehr liebens-wurdig, and with whom he

struck up a warm friendship. He delighted in the galleries and scenery

of Florence, though with Rome he was less impressed. "But for some

beautiful palaces," he said, "it might just as well be any town in

Germany." In an interview with Pope Gregory XVI, he took the opportunity

of displaying his erudition. When the Pope observed that the Greeks

had taken their art from the Etruscans, Albert replied that, on the

contrary, in his opinion, they had borrowed from the Egyptians: his

Holiness politely acquiesced. Wherever he went he was eager to increase

his knowledge, and, at a ball in Florence, he was observed paying no

attention whatever to the ladies, and deep in conversation with the

learned Signor Capponi. "Voila un prince dont nous pouvons etre fiers,"

said the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who was standing by: "la belle danseuse

l'attend, le savant l'occupe."

On his return to Germany, Stockmar's observations, imparted to King

Leopold, were still critical. Albert, he said, was intelligent,

kind, and amiable; he was full of the best intentions and the noblest

resolutions, and his judgment was in many things beyond his years. But

great exertion was repugnant to him; he seemed to be too willing to

spare himself, and his good resolutions too often came to nothing. It

was particularly unfortunate that he took not the slightest interest

in politics, and never read a newspaper. In his manners, too, there was

still room for improvement. "He will always," said the Baron, "have more

success with men than with women, in whose society he shows too little

empressement, and is too indifferent and retiring." One other feature

of the case was noted by the keen eye of the old physician: the Prince's

constitution was not a strong one. Yet, on the whole, he was favourable

to the projected marriage. But by now the chief obstacle seemed to lie

in another quarter, Victoria was apparently determined to commit herself

to nothing. And so it happened that when Albert went to England he had

made up his mind to withdraw entirely from the affair. Nothing would

induce him, he confessed to a friend, to be kept vaguely waiting;

he would break it all off at once. His reception at Windsor threw an

entirely new light upon the situation. The wheel of fortune turned

with a sudden rapidity; and he found, in the arms of Victoria, the

irrevocable assurance of his overwhelming fate.

II

He was not in love with her. Affection, gratitude, the natural reactions

to the unqualified devotion of a lively young cousin who was also

a queen--such feelings possessed him, but the ardours of reciprocal

passion were not his. Though he found that he liked Victoria very much,

what immediately interested him in his curious position was less her

than himself. Dazzled and delighted, riding, dancing, singing, laughing,

amid the splendours of Windsor, he was aware of a new sensation--the

stirrings of ambition in his breast. His place would indeed be a high,

an enviable one! And then, on the instant, came another thought. The

teaching of religion, the admonitions of Stockmar, his own inmost

convictions, all spoke with the same utterance. He would not be there to

please himself, but for a very different purpose--to do good. He must be

"noble, manly, and princely in all things," he would have "to live and

to sacrifice himself for the benefit of his new country;" to "use his

powers and endeavours for a great object--that of promoting the welfare

of multitudes of his fellowmen." One serious thought led on to another.

The wealth and the bustle of the English Court might be delightful for

the moment, but, after all, it was Coburg that had his heart. "While

I shall be untiring," he wrote to his grandmother, "in my efforts and

labours for the country to which I shall in future belong, and where

I am called to so high a position, I shall never cease ein treuer

Deutscher, Coburger, Gothaner zu sein." And now he must part from Coburg

for ever! Sobered and sad, he sought relief in his brother Ernest's

company; the two young men would shut themselves up together, and,

sitting down at the pianoforte, would escape from the present and the

future in the sweet familiar gaiety of a Haydn duet.

They returned to Germany; and while Albert, for a few farewell months,

enjoyed, for the last time, the happiness of home, Victoria, for the

last time, resumed her old life in London and Windsor. She corresponded

daily with her future husband in a mingled flow of German and English;

but the accustomed routine reasserted itself; the business and the

pleasures of the day would brook no interruption; Lord M. was once

more constantly beside her; and the Tories were as intolerable as ever.

Indeed, they were more so. For now, in these final moments, the old feud

burst out with redoubled fury. The impetuous sovereign found, to her

chagrin, that there might be disadvantages in being the declared enemy

of one of the great parties in the State. On two occasions, the Tories

directly thwarted her in a matter on which she had set her heart. She

wished her husband's rank to be axed by statute, and their opposition

prevented it. She wished her husband to receive a settlement from the

nation of L50,000 a year; and, again owing to the Tories, he was only

allowed L30,000. It was too bad. When the question was discussed in

Parliament, it had been pointed out that the bulk of the population was

suffering from great poverty, and that L30,000 was the whole revenue of

Coburg; but her uncle Leopold had been given L50,000, and it would

be monstrous to give Albert less. Sir Robert Peel--it might have been

expected--had had the effrontery to speak and vote for the smaller sum.

She was very angry; and determined to revenge herself by omitting to

invite a single Tory to her wedding. She would make an exception in

favour of old Lord Liverpool, but even the Duke of Wellington she

refused to ask. When it was represented to her that it would amount to

a national scandal if the Duke were absent from her wedding, she was

angrier than ever. "What! That old rebel! I won't have him:" she

was reported to have said. Eventually she was induced to send him an

invitation; but she made no attempt to conceal the bitterness of her

feelings, and the Duke himself was only too well aware of all that had

passed.

Nor was it only against the Tories that her irritation rose. As the time

for her wedding approached, her temper grew steadily sharper and

more arbitrary. Queen Adelaide annoyed her. King Leopold, too, was

"ungracious" in his correspondence; "Dear Uncle," she told Albert, "is

given to believe that he must rule the roost everywhere. However," she

added with asperity, "that is not a necessity." Even Albert himself

was not impeccable. Engulfed in Coburgs, he failed to appreciate

the complexity of English affairs. There were difficulties about his

household. He had a notion that he ought not to be surrounded by

violent Whigs; very likely, but he would not understand that the only

alternatives to violent Whigs were violent Tories; and it would be

preposterous if his Lords and Gentlemen were to be found voting against

the Queen's. He wanted to appoint his own Private Secretary. But how

could he choose the right person? Lord M. was obviously best qualified

to make the appointment; and Lord M. had decided that the Prince should

take over his own Private Secretary--George Anson, a staunch Whig.

Albert protested, but it was useless; Victoria simply announced that

Anson was appointed, and instructed Lehzen to send the Prince an

explanation of the details of the case.

Then, again, he had written anxiously upon the necessity of maintaining

unspotted the moral purity of the Court. Lord M's pupil considered that

dear Albert was strait-laced, and, in a brisk Anglo-German missive, set

forth her own views. "I like Lady A. very much," she told him, "only she

is a little strict awl particular, and too severe towards others, which

is not right; for I think one ought always to be indulgent towards other

people, as I always think, if we had not been well taken care of, we

might also have gone astray. That is always my feeling. Yet it is always

right to show that one does not like to see what is obviously wrong; but

it is very dangerous to be too severe, and I am certain that as a rule

such people always greatly regret that in their youth they have not been

so careful as they ought to have been. I have explained this so badly

and written it so badly, that I fear you will hardly be able to make it

out."

On one other matter she was insistent. Since the affair of Lady Flora

Hastings, a sad fate had overtaken Sir James Clark. His flourishing

practice had quite collapsed; nobody would go to him any more. But the

Queen remained faithful. She would show the world how little she cared

for their disapproval, and she desired Albert to make "poor Clark" his

physician in ordinary. He did as he was told; but, as it turned out, the

appointment was not a happy one.

The wedding-day was fixed, and it was time for Albert to tear himself

away from his family and the scenes of his childhood. With an aching

heart, he had revisited his beloved haunts--the woods and the valleys

where he had spent so many happy hours shooting rabbits and collecting

botanical specimens; in deep depression, he had sat through the farewell

banquets in the Palace and listened to the Freischutz performed by

the State band. It was time to go. The streets were packed as he drove

through them; for a short space his eyes were gladdened by a sea of

friendly German faces, and his ears by a gathering volume of good

guttural sounds. He stopped to bid a last adieu to his grandmother.

It was a heartrending moment. "Albert! Albert!" she shrieked, and fell

fainting into the arms of her attendants as his carriage drove away. He

was whirled rapidly to his destiny. At Calais a steamboat awaited him,

and, together with his father and his brother, he stepped, dejected, on

board. A little later, he was more dejected still. The crossing was a

very rough one; the Duke went hurriedly below; while the two Princes,

we are told, lay on either side of the cabin staircase "in an almost

helpless state." At Dover a large crowd was collected on the pier, and

"it was by no common effort that Prince Albert, who had continued to

suffer up to the last moment, got up to bow to the people." His sense

of duty triumphed. It was a curious omen: his whole life in England was

foreshadowed as he landed on English ground.

Meanwhile Victoria, in growing agitation, was a prey to temper and to

nerves. She grew feverish, and at last Sir James Clark pronounced

that she was going to have the measles. But, once again, Sir James's

diagnosis was incorrect. It was not the measles that were attacking

her, but a very different malady; she was suddenly prostrated by alarm,

regret, and doubt. For two years she had been her own mistress--the two

happiest years, by far, of her life. And now it was all to end! She was

to come under an alien domination--she would have to promise that she

would honour and obey... someone, who might, after all, thwart her,

oppose her--and how dreadful that would be! Why had she embarked on this

hazardous experiment? Why had she not been contented with Lord M.? No

doubt, she loved Albert; but she loved power too. At any rate, one thing

was certain: she might be Albert's wife, but she would always be Queen

of England. He reappeared, in an exquisite uniform, and her hesitations

melted in his presence like mist before the sun. On February 10, 1840,

the marriage took place. The wedded pair drove down to Windsor; but

they were not, of course, entirely alone. They were accompanied by their

suites, and, in particular, by two persons--the Baron Stockmar and the

Baroness Lehzen.

III

Albert had foreseen that his married life would not be all plain

sailing; but he had by no means realised the gravity and the

complication of the difficulties which he would have to face.

Politically, he was a cipher. Lord Melbourne was not only Prime

Minister, he was in effect the Private Secretary of the Queen, and thus

controlled the whole of the political existence of the sovereign. A

queen's husband was an entity unknown to the British Constitution. In

State affairs there seemed to be no place for him; nor was Victoria

herself at all unwilling that this should be so. "The English," she had

told the Prince when, during their engagement, a proposal had been made

to give him a peerage, "are very jealous of any foreigner interfering in

the government of this country, and have already in some of the papers

expressed a hope that you would not interfere. Now, though I know you

never would, still, if you were a Peer, they would all say, the Prince

meant to play a political part. I know you never would!" In reality, she

was not quite so certain; but she wished Albert to understand her views.

He would, she hoped, make a perfect husband; but, as for governing the

country, he would see that she and Lord M. between them could manage

that very well, without his help.

But it was not only in politics that the Prince discovered that the part

cut out for him was a negligible one. Even as a husband, he found, his

functions were to be of an extremely limited kind. Over the whole of

Victoria's private life the Baroness reigned supreme; and she had not

the slightest intention of allowing that supremacy to be diminished by

one iota. Since the accession, her power had greatly increased. Besides

the undefined and enormous influence which she exercised through her

management of the Queen's private correspondence, she was now the

superintendent of the royal establishment and controlled the important

office of Privy Purse. Albert very soon perceived that he was not master

in his own house. Every detail of his own and his wife's existence was

supervised by a third person: nothing could be done until the consent

of Lehzen had first been obtained. And Victoria, who adored Lehzen with

unabated intensity, saw nothing in all this that was wrong.

Nor was the Prince happier in his social surroundings. A shy young

foreigner, awkward in ladies' company, unexpansive and self-opinionated,

it was improbable that, in any circumstances, he would have been a

society success. His appearance, too, was against him. Though in the

eyes of Victoria he was the mirror of manly beauty, her subjects, whose

eyes were of a less Teutonic cast, did not agree with her. To them--and

particularly to the high-born ladies and gentlemen who naturally saw him

most--what was immediately and distressingly striking in Albert's face

and figure and whole demeanour was his un-English look. His features

were regular, no doubt, but there was something smooth and smug about

them; he was tall, but he was clumsily put together, and he walked with

a slight slouch. Really, they thought, this youth was more like

some kind of foreign tenor than anything else. These were serious

disadvantages; but the line of conduct which the Prince adopted from

the first moment of his arrival was far from calculated to dispel

them. Owing partly to a natural awkwardness, partly to a fear of undue

familiarity, and partly to a desire to be absolutely correct, his

manners were infused with an extraordinary stiffness and formality.

Whenever he appeared in company, he seemed to be surrounded by a thick

hedge of prickly etiquette. He never went out into ordinary society; he

never walked in the streets of London; he was invariably accompanied by

an equerry when he rode or drove. He wanted to be irreproachable and, if

that involved friendlessness, it could not be helped. Besides, he had no

very high opinion of the English. So far as he could see, they cared for

nothing but fox-hunting and Sunday observances; they oscillated between

an undue frivolity and an undue gloom; if you spoke to them of friendly

joyousness they stared; and they did not understand either the Laws of

Thought or the wit of a German University. Since it was clear that with

such people he could have very little in common, there was no reason

whatever for relaxing in their favour the rules of etiquette. In strict

privacy, he could be natural and charming; Seymour and Anson were

devoted to him, and he returned their affection; but they were

subordinates--the receivers of his confidences and the agents of his

will. From the support and the solace of true companionship he was

utterly cut off.

A friend, indeed, he had--or rather, a mentor. The Baron, established

once more in the royal residence, was determined to work with as

wholehearted a detachment for the Prince's benefit as, more than twenty

years before, he had worked for his uncle's. The situations then and

now, similar in many respects, were yet full of differences. Perhaps in

either case the difficulties to be encountered were equally great; but

the present problem was the more complex and the more interesting. The

young doctor who, unknown and insignificant, had nothing at the back of

him but his own wits and the friendship of an unimportant Prince, had

been replaced by the accomplished confidant of kings and ministers, ripe

in years, in reputation, and in the wisdom of a vast experience. It

was possible for him to treat Albert with something of the affectionate

authority of a father; but, on the other hand, Albert was no Leopold.

As the Baron was very well aware, he had none of his uncle's rigidity of

ambition, none of his overweening impulse to be personally great. He was

virtuous and well-intentioned; he was clever and well-informed; but he

took no interest in politics, and there were no signs that he possessed

any commanding force of character. Left to himself, he would almost

certainly have subsided into a high-minded nonentity, an aimless

dilettante busy over culture, a palace appendage without influence or

power. But he was not left to himself: Stockmar saw to that. For ever

at his pupil's elbow, the hidden Baron pushed him forward, with tireless

pressure, along the path which had been trod by Leopold so many years

ago. But, this time, the goal at the end of it was something more than

the mediocre royalty that Leopold had reached. The prize which Stockmar,

with all the energy of disinterested devotion, had determined should be

Albert's was a tremendous prize indeed.

The beginning of the undertaking proved to be the most arduous part

of it. Albert was easily dispirited: what was the use of struggling to

perform in a role which bored him and which, it was quite clear, nobody

but the dear good Baron had any desire that he should take up? It was

simpler, and it saved a great deal of trouble, to let things slide.

But Stockmar would not have it. Incessantly, he harped upon two

strings--Albert's sense of duty and his personal pride. Had the Prince

forgotten the noble aims to which his life was to be devoted? And was he

going to allow himself, his wife, his family, his whole existence, to be

governed by Baroness Lehzen? The latter consideration was a potent one.

Albert had never been accustomed to giving way; and now, more than ever

before, it would be humiliating to do so. Not only was he constantly

exasperated by the position of the Baroness in the royal household;

there was another and a still more serious cause of complaint. He was,

he knew very well, his wife's intellectual superior, and yet he found,

to his intense annoyance, that there were parts of her mind over which

he exercised no influence. When, urged on by the Baron, he attempted

to discuss politics with Victoria, she eluded the subject, drifted into

generalities, and then began to talk of something else. She was treating

him as she had once treated their uncle Leopold. When at last he

protested, she replied that her conduct was merely the result of

indolence; that when she was with him she could not bear to bother her

head with anything so dull as politics. The excuse was worse than the

fault: was he the wife and she the husband? It almost seemed so. But the

Baron declared that the root of the mischief was Lehzen: that it was she

who encouraged the Queen to have secrets; who did worse--undermined

the natural ingenuousness of Victoria, and induced her to give,

unconsciously no doubt, false reasons to explain away her conduct.

Minor disagreements made matters worse. The royal couple differed in

their tastes. Albert, brought up in a regime of Spartan simplicity and

early hours, found the great Court functions intolerably wearisome,

and was invariably observed to be nodding on the sofa at half-past ten;

while the Queen's favourite form of enjoyment was to dance through the

night, and then, going out into the portico of the Palace, watch the sun

rise behind St. Paul's and the towers of Westminster. She loved London

and he detested it. It was only in Windsor that he felt he could really

breathe; but Windsor too had its terrors: though during the day there

he could paint and walk and play on the piano, after dinner black tedium

descended like a pall. He would have liked to summon distinguished

scientific and literary men to his presence, and after ascertaining

their views upon various points of art and learning, to set forth his

own; but unfortunately Victoria "had no fancy to encourage such people;"

knowing that she was unequal to taking a part in their conversation,

she insisted that the evening routine should remain unaltered; the

regulation interchange of platitudes with official persons was followed

as usual by the round table and the books of engravings, while the

Prince, with one of his attendants, played game after game of double

chess.

It was only natural that in so peculiar a situation, in which the

elements of power, passion, and pride were so strangely apportioned,

there should have been occasionally something more than mere

irritation--a struggle of angry wills. Victoria, no more than Albert,

was in the habit of playing second fiddle. Her arbitrary temper flashed

out. Her vitality, her obstinacy, her overweening sense of her own

position, might well have beaten down before them his superiorities and

his rights. But she fought at a disadvantage; she was, in very truth, no

longer her own mistress; a profound preoccupation dominated her, seizing

upon her inmost purposes for its own extraordinary ends. She was madly

in love. The details of those curious battles are unknown to us; but

Prince Ernest, who remained in England with his brother for some

months, noted them with a friendly and startled eye. One story, indeed,

survives, ill-authenticated and perhaps mythical, yet summing up, as

such stories often do, the central facts of the case. When, in wrath,

the Prince one day had locked himself into his room, Victoria, no less

furious, knocked on the door to be admitted. "Who is there?" he asked.

"The Queen of England" was the answer. He did not move, and again there

was a hail of knocks. The question and the answer were repeated many

times; but at last there was a pause, and then a gentler knocking. "Who

is there?" came once more the relentless question. But this time the

reply was different. "Your wife, Albert." And the door was immediately

opened.

Very gradually the Prince's position changed. He began to find the study

of politics less uninteresting than he had supposed; he read Blackstone,

and took lessons in English Law; he was occasionally present when the

Queen interviewed her Ministers; and at Lord Melbourne's suggestion he

was shown all the despatches relating to Foreign Affairs. Sometimes

he would commit his views to paper, and read them aloud to the Prime

Minister, who, infinitely kind and courteous, listened with attention,

but seldom made any reply. An important step was taken when, before

the birth of the Princess Royal, the Prince, without any opposition

in Parliament, was appointed Regent in case of the death of the Queen.

Stockmar, owing to whose intervention with the Tories this happy result

had been brought about, now felt himself at liberty to take a holiday

with his family in Coburg; but his solicitude, poured out in innumerable

letters, still watched over his pupil from afar. "Dear Prince," he

wrote, "I am satisfied with the news you have sent me. Mistakes,

misunderstandings, obstructions, which come in vexatious opposition

to one's views, are always to be taken for just what they are--namely,

natural phenomena of life, which represent one of its sides, and

that the shady one. In overcoming them with dignity, your mind has to

exercise, to train, to enlighten itself; and your character to gain

force, endurance, and the necessary hardness." The Prince had done well

so far; but he must continue in the right path; above all, he was "never

to relax." "Never to relax in putting your magnanimity to the proof;

never to relax in logical separation of what is great and essential from

what is trivial and of no moment; never to relax in keeping yourself

up to a high standard--in the determination, daily renewed, to be

consistent, patient, courageous." It was a hard programme perhaps, for a

young man of twenty-one; and yet there was something in it which touched

the very depths of Albert's soul. He sighed, but he listened--listened

as to the voice of a spiritual director inspired with divine truth. "The

stars which are needful to you now," the voice continued, "and perhaps

for some time to come, are Love, Honesty, Truth. All those whose minds

are warped, or who are destitute of true feeling, will BE APT TO MISTAKE

YOU, and to persuade themselves and the world that you are not the man

you are--or, at least, may become... Do you, therefore, be on the alert

be times, with your eyes open in every direction... I wish for my Prince

a great, noble, warm, and true heart, such as shall serve as the richest

and surest basis for the noblest views of human nature, and the firmest

resolve to give them development."

Before long, the decisive moment came. There was a General Election, and

it became certain that the Tories, at last, must come into power. The

Queen disliked them as much as ever; but, with a large majority in the

House of Commons, they would now be in a position to insist upon their

wishes being attended to. Lord Melbourne himself was the first to

realise the importance of carrying out the inevitable transition with as

little friction as possible; and with his consent, the Prince, following

up the rapprochement which had begun over the Regency Act, opened,

through Anson, a negotiation with Sir Robert Peel. In a series of secret

interviews, a complete understanding was reached upon the difficult

and complex question of the Bedchamber. It was agreed that the

constitutional point should not be raised, but that on the formation of

the Tory Government, the principal Whig ladies should retire, and their

places be filled by others appointed by Sir Robert. Thus, in effect,

though not in form, the Crown abandoned the claims of 1839, and they

have never been subsequently put forward. The transaction was a turning

point in the Prince's career. He had conducted an important negotiation

with skill and tact; he had been brought into close and friendly

relations with the new Prime Minister; it was obvious that a great

political future lay before him. Victoria was much impressed and deeply

grateful. "My dearest Angel," she told King Leopold, "is indeed a great

comfort to me. He takes the greatest interest in what goes on, feeling

with and for me, and yet abstaining as he ought from biasing me either

way, though we talk much on the subject, and his judgment is, as you

say, good and mild." She was in need of all the comfort and assistance

he could give her. Lord M. was going, and she could hardly bring herself

to speak to Peel. Yes; she would discuss everything with Albert now!

Stockmar, who had returned to England, watched the departure of Lord

Melbourne with satisfaction. If all went well, the Prince should now

wield a supreme political influence over Victoria. But would all go

well?? An unexpected development put the Baron into a serious fright.

When the dreadful moment finally came, and the Queen, in anguish, bade

adieu to her beloved Minister, it was settled between them that, though

it would be inadvisable to meet very often, they could continue to

correspond. Never were the inconsistencies of Lord Melbourne's character

shown more clearly than in what followed. So long as he was in office,

his attitude towards Peel had been irreproachable; he had done all he

could to facilitate the change of government, he had even, through more

than one channel, transmitted privately to his successful rival advice

as to the best means of winning the Queen's good graces. Yet, no sooner

was he in opposition than his heart failed him. He could not bear the

thought of surrendering altogether the privilege and the pleasure of

giving counsel to Victoria--of being cut off completely from the power

and the intimacy which had been his for so long and in such abundant

measure. Though he had declared that he would be perfectly discreet in

his letters, he could not resist taking advantage of the opening they

afforded. He discussed in detail various public questions, and, in

particular, gave the Queen a great deal of advice in the matter of

appointments. This advice was followed. Lord Melbourne recommended

that Lord Heytesbury, who, he said, was an able man, should be made

Ambassador at Vienna; and a week later the Queen wrote to the Foreign

Secretary urging that Lord Heytesbury, whom she believed to be a very

able man, should be employed "on some important mission." Stockmar

was very much alarmed. He wrote a memorandum, pointing out the

unconstitutional nature of Lord Melbourne's proceedings and the

unpleasant position in which the Queen might find herself if they were

discovered by Peel; and he instructed Anson to take this memorandum to

the ex-Minister. Lord Melbourne, lounging on a sofa, read it through

with compressed lips. "This is quite an apple-pie opinion," he said.

When Anson ventured to expostulate further, suggesting that it was

unseemly in the leader of the Opposition to maintain an intimate

relationship with the Sovereign, the old man lost his temper. "God

eternally damn it!" he exclaimed, leaping up from his sofa, and dashing

about the room. "Flesh and blood cannot stand this!" He continued to

write to the Queen, as before; and two more violent bombardments from

the Baron were needed before he was brought to reason. Then, gradually,

his letters grew less and less frequent, with fewer and fewer references

to public concerns; at last, they were entirely innocuous. The Baron

smiled; Lord M. had accepted the inevitable.

The Whig Ministry resigned in September, 1841; but more than a year

was to elapse before another and an equally momentous change was

effected--the removal of Lehzen. For, in the end, the mysterious

governess was conquered. The steps are unknown by which Victoria was at

last led to accept her withdrawal with composure--perhaps with relief;

but it is clear that Albert's domestic position must have been greatly

strengthened by the appearance of children. The birth of the Princess

Royal had been followed in November, 1841, by that of the Prince of

Wales; and before very long another baby was expected. The Baroness,

with all her affection, could have but a remote share in such family

delights. She lost ground perceptibly. It was noticed as a phenomenon

that, once or twice, when the Court travelled, she was left behind at

Windsor. The Prince was very cautious; at the change of Ministry, Lord

Melbourne had advised him to choose that moment for decisive action;

but he judged it wiser to wait. Time and the pressure of inevitable

circumstances were for him; every day his predominance grew more

assured--and every night. At length he perceived that he need hesitate

no longer--that every wish, every velleity of his had only to be

expressed to be at once Victoria's. He spoke, and Lehzen vanished for

ever. No more would she reign in that royal heart and those royal halls.

No more, watching from a window at Windsor, would she follow her pupil

and her sovereign walking on the terrace among the obsequious multitude,

with the eye of triumphant love. Returning to her native Hanover she

established herself at Buckeburg in a small but comfortable house, the

walls of which were entirely covered by portraits of Her Majesty. The

Baron, in spite of his dyspepsia, smiled again: Albert was supreme.

IV

The early discords had passed away completely--resolved into the

absolute harmony of married life. Victoria, overcome by a new, an

unimagined revelation, had surrendered her whole soul to her husband.

The beauty and the charm which so suddenly had made her his at first

were, she now saw, no more than but the outward manifestation of the

true Albert. There was an inward beauty, an inward glory which, blind

that she was, she had then but dimly apprehended, but of which now she

was aware in every fibre of her being--he was good--he was great! How

could she ever have dreamt of setting up her will against his wisdom,

her ignorance against his knowledge, her fancies against his perfect

taste? Had she really once loved London and late hours and dissipation?

She who now was only happy in the country, she who jumped out of bed

every morning--oh, so early!--with Albert, to take a walk, before

breakfast, with Albert alone! How wonderful it was to be taught by him!

To be told by him which trees were which; and to learn all about the

bees! And then to sit doing cross-stitch while he read aloud to her

Hallam's Constitutional History of England! Or to listen to him playing

on his new organ 'The organ is the first of instruments,' he said; or

to sing to him a song by Mendelssohn, with a great deal of care over

the time and the breathing, and only a very occasional false note! And,

after dinner, to--oh, how good of him! He had given up his double chess!

And so there could be round games at the round table, or everyone could

spend the evening in the most amusing way imaginable--spinning counters

and rings.' When the babies came it was still more wonderful. Pussy was

such a clever little girl ("I am not Pussy! I am the Princess Royal!"

she had angrily exclaimed on one occasion); and Bertie--well, she could

only pray MOST fervently that the little Prince of Wales would grow up

to "resemble his angelic dearest Father in EVERY, EVERY respect, both in

body and mind." Her dear Mamma, too, had been drawn once more into the

family circle, for Albert had brought about a reconciliation, and the

departure of Lehzen had helped to obliterate the past. In Victoria's

eyes, life had become an idyll, and, if the essential elements of an

idyll are happiness, love and simplicity, an idyll it was; though,

indeed, it was of a kind that might have disconcerted Theocritus.

"Albert brought in dearest little Pussy," wrote Her Majesty in her

journal, "in such a smart white merino dress trimmed with blue, which

Mamma had given her, and a pretty cap, and placed her on my bed,

seating himself next to her, and she was very dear and good. And, as my

precious, invaluable Albert sat there, and our little Love between us, I

felt quite moved with happiness and gratitude to God."

The past--the past of only three years since--when she looked back upon

it, seemed a thing so remote and alien that she could explain it to

herself in no other way than as some kind of delusion--an unfortunate

mistake. Turning over an old volume of her diary, she came upon this

sentence--"As for 'the confidence of the Crown,' God knows! No MINISTER,

NO FRIEND, EVER possessed it so entirely as this truly excellent Lord

Melbourne possesses mine!" A pang shot through her--she seized a

pen, and wrote upon the margin--"Reading this again, I cannot forbear

remarking what an artificial sort of happiness MINE was THEN, and what

a blessing it is I have now in my beloved Husband REAL and solid

happiness, which no Politics, no worldly reverses CAN change; it could

not have lasted long as it was then, for after all, kind and excellent

as Lord M. is, and kind as he was to me, it was but in Society that I

had amusement, and I was only living on that superficial resource, which

I THEN FANCIED was happiness! Thank God! for ME and others, this is

changed, and I KNOW WHAT REAL HAPPINESS IS--V. R." How did she know?

What is the distinction between happiness that is real and happiness

that is felt? So a philosopher--Lord M. himself perhaps--might have

inquired. But she was no philosopher, and Lord M. was a phantom, and

Albert was beside her, and that was enough.

Happy, certainly, she was; and she wanted everyone to know it. Her

letters to King Leopold are sprinkled thick with raptures. "Oh! my

dearest uncle, I am sure if you knew HOW happy, how blessed I feel, and

how PROUD I feel in possessing SUCH a perfect being as my husband..."

such ecstasies seemed to gush from her pen unceasingly and almost

of their own accord. When, one day, without thinking, Lady Lyttelton

described someone to her as being "as happy as a queen," and then grew

a little confused, "Don't correct yourself, Lady Lyttelton," said Her

Majesty. "A queen IS a very happy woman."

But this new happiness was no lotus dream. On the contrary, it was

bracing, rather than relaxing. Never before had she felt so acutely the

necessity for doing her duty. She worked more methodically than ever

at the business of State; she watched over her children with untiring

vigilance. She carried on a large correspondence; she was occupied with

her farm--her dairy--a whole multitude of household avocations--from

morning till night. Her active, eager little body hurrying with quick

steps after the long strides of Albert down the corridors and avenues

of Windsor, seemed the very expression of her spirit. Amid all the

softness, the deliciousness of unmixed joy, all the liquescence, the

overflowings of inexhaustible sentiment, her native rigidity remained.

"A vein of iron," said Lady Lyttelton, who, as royal governess, had good

means of observation, "runs through her most extraordinary character."

Sometimes the delightful routine of domestic existence had to be

interrupted. It was necessary to exchange Windsor for Buckingham

Palace, to open Parliament, or to interview official personages, or,

occasionally, to entertain foreign visitors at the Castle. Then the

quiet Court put on a sudden magnificence, and sovereigns from over

the seas--Louis Philippe, or the King of Prussia, or the King of

Saxony--found at Windsor an entertainment that was indeed a royal one.

Few spectacles in Europe, it was agreed, produced an effect so imposing

as the great Waterloo banqueting hall, crowded with guests in sparkling

diamonds and blazing uniforms, the long walls hung with the stately

portraits of heroes, and the tables loaded with the gorgeous gold plate

of the kings of England. But, in that wealth of splendour, the most

imposing spectacle of all was the Queen. The little hausfrau, who had

spent the day before walking out with her children, inspecting her

livestock, practicing shakes at the piano, and filling up her journal

with adoring descriptions of her husband, suddenly shone forth, without

art, without effort, by a spontaneous and natural transition, the very

culmination of Majesty. The Tsar of Russia himself was deeply impressed.

Victoria on her side viewed with secret awe the tremendous Nicholas. "A

great event and a great compliment HIS visit certainly is," she told

her uncle, "and the people HERE are extremely flattered at it. He is

certainly a VERY STRIKING man; still very handsome. His profile is

BEAUTIFUL and his manners MOST dignified and graceful; extremely

civil--quite alarmingly so, as he is so full of attentions and

POLITENESS. But the expression of the EYES is FORMIDABLE and unlike

anything I ever saw before." She and Albert and "the good King of

Saxony," who happened to be there at the same time, and whom, she said,

"we like much--he is so unassuming-" drew together like tame villatic

fowl in the presence of that awful eagle. When he was gone, they

compared notes about his face, his unhappiness, and his despotic power

over millions. Well! She for her part could not help pitying him, and

she thanked God she was Queen of England.

When the time came for returning some of these visits, the royal pair

set forth in their yacht, much to Victoria's satisfaction. "I do love a

ship!" she exclaimed, ran up and down ladders with the greatest agility,

and cracked jokes with the sailors. The Prince was more aloof. They

visited Louis Philippe at the Chateau d'Eu; they visited King Leopold in

Brussels. It happened that a still more remarkable Englishwoman was in

the Belgian capital, but she was not remarked; and Queen Victoria passed

unknowing before the steady gaze of one of the mistresses in M. Heger's

pensionnat. "A little stout, vivacious lady, very plainly dressed--not

much dignity or pretension about her," was Charlotte Bronte's comment

as the royal carriage and six flashed by her, making her wait on the

pavement for a moment, and interrupting the train of her reflections.

Victoria was in high spirits, and even succeeded in instilling a little

cheerfulness into her uncle's sombre Court. King Leopold, indeed, was

perfectly contented. His dearest hopes had been fulfilled; all his

ambitions were satisfied; and for the rest of his life he had only to

enjoy, in undisturbed decorum, his throne, his respectability, the table

of precedence, and the punctual discharge of his irksome duties.

But unfortunately the felicity of those who surrounded him was less

complete. His Court, it was murmured, was as gloomy as a conventicle,

and the most dismal of all the sufferers was his wife. "Pas de

plaisanteries, madame!" he had exclaimed to the unfortunate successor of

the Princess Charlotte, when, in the early days of their marriage, she

had attempted a feeble joke. Did she not understand that the consort

of a constitutional sovereign must not be frivolous? She understood, at

last, only too well; and when the startled walls of the state apartments

re-echoed to the chattering and the laughter of Victoria, the poor lady

found that she had almost forgotten how to smile.

Another year, Germany was visited, and Albert displayed the beauties of

his home. When Victoria crossed the frontier, she was much excited--and

she was astonished as well. "To hear the people speak German," she noted

in her diary, "and to see the German soldiers, etc., seemed to me

so singular." Having recovered from this slight shock, she found the

country charming. She was feted everywhere, crowds of the surrounding

royalties swooped down to welcome her, and the prettiest groups of

peasant children, dressed in their best clothes, presented her with

bunches of flowers. The principality of Coburg, with its romantic

scenery and its well-behaved inhabitants, particularly delighted her;

and when she woke up one morning to find herself in "dear Rosenau, my

Albert's birthplace," it was "like a beautiful dream." On her return

home, she expatiated, in a letter to King Leopold, upon the pleasures

of the trip, dwelling especially upon the intensity of her affection for

Albert's native land. "I have a feeling," she said, "for our dear little

Germany, which I cannot describe. I felt it at Rosenau so much. It is

a something which touches me, and which goes to my heart, and makes me

inclined to cry. I never felt at any other place that sort of pensive

pleasure and peace which I felt there. I fear I almost like it too

much."

V

The husband was not so happy as the wife. In spite of the great

improvement in his situation, in spite of a growing family and the

adoration of Victoria, Albert was still a stranger in a strange land,

and the serenity of spiritual satisfaction was denied him. It was

something, no doubt, to have dominated his immediate environment; but it

was not enough; and, besides, in the very completeness of his success,

there was a bitterness. Victoria idolised him; but it was understanding

that he craved for, not idolatry; and how much did Victoria, filled

to the brim though she was with him, understand him? How much does the

bucket understand the well? He was lonely. He went to his organ and

improvised with learned modulations until the sounds, swelling and

subsiding through elaborate cadences, brought some solace to his heart.

Then, with the elasticity of youth, he hurried off to play with the

babies, or to design a new pigsty, or to read aloud the "Church History

of Scotland" to Victoria, or to pirouette before her on one toe, like a

ballet-dancer, with a fixed smile, to show her how she ought to behave

when she appeared in public places. Thus did he amuse himself; but there

was one distraction in which he did not indulge. He never flirted--no,

not with the prettiest ladies of the Court. When, during their

engagement, the Queen had remarked with pride to Lord Melbourne that

the Prince paid no attention to any other woman, the cynic had answered,

"No, that sort of thing is apt to come later;" upon which she had

scolded him severely, and then hurried off to Stockmar to repeat what

Lord M. had said. But the Baron had reassured her; though in other

cases, he had replied, that might happen, he did not think it would

in Albert's. And the Baron was right. Throughout their married life no

rival female charms ever had cause to give Victoria one moment's pang of

jealousy.

What more and more absorbed him--bringing with it a curious comfort of

its own--was his work. With the advent of Peel, he began to intervene

actively in the affairs of the State. In more ways than one--in the cast

of their intelligence, in their moral earnestness, even in the uneasy

formalism of their manners--the two men resembled each other; there was

a sympathy between them; and thus Peel was ready enough to listen to the

advice of Stockmar, and to urge the Prince forward into public life.

A royal commission was about to be formed to enquire whether advantage

might not be taken of the rebuilding of the Houses of Parliament to

encourage the Fine Arts in the United Kingdom; and Peel, with great

perspicacity, asked the Prince to preside over it. The work was of a

kind which precisely suited Albert: his love of art, his love of method,

his love of coming into contact--close yet dignified--with distinguished

men--it satisfied them all; and he threw himself into it con amore.

Some of the members of the commission were somewhat alarmed when, in his

opening speech, he pointed out the necessity of dividing the subjects

to be considered into "categories-" the word, they thought, smacked

dangerously of German metaphysics; but their confidence returned when

they observed His Royal Highness's extraordinary technical acquaintance

with the processes of fresco painting. When the question arose as to

whether the decorations upon the walls of the new buildings should,

or should not, have a moral purpose, the Prince spoke strongly for the

affirmative. Although many, he observed, would give but a passing glance

to the works, the painter was not therefore to forget that others

might view them with more thoughtful eyes. This argument convinced the

commission, and it was decided that the subjects to be depicted should

be of an improving nature. The frescoes were carried out in accordance

with the commission's instructions, but unfortunately before very long

they had become, even to the most thoughtful eyes, totally invisible.

It seems that His Royal Highness's technical acquaintance with the

processes of fresco painting was incomplete!

The next task upon which the Prince embarked was a more arduous one:

he determined to reform the organisation of the royal household. This

reform had been long overdue. For years past the confusion, discomfort,

and extravagance in the royal residences, and in Buckingham Palace

particularly, had been scandalous; no reform had been practicable under

the rule of the Baroness; but her functions had now devolved upon

the Prince, and in 1844, he boldly attacked the problem. Three years

earlier, Stockmar, after careful enquiry, had revealed in an elaborate

memorandum an extraordinary state of affairs. The control of the

household, it appeared, was divided in the strangest manner between a

number of authorities, each independent of the other, each possessed

of vague and fluctuating powers, without responsibility, and without

co-ordination. Of these authorities, the most prominent were the Lord

Steward and the Lord Chamberlain--noblemen of high rank and political

importance, who changed office with every administration, who did not

reside with the Court, and had no effective representatives attached

to it. The distribution of their respective functions was uncertain

and peculiar. In Buckingham Palace, it was believed that the Lord

Chamberlain had charge of the whole of the rooms, with the exception of

the kitchen, sculleries, and pantries, which were claimed by the Lord

Steward. At the same time, the outside of the Palace was under the

control of neither of these functionaries--but of the Office of Woods

and Forests; and thus, while the insides of the windows were cleaned by

the Department of the Lord Chamberlain--or possibly, in certain cases,

of the Lord Steward--the Office of Woods and Forests cleaned their

outsides. Of the servants, the housekeepers, the pages, and the

housemaids were under the authority of the Lord Chamberlain; the clerk

of the kitchen, the cooks, and the porters were under that of the Lord

Steward; but the footmen, the livery-porters, and the under-butlers

took their orders from yet another official--the Master of the Horse.

Naturally, in these circumstances the service was extremely defective

and the lack of discipline among the servants disgraceful. They absented

themselves for as long as they pleased and whenever the fancy took

them; "and if," as the Baron put it, "smoking, drinking, and other

irregularities occur in the dormitories, where footmen, etc., sleep

ten and twelve in each room, no one can help it." As for Her Majesty's

guests, there was nobody to show them to their rooms, and they were

often left, having utterly lost their way in the complicated passages,

to wander helpless by the hour. The strange divisions of authority

extended not only to persons but to things. The Queen observed that

there was never a fire in the dining-room. She enquired why. The answer

was "the Lord Steward lays the fire, and the Lord Chamberlain lights

it;" the underlings of those two great noblemen having failed to come

to an accommodation, there was no help for it--the Queen must eat in the

cold.

A surprising incident opened everyone's eyes to the confusion and

negligence that reigned in the Palace. A fortnight after the birth of

the Princess Royal the nurse heard a suspicious noise in the room next

to the Queen's bedroom. She called to one of the pages, who, looking

under a large sofa, perceived there a crouching figure "with a most

repulsive appearance." It was "the boy Jones." This enigmatical

personage, whose escapades dominated the newspapers for several ensuing

months, and whose motives and character remained to the end ambiguous,

was an undersized lad of 17, the son of a tailor, who had apparently

gained admittance to the Palace by climbing over the garden wall and

walking in through an open window. Two years before he had paid a

similar visit in the guise of a chimney-sweep. He now declared that he

had spent three days in the Palace, hiding under various beds, that he

had "helped himself to soup and other eatables," and that he had "sat

upon the throne, seen the Queen, and heard the Princess Royal squall."

Every detail of the strange affair was eagerly canvassed. The Times

reported that the boy Jones had "from his infancy been fond of reading,"

but that "his countenance is exceedingly sullen." It added: "The sofa

under which the boy Jones was discovered, we understand, is one of

the most costly and magnificent material and workmanship, and ordered

expressly for the accommodation of the royal and illustrious visitors

who call to pay their respects to Her Majesty." The culprit was sent

for three months to the "House of Correction." When he emerged, he

immediately returned to Buckingham Palace. He was discovered, and sent

back to the "House of Correction" for another three months, after which

he was offered L4 a week by a music hall to appear upon the stage.

He refused this offer, and shortly afterwards was found by the police

loitering round Buckingham Palace. The authorities acted vigorously,

and, without any trial or process of law, shipped the boy Jones off to

sea. A year later his ship put into Portsmouth to refit, and he at once

disembarked and walked to London. He was re-arrested before he reached

the Palace, and sent back to his ship, the Warspite. On this occasion it

was noticed that he had "much improved in personal appearance and grown

quite corpulent;" and so the boy Jones passed out of history, though

we catch one last glimpse of him in 1844 falling overboard in the

night between Tunis and Algiers. He was fished up again; but it was

conjectured--as one of the Warspite's officers explained in a letter

to The Times--that his fall had not been accidental, but that he

had deliberately jumped into the Mediterranean in order to "see the

life-buoy light burning." Of a boy with such a record, what else could

be supposed?

But discomfort and alarm were not the only results of the mismanagement

of the household; the waste, extravagance, and peculation that also

flowed from it were immeasurable. There were preposterous perquisites

and malpractices of every kind. It was, for instance, an ancient and

immutable rule that a candle that had once been lighted should never be

lighted again; what happened to the old candles, nobody knew. Again, the

Prince, examining the accounts, was puzzled by a weekly expenditure of

thirty-five shillings on "Red Room Wine." He enquired into the matter,

and after great difficulty discovered that in the time of George III

a room in Windsor Castle with red hangings had once been used as a

guard-room, and that five shillings a day had been allowed to provide

wine for the officers. The guard had long since been moved elsewhere,

but the payment for wine in the Red Room continued, the money being

received by a half-pay officer who held the sinecure position of

under-butler.

After much laborious investigation, and a stiff struggle with the

multitude of vested interests which had been brought into being by long

years of neglect, the Prince succeeded in effecting a complete reform.

The various conflicting authorities were induced to resign their powers

into the hands of a single official, the Master of the Household, who

became responsible for the entire management of the royal palaces. Great

economies were made, and the whole crowd of venerable abuses was swept

away. Among others, the unlucky half-pay officer of the Red Room was,

much to his surprise, given the choice of relinquishing his weekly

emolument or of performing the duties of an under-butler. Even the

irregularities among the footmen, etc., were greatly diminished. There

were outcries and complaints; the Prince was accused of meddling, of

injustice, and of saving candle-ends; but he held on his course, and

before long the admirable administration of the royal household was

recognised as a convincing proof of his perseverance and capacity.

At the same time his activity was increasing enormously in a more

important sphere. He had become the Queen's Private Secretary, her

confidential adviser, her second self. He was now always present at her

interviews with Ministers. He took, like the Queen, a special interest

in foreign policy; but there was no public question in which his

influence was not felt. A double process was at work; while Victoria

fell more and more absolutely under his intellectual predominance, he,

simultaneously, grew more and more completely absorbed by the machinery

of high politics--the incessant and multifarious business of a great

State. Nobody any more could call him a dilettante; he was a worker,

a public personage, a man of affairs. Stockmar noted the change with

exultation. "The Prince," he wrote, "has improved very much lately.

He has evidently a head for politics. He has become, too, far more

independent. His mental activity is constantly on the increase, and he

gives the greater part of his time to business, without complaining."

"The relations between husband and wife," added the Baron, "are all one

could desire."

Long before Peel's ministry came to an end, there had been a complete

change in Victoria's attitude towards him. His appreciation of the

Prince had softened her heart; the sincerity and warmth of his nature,

which, in private intercourse with those whom he wished to please, had

the power of gradually dissipating the awkwardness of his manners,

did the rest. She came in time to regard him with intense feelings of

respect and attachment. She spoke of "our worthy Peel," for whom, she

said, she had "an EXTREME admiration" and who had shown himself "a man

of unbounded LOYALTY, COURAGE patriotism, and HIGH-MINDEDNESS, and his

conduct towards me has been CHIVALROUS almost, I might say." She dreaded

his removal from office almost as frantically as she had once dreaded

that of Lord M. It would be, she declared, a GREAT CALAMITY. Six years

before, what would she have said, if a prophet had told her that the day

would come when she would be horrified by the triumph of the Whigs? Yet

there was no escaping it; she had to face the return of her old

friends. In the ministerial crises of 1845 and 1846, the Prince played a

dominating part. Everybody recognised that he was the real centre of the

negotiations--the actual controller of the forces and the functions

of the Crown. The process by which this result was reached had been so

gradual as to be almost imperceptible; but it may be said with certainty

that, by the close of Peel's administration, Albert had become, in

effect, the King of England.

VI

With the final emergence of the Prince came the final extinction of Lord

Melbourne. A year after his loss of office, he had been struck down by

a paralytic seizure; he had apparently recovered, but his old elasticity

had gone for ever. Moody, restless, and unhappy, he wandered like a

ghost about the town, bursting into soliloquies in public places, or

asking odd questions, suddenly, a propos de bottes. "I'll be hanged if

I do it for you, my Lord," he was heard to say in the hall at Brooks's,

standing by himself, and addressing the air after much thought. "Don't

you consider," he abruptly asked a fellow-guest at Lady Holland's,

leaning across the dinner-table in a pause of the conversation, "that

it was a most damnable act of Henri Quatre to change his religion with

a view to securing the Crown?" He sat at home, brooding for hours in

miserable solitude. He turned over his books--his classics and his

Testaments--but they brought him no comfort at all. He longed for the

return of the past, for the impossible, for he knew not what, for the

devilries of Caro, for the happy platitudes of Windsor. His friends had

left him, and no wonder, he said in bitterness--the fire was out. He

secretly hoped for a return to power, scanning the newspapers with

solicitude, and occasionally making a speech in the House of Lords. His

correspondence with the Queen continued, and he appeared from time to

time at Court; but he was a mere simulacrum of his former self; "the

dream," wrote Victoria, "is past." As for his political views, they

could no longer be tolerated. The Prince was an ardent Free Trader, and

so, of course, was the Queen; and when, dining at Windsor at the time of

the repeal of the Corn Laws, Lord Melbourne suddenly exclaimed, "Ma'am,

it's a damned dishonest act!" everyone was extremely embarrassed. Her

Majesty laughed and tried to change the conversation, but without avail;

Lord Melbourne returned to the charge again and again with--"I say,

Ma'am, it's damned dishonest!"--until the Queen said "Lord Melbourne, I

must beg you not to say anything more on this subject now;" and then

he held his tongue. She was kind to him, writing him long letters, and

always remembering his birthday; but it was kindness at a distance, and

he knew it. He had become "poor Lord Melbourne." A profound disquietude

devoured him. He tried to fix his mind on the condition of Agriculture

and the Oxford Movement. He wrote long memoranda in utterly

undecipherable handwriting. He was convinced that he had lost all his

money, and could not possibly afford to be a Knight of the Garter. He

had run through everything, and yet--if Peel went out, he might be sent

for--why not? He was never sent for. The Whigs ignored him in their

consultations, and the leadership of the party passed to Lord

John Russell. When Lord John became Prime Minister, there was much

politeness, but Lord Melbourne was not asked to join the Cabinet. He

bore the blow with perfect amenity; but he understood, at last, that

that was the end.

For two years more he lingered, sinking slowly into unconsciousness and

imbecility. Sometimes, propped up in his chair, he would be heard to

murmur, with unexpected appositeness, the words of Samson:--

"So much I feel my general spirit droop,

My hopes all flat, nature within me seems,

In all her functions weary of herself,

My race of glory run, and race of shame,

And I shall shortly be with them that rest."

A few days before his death, Victoria, learning that there was no hope

of his recovery, turned her mind for a little towards that which had

once been Lord M. "You will grieve to hear," she told King Leopold,

"that our good, dear, old friend Melbourne is dying... One cannot

forget how good and kind and amiable he was, and it brings back so many

recollections to my mind, though, God knows! I never wish that time back

again."

She was in little danger. The tide of circumstance was flowing now

with irresistible fullness towards a very different consummation.

The seriousness of Albert, the claims of her children, her own inmost

inclinations, and the movement of the whole surrounding world, combined

to urge her forward along the narrow way of public and domestic duty.

Her family steadily increased. Within eighteen months of the birth of

the Prince of Wales the Princess Alice appeared, and a year later the

Prince Alfred, and then the Princess Helena, and, two years afterwards,

the Princess Louise; and still there were signs that the pretty row of

royal infants was not complete. The parents, more and more involved in

family cares and family happiness, found the pomp of Windsor galling,

and longed for some more intimate and remote retreat. On the advice of

Peel they purchased the estate of Osborne, in the Isle of Wight. Their

skill and economy in financial matters had enabled them to lay aside a

substantial sum of money; and they could afford, out of their savings,

not merely to buy the property but to build a new house for themselves

and to furnish it at a cost of L200,000. At Osborne, by the sea-shore,

and among the woods, which Albert, with memories of Rosenau in his mind,

had so carefully planted, the royal family spent every hour that could

be snatched from Windsor and London--delightful hours of deep retirement

and peaceful work. The public looked on with approval. A few aristocrats

might sniff or titter; but with the nation at large the Queen was now

once more extremely popular. The middle-classes, in particular, were

pleased. They liked a love-match; they liked a household which combined

the advantages of royalty and virtue, and in which they seemed to see,

reflected as in some resplendent looking-glass, the ideal image of the

very lives they led themselves. Their own existences, less exalted,

but oh! so soothingly similar, acquired an added excellence, an added

succulence, from the early hours, the regularity, the plain tuckers, the

round games, the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding oft Osborne. It was

indeed a model Court. Not only were its central personages the patterns

of propriety, but no breath of scandal, no shadow of indecorum, might

approach its utmost boundaries. For Victoria, with all the zeal of a

convert, upheld now the standard of moral purity with an inflexibility

surpassing, if that were possible, Albert's own. She blushed to think

how she had once believed--how she had once actually told HIM--that one

might be too strict and particular in such matters, and that one ought

to be indulgent towards other people's dreadful sins. But she was

no longer Lord M's pupil: she was Albert's wife. She was more--the

embodiment, the living apex of a new era in the generations of mankind.

The last vestige of the eighteenth century had disappeared; cynicism and

subtlety were shrivelled into powder; and duty, industry, morality, and

domesticity triumphed over them. Even the very chairs and tables had

assumed, with a singular responsiveness, the forms of prim solidity. The

Victorian Age was in full swing.

VII

Only one thing more was needed: material expression must be given to

the new ideals and the new forces so that they might stand revealed, in

visible glory, before the eyes of an astonished world. It was for Albert

to supply this want. He mused, and was inspired: the Great Exhibition

came into his head.

Without consulting anyone, he thought out the details of his conception

with the minutest care. There had been exhibitions before in the world,

but this should surpass them all. It should contain specimens of

what every country could produce in raw materials, in machinery and

mechanical inventions, in manufactures, and in the applied and plastic

arts. It should not be merely useful and ornamental; it should teach

a high moral lesson. It should be an international monument to those

supreme blessings of civilisation--peace, progress, and prosperity. For

some time past the Prince had been devoting much of his attention to the

problems of commerce and industry. He had a taste for machinery of every

kind, and his sharp eye had more than once detected, with the precision

of an expert, a missing cog-wheel in some vast and complicated engine. A

visit to Liverpool, where he opened the Albert Dock, impressed upon his

mind the immensity of modern industrial forces, though in a letter

to Victoria describing his experiences, he was careful to retain his

customary lightness of touch. "As I write," he playfully remarked,

"you will be making your evening toilette, and not be ready in time for

dinner. I must set about the same task, and not, let me hope, with the

same result... The loyalty and enthusiasm of the inhabitants are great;

but the heat is greater still. I am satisfied that if the population of

Liverpool had been weighed this morning, and were to be weighed again

now, they would be found many degrees lighter. The docks are wonderful,

and the mass of shipping incredible." In art and science he had been

deeply interested since boyhood; his reform of the household had put

his talent for organisation beyond a doubt; and thus from every point

of view the Prince was well qualified for his task. Having matured his

plans, he summoned a small committee and laid an outline of his scheme

before it. The committee approved, and the great undertaking was set on

foot without delay.

Two years, however, passed before it was completed. For two years the

Prince laboured with extraordinary and incessant energy. At first all

went smoothly. The leading manufacturers warmly took up the idea; the

colonies and the East India Company were sympathetic; the great foreign

nations were eager to send in their contributions; the powerful support

of Sir Robert Peel was obtained, and the use of a site in Hyde Park,

selected by the Prince, was sanctioned by the Government. Out of 234

plans for the exhibition building, the Prince chose that of Joseph

Paxton, famous as a designer of gigantic conservatories; and the work

was on the point of being put in hand when a series of unexpected

difficulties arose. Opposition to the whole scheme, which had long been

smouldering in various quarters, suddenly burst forth. There was

an outcry, headed by The Times, against the use of the park for the

exhibition; for a moment it seemed as if the building would be relegated

to a suburb; but, after a fierce debate in the House, the supporters

of the site in the Park won the day. Then it appeared that the project

lacked a sufficient financial backing; but this obstacle, too, was

surmounted, and eventually L200,000 was subscribed as a guarantee fund.

The enormous glass edifice rose higher and higher, covering acres and

enclosing towering elm trees beneath its roof: and then the fury of

its enemies reached a climax. The fashionable, the cautious, the

Protectionists, the pious, all joined in the hue and cry. It was pointed

out that the Exhibition would serve as a rallying point for all the

ruffians in England, for all the malcontents in Europe; and that on

the day of its opening there would certainly be a riot and probably a

revolution. It was asserted that the glass roof was porous, and that the

droppings of fifty million sparrows would utterly destroy every object

beneath it. Agitated nonconformists declared that the Exhibition was an

arrogant and wicked enterprise which would infallibly bring down God's

punishment upon the nation. Colonel Sibthorpe, in the debate on the

Address, prayed that hail and lightning might descend from heaven on the

accursed thing. The Prince, with unyielding perseverance and infinite

patience, pressed on to his goal. His health was seriously affected; he

suffered from constant sleeplessness; his strength was almost worn out.

But he remembered the injunctions of Stockmar and never relaxed. The

volume of his labours grew more prodigious every day; he toiled at

committees, presided over public meetings, made speeches, and carried on

communications with every corner of the civilised world--and his efforts

were rewarded. On May 1, 1851, the Great Exhibition was opened by the

Queen before an enormous concourse of persons, amid scenes of dazzling

brilliancy and triumphant enthusiasm.

Victoria herself was in a state of excitement which bordered on

delirium. She performed her duties in a trance of joy, gratitude, and

amazement, and, when it was all over, her feelings poured themselves out

into her journal in a torrential flood. The day had been nothing but

an endless succession of glories--or rather one vast glory--one vast

radiation of Albert. Everything she had seen, everything she had felt

or heard, had been so beautiful, so wonderful that even the royal

underlinings broke down under the burden of emphasis, while her

remembering pen rushed on, regardless, from splendour to splendour--the

huge crowds, so well--behaved and loyal-flags of all the nations

floating--the inside of the building, so immense, with myriads of people

and the sun shining through the roof--a little side room, where we left

our shawls--palm-trees and machinery--dear Albert--the place so big

that we could hardly hear the organ--thankfulness to God--a curious

assemblage of political and distinguished men--the March from

Athalie--God bless my dearest Albert, God bless my dearest country!--a

glass fountain--the Duke and Lord Anglesey walking arm in arm--a

beautiful Amazon, in bronze, by Kiss--Mr. Paxton, who might be justly

proud, and rose from being a common gardener's boy--Sir George Grey in

tears, and everybody astonished and delighted.

A striking incident occurred when, after a short prayer by the

Archbishop of Canterbury, the choir of 600 voices burst into the

"Hallelujah Chorus." At that moment a Chinaman, dressed in full national

costume, stepped out into the middle of the central nave, and, advancing

slowly towards the royal group, did obeisance to Her Majesty. The Queen,

much impressed, had no doubt that he was an eminent mandarin; and,

when the final procession was formed, orders were given that, as

no representative of the Celestial Empire was present, he should be

included in the diplomatic cortege. He accordingly, with the utmost

gravity, followed immediately behind the Ambassadors. He subsequently

disappeared, and it was rumoured, among ill-natured people, that, far

from being a mandarin, the fellow was a mere impostor. But nobody ever

really discovered the nature of the comments that had been lurking

behind the matchless impassivity of that yellow face.

A few days later Victoria poured out her heart to her uncle. The

first of May, she said, was "the GREATEST day in our history, the most

BEAUTIFUL and IMPOSING and TOUCHING spectacle ever seen, and the triumph

of my beloved Albert... It was the HAPPIEST, PROUDEST day in my life,

and I can think of nothing else. Albert's dearest name is immortalised

with this GREAT conception, HIS own, and my OWN dear country SHOWED she

was WORTHY of it. The triumph is IMMENSE."

It was. The enthusiasm was universal; even the bitterest scoffers were

converted, and joined in the chorus of praise. Congratulations from

public bodies poured in; the City of Paris gave a great fete to the

Exhibition committee; and the Queen and the Prince made a triumphal

progress through the North of England. The financial results were

equally remarkable. The total profit made by the Exhibition amounted to

a sum of L165,000, which was employed in the purchase of land for the

erection of a permanent National Museum in South Kensington. During

the six months of its existence in Hyde Park over six million persons

visited it, and not a single accident occurred. But there is an end to

all things; and the time had come for the Crystal Palace to be removed

to the salubrious seclusion of Sydenham. Victoria, sad but resigned,

paid her final visit. "It looked so beautiful," she said. "I could not

believe it was the last time I was to see it. An organ, accompanied by

a fine and powerful wind instrument called the sommerophone, was being

played, and it nearly upset me. The canvas is very dirty, the red

curtains are faded and many things are very much soiled, still the

effect is fresh and new as ever and most beautiful. The glass fountain

was already removed... and the sappers and miners were rolling about

the little boxes just as they did at the beginning. It made us all very

melancholy." But more cheerful thoughts followed. When all was over,

she expressed her boundless satisfaction in a dithyrambic letter to

the Prime Minister. Her beloved husband's name, she said, was for ever

immortalised, and that this was universally recognised by the country

was a source to her of immense happiness and gratitude. "She feels

grateful to Providence," Her Majesty concluded, "to have permitted her

to be united to so great, so noble, so excellent a Prince, and this year

will ever remain the proudest and happiest of her life. The day of the

closing of the Exhibition (which the Queen regretted much she could not

witness), was the twelfth anniversary of her betrothal to the Prince,

which is a curious coincidence."