DOMESTIC LIFE AFTER 1861.
After the death of the Prince Consort the available materials for a
life of Her Majesty are much less ample. It is true that in giving
directions to Sir Theodore Martin for writing the Life of the Prince,
Her Majesty’s desire was that only so much of her own life was to be
revealed as was absolutely necessary for the continuity of the story;
but the two lives were so completely one that it was impossible to
write an account of one that was not almost equally an account of
the other. They realized, as long as the Prince lived, the dream of
Tennyson’s “Princess”:
“Everywhere
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth,
Two in the tangled business of the world,
Two in the liberal offices of life.”
Sources of information from political memoirs and biographies also
became rarer, till they disappear altogether as we approach recent
years. The burning political questions of the present day cannot be
handled as those can that have been cooling for nearly half-a-century.
Her Majesty’s published diaries and the Memoir of Princess Alice
studiously exclude nearly all references to the multifarious and
constant political duties and interests devolving on the Head of the
State; it is only every now and then and, as it were, accidentally,
that Her Majesty’s political activities, during the thirty-four years
since her husband’s death, have been made known to the mass of her
subjects; whereas, during the twenty-one years of her married life,
they have been set forth in full detail. There is, however, every
reason to know that Her Majesty is fully as active, and certainly has
been as efficient, in the discharge of her political duties since she
has stood alone as she was when her “permanent Minister” was by her
side.
When the blow of her husband’s death fell upon her, the effect on the
Queen was overwhelming. She was stunned by it. In after years she
could hardly remember those dreadful days of the first realization of
her loss; the effect of her anguish was like that of a physical blow,
producing insensibility, or at least the inability to record in the
tables of the memory the sharp pangs she then endured. Her principal
comforter and supporter was her daughter, Princess Alice. In a few
days the young girl of 18 developed into a thoughtful, helpful woman.
She was for a time the medium of communication between the Queen and
her Ministers. Fears were entertained, especially by Leopold, King
of the Belgians, that residence at Windsor would involve risk to the
Queen’s health and even to her life, and he induced her Ministers to
bring great pressure to bear on her to leave the castle and go to
Osborne even before the funeral of the Prince Consort. At first, very
naturally, the Queen entirely declined to entertain the idea; but King
Leopold insisted, and it was finally through the persuasion of the
Princess Alice that the Queen was induced to yield. Broken-hearted
as she was, she did not forget the duty she owed to her country and
family. In after years Princess Alice wrote that it was cruel and wrong
to force her mother to leave Windsor at such a moment; but the motive,
whether misplaced or not, was anxiety for the Queen’s health, and this
was paramount over other considerations. The responsibility thrown on
Princess Alice in two directions, to support and console the Queen,
and also as the medium of communication for a time with the Ministers,
to understand and follow the political movements and events of the
times, wonderfully developed the character of the young girl. To the
end of her life she combined these two characteristics in a pre-eminent
degree. She was one of those women who are born to seek that which
was lost, to bind up that which was broken, and strengthen that which
was sick; and she also took the keenest and most intelligent interest
in politics, following the movements for the unity of Germany, the
development of constitutional liberty in various countries, and the
education and employment of women, not only with sympathy, but with
practical knowledge and a constant wish to forward all these movements
by personal exertions and sacrifices. She was very soon to leave her
mother’s home for her husband’s. Her marriage with Prince Louis of
Hesse took place on July 1st, 1862; but though her home was henceforth
in Germany, the country of her birth remained the country of her heart:
she loved England as the home of liberty and as the country which was
leading the way of advancement both for men and women. It is a touching
incident that, dying as she did at Darmstadt in 1878, her last request
to her husband was that the Union Jack might be laid on her coffin.
Her devotion to the Queen in the hour of her desolation greatly
endeared her to the English people; the memory of that sacred time of
common sorrow made a special bond between the mother and daughter.
It will not be forgotten that when, in 1871, the Prince of Wales had
a desperate attack of the same illness (typhoid fever) that had been
fatal to his father ten years earlier, the Princess Alice helped the
Princess of Wales to nurse him safely through it; the anniversary of
the Prince Consort’s death, December 14th, was the day on which the
illness of his son took a favorable turn. On the first anniversary of
the turning point in the Prince of Wales’s illness, December 14th,
1872, Princess Alice wrote to the Queen that the day must always be
one of mixed recollections and feelings, of thankfulness as well as of
sorrow, and that in both respects it would always be “a day _hallowed_
in our family.” Six years later it was on this very day, December 14th,
1878, that the beloved and gifted Princess breathed her last.
All the contemporary records speak of the Queen as having borne her
terrible grief with courage. She is said to have been more outwardly
composed than she had been after the death of her mother. She began
after a few days to transact necessary business. On the 20th December,
one of the family wrote from Windsor that she had signed some papers,
and had seen Lord Granville. One of her political letters to Lord
Palmerston, written in January, 1862, has been already quoted. It is
entirely characteristic of her that her first public utterance after
the death of her husband was an expression of tenderest sympathy with
the wives and children of 204 poor men who were killed in the Hartley
Colliery explosion in January, 1862. Her own misery, the Queen said,
made her feel the more for them. A little later she received visits
of sympathy and condolence from her uncle, King Leopold, and from her
half-sister, Princess Feodore of Hohenlohe. To a nature like hers, work
and the sympathy of loving friends are the best of all balms; but she
was intensely forlorn; she had lost the source of joy and happiness,
and nothing could bring it back. The joyous young woman, radiant with
light-hearted happiness, ceased to exist on December 14th, 1861.
Henceforward our Queen has been a careworn woman, acquainted with
grief. She has herself told how her sad and suffering heart was cheered
by the solemn beauty of her beloved Highlands, and especially that
she was taught many a lesson of resignation and faith by her faithful
Scottish servants. One of these, John Grant, wheeling her chair, or
leading her pony along the mountain paths, taught her that she must not
look upon the days especially associated with her husband’s memory--his
birthday, August 26th, or even the day of his death, December 14th--as
days of mourning. “That’s not the light to look at,” he said, and
helped her to feel that they were beloved and blessed days, because
they were so full of the memories of the blessed past. In recording
this the Queen writes, “There is so much true and strong faith in these
good, simple people.” The lesson was not forgotten, and we find, by
various notes in the diary, that the Queen keeps her husband’s birthday
by trying to make it a happy day for those about her, celebrating it by
giving presents to her children, ladies and gentlemen in attendance,
and servants, so that all should feel they had been borne in mind, and
had received some “remembrance of the dear day.” In the same spirit
of gratitude for past happiness, Her Majesty’s note in her diary for
October 15th, 1867, is, “Our blessed engagement day! A dear and sacred
day--already twenty-eight years ago. How I ever bless it!” In contrast
with this, we find the entry for her own birthday, May 24th, 1863, just
three words, “My poor birthday!”
Chief among her Highland friends, the Queen had the good fortune to
reckon Dr. Norman Macleod. His strong faith and his power of sympathy,
combined with a wonderful gift of expression and indefatigable
kindness, gave him a peculiar power in saying the right thing, and
giving just the help and support that the Queen wanted when she felt
most forlorn. He had also the strong sense of humor which so often
makes the crooked straight, and the rough places plain. The Queen felt
she could talk openly to him about her sorrow; he helped her to look,
not down, but up. When showing him a drawing of the Prince’s mausoleum,
his exclamation was, “Oh, _he_ is not there.” He would lead her away
from her own grief, to realize, and help to soothe, the sorrows of
others. He told her of a beautiful expression of a poor Scottish woman
who had lost her husband and several of her children. The poor woman
had said, referring to her husband’s death, “When _he_ was ta’en, it
made sic a hole in my heart that a’ other sorrows gang lichtly through.”
It is interesting to note that on October 3d, 1869, the Queen asked Dr.
Macleod his opinion of the Marquis of Lorne. The Doctor assured her
that he knew Lord Lorne well, and had prepared him for confirmation,
and thought very highly of him,--“good, excellent and superior in every
way.” Exactly a year from that day, October 3d, 1870, the Princess
Louise became engaged to the Marquis of Lorne, and they were married on
March 21st, 1871.
The Queen was greatly attracted by the simplicity and dignity of the
services of the Scottish Church. She was present at the Communion
Service at Crathie in 1871. The Journal says:--
“It would be impossible to say how deeply we were impressed by the
grand simplicity of the service. It was all so truly earnest, and
no description can do justice to the perfect devotion of the whole
assemblage. It was most touching, and I longed much to join in it.”
Since 1873, this wish on the part of the Queen has been gratified, and
she has joined in the communion at Crathie every autumn.
Although Princess Alice’s marriage in July, 1862, had deprived the
Queen of the constant companionship of this dearly loved daughter, yet
the Princess continued to spend part of almost every year with her
mother. She returned to England in November, 1862, and stayed with
the Queen till after the birth of her first baby, in April, 1863. The
Queen was a most tender nurse, and always took a special interest in
the granddaughter and god-daughter who had been born under her roof.
It was Princess Alice who encouraged the Queen to emerge a little
from the seclusion to which she had clung since her widowhood. She
promoted little mountain excursions, in which the Queen was induced to
take part, in the autumn of 1863. She, and also the Princess Royal,
accompanied the Queen in the same year to the ceremony of the unveiling
of the Prince’s statue at Aberdeen. It is easy to understand what
a trying ordeal this must have been to the Queen. There were dense
crowds, loyal and kindly, but silent and full of mournful sympathy;
there was no music even,[32] the bands having been forbidden to
play,--such a contrast, as the Queen wrote, to “former blessed times.”
No wonder that she was “terribly nervous, and longed not to have to go
through this fearful ordeal.” The Queen had been present before this at
family ceremonies, the marriages of Princess Alice in 1862, and of the
Prince of Wales on March 10th, 1863; but the first of these had been
of quite a private character, and in the second the Queen had taken no
part, merely watching the service from the Royal Closet in St. George’s
Chapel, Windsor; but this was her first appearance since her husband’s
death at a public ceremony. She “prayed for help.” But, however
painful, she felt it was right that she should make the effort, and it
helped her to overcome her extreme reluctance to take her part once
more in the pageantry and glitter of royalty. Little by little she took
up this burden also, helped and encouraged by her children, and from
1866 has from time to time opened Parliament in person, and taken her
part as Sovereign in the public functions devolving on her position.
There was at one time an undercurrent of rather mean resentment that
she did not, after her widowhood, enter into social gayety and lead
fashionable life as of old. The loss of her direct personal influence
from the social world has been a very real one. But there are limits to
human strength and endurance; and those who grumbled because the Queen
absented herself from the world of fashion, were probably thinking
more of the number and brilliancy of Court functions, and of the
supposed benefit to trade accruing therefrom, than of the value of a
pure-hearted woman’s influence at the head of society. Mr. John Bright
in 1866 gave a trenchant rebuke from a public platform to one of these
grumblers, who asserted at a meeting of working-men that the Queen was
so absorbed in her own grief as to have lost all sympathy with her
people. He said:--
“I am not accustomed to stand up in defence of those who are the
possessors of crowns. But I could not sit here and hear that
observation without a sensation of wonder and of pain. I think there
has been, by many persons, a great injustice done to the Queen in
reference to her desolate and widowed position. And I venture to say
this, that a woman, be she queen of a great realm, or be she the wife
of one of your laboring men, who can keep alive in her heart a great
sorrow for the lost object of her life and affection, is not at all
likely to be wanting in a great and generous sympathy with you.”
The whole meeting responded to the simple, generous words, touching as
they did the chord of universal human feeling.
The Queen’s love for Scotland and the Scottish people has made it
easier for her to take part in ordinary social life in the neighborhood
of Balmoral than in the crowded whirl of London. She has taken part in
the torch-carrying on Halloween, in gillies’ balls, in marriages and
christenings in Scotland, and made herself one with her people there in
all their joys and sorrows. Her faithful Scotch servant, John Brown,
was for many years a familiar figure, in his Highland dress, behind
the Queen’s carriage. He served her with tact and fidelity, which she
rewarded with grateful and unstinted appreciation. He died in 1883. The
last words in “More Leaves from a Journal of a Life in the Highlands,”
are a tribute to his memory; while the book itself is dedicated, “To my
Loyal Highlanders, and especially to the memory of my devoted personal
attendant and faithful friend, John Brown.” She attended the funeral
service held in his mother’s house on the occasion of his father’s
death, and stayed with the widow to soothe and comfort her when the
funeral procession left the house. Only the heavy rain prevented her
accompanying the other mourners to the grave. It is no doubt the
freedom from formality, the genuine simplicity of the life around her
at Balmoral, which makes it congenial to the Queen. There the gayeties
are really gay; the mournings are really sad, dignified, and solemn,
and not a mocking travesty of pretended woe. One of the luxuries the
Queen allows herself in Scotland is the building of what may be called
“pic-nic” houses in attractive situations in the neighborhood. These
are little more than cottages, only just large enough for the Queen,
and one or two of her children, and the necessary attendants and
servants, generally built in wild and rather inaccessible spots among
the hills. One of these, Altnagiathasach, was built before the Prince
Consort’s death. After her widowhood, the Queen felt she could not go
there alone, and she built another at Glassaltshiel, the house-warming
of which she celebrated in 1868. When the little festivity, with its
reel-dancing and whiskey-toddy drinking, was over, the Queen’s Journal
records, “The sad thought struck me that it was the first _widow’s
house_, not built by him” (the Prince), “nor hallowed by his memory.
But I am sure his blessing does rest on it, and on those who live in
it.” Another of these little houses, a much smaller one, with only two
rooms and a kitchen, is Glengeldershiel; it is within a short drive
from Balmoral. In the neighborhood of these retired cottages the Queen
could walk, accompanied by her friends, her children, and her dogs,
without the fear of the tourist or the much-dreaded reporter before her
eyes.
It must not, however, be represented that it was only in Scotland that
Her Majesty found any means of social enjoyment. The following letter
from Thomas Carlyle (first published in _The Athenæum_, in January,
1895) shows that this was not the case. It is too picturesque to be cut
up; the ill-natured and unjust references to Lady Augusta Stanley and
Mrs. Grote must be tolerated for the sake of the rest of the letter.
It would not be characteristic of Carlyle if it were bowdlerized so as
to leave the impression that he was in charity with all mankind. The
letter is addressed to his sister, Mrs. Aitken:--
CHELSEA, March 11th, 1869.
DEAR JEAN,--Mary, I find, has inserted for you a small letter along
with the one that belongs to the Doctor. I have nothing of my own in
the form of news beyond what that “child of Nature” will have said.
All busy here,--March winds “snell” as possible (one’s new cape not
useless), but not unwholesome: fine, dry, and cold, instead of the
wet, tepid puddle we have long had, and, in consequence, sleep a
little better than then.
But my present business is to tell you exclusively of the Queen’s
interview, for which great object I have only a few minutes. Swift
then, if my poor hand but would! “Interview” took place this day gone
a week. Nearly a week before that the Dean and Deaness (who is called
Lady Augusta Stanley, once Bruce, an active, hard and busy woman)
drove up here and, in a solemnly mysterious, half-quizzical manner,
invited me for Thursday, 4th, at 5 P. M.--“must come; a very high,
indeed highest personage has long been desirous,” &c., &c. I saw well
enough it was the Queen’s _incognita_, and briefly agreed to come.
“Half-past four, come you,” and then went their ways.
Walking up at the set time, I was ushered into that long drawing-room
in their monastic edifice. I found no Stanley yet there; only at
the further end a tall old year-pole (?) of a Mrs. Grote, the most
wooden-headed woman I know in London, or the world, who thinks herself
very clever, &c., and the sight of whom led me to expect Mr. too, and
perhaps others, as accordingly in a few minutes fell out. Grote and
wife, Sir Charles Lyell and ditto, Browning and myself: that I saw
to be our party. “Better than nothing,” thought I, “these will take
off the edge of the thing, if edge there be”--which it hadn’t, nor
threatened to have.
The Stanleys and we were all in a flow of talk, and some flunkys had
done setting coffee-pots and tea-cups of a sublime pattern, when
Her Majesty, punctual to the minute, glided in, escorted by her
dame-in-waiting (a Duchess Dowager of Athol), and by the Princess
Louise, decidedly a very pretty young lady, and clever too, as I found
out in talking to her afterwards. The Queen came softly forward, a
kindly little smile on her face, gently shook hands with all the
three women, gently acknowledged with a nod the silent bows of us
male monsters; and directly in her presence every one was at ease
again. She is a comely little lady, with a pair of kind, clear, and
intelligent gray eyes; still looks almost young (in spite of one
broad wrinkle which shows on each cheek occasionally); is still
plump; has a fine, low voice, soft; indeed, her whole manner is
melodiously perfect. It is impossible to imagine a _politer_ little
woman; nothing the least imperious; all gentle, all sincere, looking
unembarrassing,--rather attractive even; makes you feel, too (if you
have any sense in you), that she is Queen.
After a little word to each of us--to me it was, “Sorry you did not
see my daughter” (Princess of Prussia), or “all sorry,” perhaps so;
which led us to Potsdam, Berlin, &c., for an instant or two. To Sir
Charles Lyell I heard her say, “Gold in Sutherland”--but quickly and
delicately cut him short in responding. To Browning, “Are you writing
anything?” (who has just been publishing the absurdest things!) To
Grote I did not hear what she said, but it was touch-and-go with
everybody--Majesty visibly _without_ interest, or nearly so, of her
own.
After this, coffee (very black and muddy) was handed round, Queen
and three women taking seats, Queen in the corner of a sofa, Lady
Deaness in opposite corner, Mrs. Grote in a chair _intrusively_ close
to Majesty; Lady Lyell modestly at the diagonal corner; we others
obliged to stand and hover within call.
Coffee fairly done, Lady Augusta called me gently to come and speak
to Her Majesty. I obeyed, first asking, as an old, infirmish man, Her
Majesty’s permission to sit, which was graciously conceded. Nothing
of the least significance was said, nor _needed_; however, my bit
of dialogue went very well. “What part of Scotland I came from?”
“Dumfries (where Majesty might as well go sometimes). Carlisle, _Caer
Lewel_, a place of about the antiquity of King Solomon (according
to Milton),” whereat Majesty smiled. Border Ballads and old James
Pool slightly alluded to, not by name. Glasgow, and grandfather’s
ride thither, ending in more psalms, and streets vacant at 9½ P.
M.--hard, sound Presbyterian root of what has now shot up to such a
monstrously ugly cabbage-tree and hemlock-tree! all which Majesty
seemed to take rather well: whereupon Mrs. Grote rose good-naturedly
and brought forward her husband _cheek by jowl_ with Majesty, who
evidently did not care a straw for him, but kindly asked--“Writing
anything?” and one heard “Aristotle, now that I have done with Plato”
(but only for a minimum of time). Majesty herself (and I think apropos
of some question about my _shaky hand_) said something about her
own difficulty in writing to dictation, which brought forward Lady
Lyell and husband, mutually used to the operation; after which, talk
becoming quite trivial, Majesty gracefully retired with Lady Augusta,
and, in ten minutes more, returned, to receive our farewell bows,
which, too, she did very prettily, and sailed out as if moving on
skates, and bending her head to us with a smile.
By the underground railway I was home before seven, and out of the
adventure, with only a headache of little moment.
Froude tells me there are foolish myths about the poor business,
especially about my share of it; but this is the real truth, worth
to me in strictest truth _all but nothing_, in the myths less than
nothing.
Tell the Dr. I intended writing him, but it is already (horrible to
think!) a quarter-past four.
Adieu, dear Sister,
Yours ever, T. C.
[32] It was nearly five years after her husband’s death before the
Queen could bear to listen to music. In 1866, Princess Alice wrote to
her mother: “I am really glad to hear that you can listen to a little
music. Music is such a heavenly thing, and dear Papa loved it so much,
that I can’t but think that now it must be soothing, and bring you near
to him.”