placed on Her Majesty's shoulders by the lords-in-waiting, and she
carried herself with the air of having been born to such ceremonies, yet
it was evident that she was much affected by the ordeal, and for a
moment was so absorbed in her own conspicuous position as to forget to
notice that the peers and peeresses with her were still standing. In a
low voice, Lord Melbourne, who was standing beside her, reminded her of
this, and with a gracious smile and inclination of her head, she said
quietly, "My Lords, be seated," whereupon they and their wives and
daughters sat. The incident had brought the Queen back to herself, and
she was now so self-possessed that when the time came to read her
speech, although she did it with quiet modesty, her voice was so clear
that it rang through all the corners of the great room, and everyone
could hear her words. A great statesman from America, Charles Sumner,
who was present, was so astonished and delighted with Victoria's manner,
that he wrote to a friend, "Her voice is sweet and finely modulated, and
she pronounced every word with distinctly a fine regard for its meaning.
I think I never heard anything better read in my life, and I could but
respond to Lord Fitz-William's remark when the ceremony was over, 'How
beautifully she performs!'" As days went on, this and other golden
opinions were universally echoed about the eighteen-year-old Queen, who
was not only strong of character, but possessed of personal charm, being
then, we are told, short in height, but well formed, with hair the
darkest shade of flaxen, with expressive blue eyes, and a complexion as
fair and delicate as a rose leaf, while her expression was one of
peculiar sweetness.
In her honour there was a grand new throne erected at Buckingham Palace,
a gorgeous affair of crimson velvet, gold lace, gold fringe and ropes
and tassels. Merrily the young Queen tried it, and with a gay laugh
exclaimed, "It is quite perfect! I never sat on a more comfortable
throne in my life!"
One of the things which Victoria most enjoyed was dealing with cases
where stern military discipline should have been used, as in the case of
a court martial which was presented to her by the Duke of Wellington to
be signed. With eyes full of tears she asked, "Have you nothing to say
in behalf of this man?"
"Nothing. He has deserted three times," replied the Duke.
"Oh, your Grace, think again!" exclaimed Victoria.
"Well, your Majesty," replied the Iron Man, "he certainly is a bad
soldier, but there was somebody who spoke as to his good character. He
may be a good fellow in civil life."
"Oh, thank you," exclaimed the Queen, and dashed off the word "Pardoned"
to the lawful parchment and wrote under it her signature.
So many cases of this clemency of hers came to the notice of Parliament,
that finally they arranged matters so that this fatal signing business
could be done by royal commission, "To relieve her Majesty of painful
duty," they said, but really because they could not trust her soft
heart to deal with cases where military discipline should not be
interfered with.
In Victoria's childhood, when her father, the Duke of Kent, died, he
left very heavy debts, which the Duchess had endeavoured in every way to
pay. This Victoria knew, and almost immediately after she became Queen,
in all the whirl and splendour of her new life she sent for her Prime
Minister and told him that she wished to settle the remaining debts
standing in her father's name, saying, "I _must_ do it. I consider it a
sacred duty," and of course it was done. The Queen also sent some
valuable pieces of plate to the largest creditors in token of her
gratitude, and the young girl's earnestness and directness in thus
carrying out her mother's chief desire, brought tears, it is said, to
the eyes of Lord Melbourne, and made his feelings for the young Queen
ever afterwards that of deepest chivalry. In fact all England was
possessed of the wildest kind of enthusiasm for their new ruler, and one
can imagine that in her youth and dignity of office she seemed to young
men and maidens to be a heroine of fairy-tale made flesh and blood,
while it was said that if necessity had arisen five hundred thousand
brave Irishmen would arise to defend the life, the honour and the person
of the beloved young lady on the throne of England.
In August Victoria took possession of Windsor Castle, which soon became
anything but a gloomy place, with the gay company that filled its every
room, and to whom the young royal housekeeper showed its beauties and
comforts with as great satisfaction as if it had been a simple little
house of her own on a plain English street.
When at Windsor, Brighton was an easy journey, and there the young Queen
had a triumphal progress, her carriage passing under numberless arches,
and between ranks and ranks of school children who strewed flowers
before her and sang songs in her honour. Some months later, in London,
she dined in state with the Lord Mayor, and as her carriage passed
through the streets of the city on its way to Guildhall, a vast crowd
lining the pavements riveted their gaze on the very youthful-looking
Queen. She wore a wrap of swan's down which made a soft frame for the
fair sweet face on which was the rose bloom of girlhood, while in her
eyes beamed health and happiness.
That was a gorgeous ceremony which she attended at Guildhall. At Temple
Bar she was met by the Lord Mayor himself who handed her the keys of the
city, and also a sword, which she at once returned to his keeping. Then
a little farther on, the Blue-Coat Boys of Christ's College gave an
address of congratulation, saying how glad they were to have a woman
rule over them, and then they sang the National Anthem, with rousing
spirit, and the royal party proceeded to Guildhall, where in the
gorgeous drawing-room the address of the city officials was read. Then
Victoria performed a memorable act: she knighted Sheriff Montefiore, the
first man of his race to receive such an honour from a British
sovereign, and thereby not only reflected honour on the noble man she
knighted, but on her own daring and just spirit. This ceremony over,
they passed into the great hall, which had been wonderfully decorated
and furnished for the occasion, and is said to have looked like
fairyland with its glittering lights hanging from the roof, reflecting
brilliancy over the gorgeous court dresses and superb jewels which made
up the dazzling scene. When Victoria entered, a great chorus rang out in
a song of praise to their Queen. Then she was led to a table on a
platform at the end of the room, where she was served with a dinner as
costly as could be procured to tempt her fancy, receiving the homage of
city officials as she dined. The feast over, a person called the Common
Crier strode into the middle of the hall and solemnly proclaimed, "The
Right Honourable the Lord Mayor gives the health of our Most Gracious
Sovereign, Queen Victoria!" Of course this was drunk amid a chorus of
shouts which made the great hall ring to the roof. Victoria rose and
bowed her thanks, and then the Common Crier announced, "Her Majesty's
Toast, 'The Lord Mayor and prosperity to the city of London!'" This
toast, it is said, the Queen responded to by drinking it in sherry one
hundred and twenty years old, kept for some wonderful occasion such as
this.
That year, Victoria's first as a Queen, she celebrated Christmas at
Windsor Castle, and it would have been a very unnatural thing indeed if
the girl had not exulted with joy over the wonderful presents which
poured in on her from every side, and yet she kept through this, as in
all the honours paid to her, her simple-hearted manner and was entirely
unspoiled by what might easily have turned the head of an older and
wiser monarch.
And now comes the greatest of all the great events in which the young
Queen is the central figure--her Coronation. It is true that she had
already been Queen for a whole year, but such was royal etiquette that
the time had just arrived for the wonderful ceremonies which would mark
her official taking of the Crown.
June the twenty-eighth was the day, and the year 1838, and Victoria was
nineteen years old. They came beforehand, the old courtiers, and
explained to her the coming pageant, and how after kneeling to her they
were all required to rise and kiss her on the left cheek. Gravely she
listened and thought this over, thought not only of the salutes of the
grave Archbishops, but of the kisses of those other younger peers, of
whom there were six hundred, and then she issued a proclamation excusing
them from this duty, so all but the Dukes of Cambridge and Sussex, who
could kiss her rosy cheek by special privilege of kinship, would have to
be content with pressing a salute on her hand!
As for the Coronation, it was one of the most wonderful in history, for
all England wished to look with proud eyes on the crowning of this young
girl who even in one year had proved herself to be capable of
understanding the intricate doings of statescraft, and days before the
ceremonies were to begin, people poured in from all parts of the United
Kingdom to see the glittering spectacle and to prove their loyalty to
her who was their sovereign.
The great procession started from Buckingham Palace about ten o'clock in
the morning, and the first state carriages held the Duchess of Kent and
her attendants, then came the grand state coach, imposing in its
gorgeous array of gilding and glass, drawn by eight cream-coloured
horses from the royal stables, with white flowing manes and tails. In
the coach of state sat Her Majesty, and there was tremendous applause
all along the line as soon as the bright girlish face beaming its
welcome to her people, was seen. On reaching Westminster Abbey, the
gorgeous scene might have startled or confused her, if she had not
rehearsed beforehand as thoroughly as though it were a play in which she
were to take part.
On each side of the nave were galleries erected for the spectators,
which had been covered with crimson cloth fringed with gold, and under
them were lines of very martial looking footguards. The stone floor was
covered with crimson and purple cloth, while immediately under the
central tower of the Abbey, inside the choir, five steps from the
floor, was a platform covered with cloth of gold on which stood the
golden "Chair of Homage." In the chancel, near the altar, stood the
quaint old chair in which all the sovereigns since Edward the Confessor
had been crowned. The tiers of galleries upholstered in crimson cloth
and old tapestries, were occupied by Members of Parliament and foreign
Ambassadors, while in the organ loft sat a large choir dressed in white,
and players on instruments dressed in scarlet, while high above them
were a score of trumpeters; all of which produced a brilliant effect
that was heightened by the music pealing through the vast Abbey over the
heads of the throng.
Long before the arrival of the royal party the Abbey was crowded to its
doors with foreign Ambassadors and Princes in their gorgeous costumes,
and most gorgeous of all were the Lord Mayor and Prince Esterhazy, who
was costumed like a glittering shower of jewels from head to toe, while
hundreds of pretty women were there in every kind of elaborate evening
dress, although it was only eleven o'clock in the morning. It took both
time and thought to place all the royal personages so that none would be
offended, and every peer and peeress would be seated so as to have a
good view of that part of the minster in which the Coronation was to
take place.
The grand procession passed slowly up the long aisle, with its
dignitaries of Church and State, and all its pomp and glitter of jewels
and gorgeous costumes. Then came the Queen. She wore a royal robe of
crimson velvet, trimmed with ermine and gold lace, and on her head was a
circlet of gold. Her tremendously long train was borne by eight young
court ladies, and never did she look quite so girlish and slight and
young as she did in that great procession of older dignitaries. As she
entered the Abbey the choir began the National Anthem, which could
scarcely be heard because of the mighty cheers which burst from the
general assembly, echoing through the dome and arched recesses of the
vast building. Slowly the Queen moved toward the altar, sweetly the
choir boys chanted _Vivat Victoria Regina!_ while moving quietly to a
chair placed between the "chair of homage" and the altar, Victoria knelt
in prayer for a moment, then rose, and the Primate announced in a loud
voice, "I here present unto you Queen Victoria, the undoubted Queen of
this realm, wherefore all of you are come this day to do your homage.
Are you willing to do the same?"
Then the people all shouted, "God save Queen Victoria!" which
"recognition," as it was called, was repeated many times and answered
each time by the beating of drums and the sounding of trumpets.
Throughout all this the Queen stood, turning towards the side from which
the recognition came, and then followed a great number of curious old
rites and ceremonies which always go with a Coronation, even though many
of them have entirely lost their meaning through the lapse of time.
There were prayers and the Litany and a sermon, and then the
administration of the oath of office, and after a long questioning by
the Archbishop, Her Majesty was led to the altar, where, kneeling with
her hand on the Gospels in the Great Bible, she said in clear, solemn
tones which could be heard all through the Abbey:
"The things which I have herebefore promised I will perform and keep. So
help me God."
She then kissed the book and continued to kneel while the choir sang a
hymn, then while she sat in St. Edward's chair, a rich cloth of gold was
held over her head and the Archbishop anointed her with oil in the form
of a cross, after which came still more forms and ceremonies, the
presentation of swords and spurs, the investing her with the Imperial
robe, the sceptre and the ring, the consecration and blessing of the new
crown, which had been made especially for her, and at last the crowning.
The moment this was over all the peers and peeresses, who had held their
coronets in their hands during the ceremonies, placed them on their
heads, and shouted, "God save the Queen!" The trumpets and drums sounded
again, while outside in the sunlight, guns fired by signal boomed their
salute to the new sovereign, who was led to the chair of homage to
receive the salutation of Church and State. First in line came the
dignitaries of the Church, who knelt and kissed her hand, then the Dukes
of Cambridge and Sussex, who, taking off their coronets and touching
them to the crown (a pretty ceremony that!), solemnly pledged their
loyalty, and kissed their niece on the left cheek. Then, according to
her decree, the other dukes and peers, even the Duke of Wellington, who
knelt before her, had only the honour of kissing the small white hand.
Last of all came an old and feeble peer who found such difficulty in
mounting the steps that he stumbled at the top and fell to the bottom,
rolling all the way back to the floor, where he lay, hopelessly
entangled in his robes. Impulsively the Queen rose from her throne as if
it were but a chair and stretched out her hands to help him, but the old
peer had risen by that time, and was trying his best to raise his
coronet to touch the crown, but failed because of the trembling of his
hand, and the Queen with ready tact held out her hand for him to kiss
without the form of touching her crown. It was a pretty incident,
proving the entire unconsciousness of self which the young Queen showed
all through the imposing ceremonies. And they were not yet over. There
was yet the Sacrament to be administered to the Queen, who knelt,
uncrowned, to receive it; then came a recrowning, a re-enthronement,
more music and then the welcome release of the benediction. Passing into
King Edward's chapel, the queen changed the imperial for the royal robe
of purple velvet and went out of the Abbey wearing the crown and
carrying her sceptre in her right hand, and drove home through a surging
mass of shouting, cheering subjects and sight-seers, who noticed that
she looked exhausted, and that she frequently put her hand to her head,
as if wearing a crown were not at all a comfortable thing.
The gates of the palace were reached at last, the long, vast, tiresome
ceremonial was at an end. The home door swung open to receive her, and
out dashed her pet spaniel, barking a joyous welcome as he always did
when she had been away a long time. A girlish smile broke over
Victoria's face, for so many hours moulded into a maturer expression of
sovereignty, and crying, "There, Dash!" she unceremoniously ran in,
flung off her crown and royal robe and sceptre and ran upstairs to give
the dog his daily bath!
At that time Carlyle said of her: "Poor little Queen! She is at an age
when a girl can scarcely be trusted to choose a bonnet for herself, yet
a task is thrust upon her from which an archangel might shrink."
True indeed, but her Majesty, Queen Victoria, even at the moment of
doffing her crown to give her dog a bath, could with equal grace and
capability have answered a summons to discuss grave national issues, and
would have shown both good judgment and wisdom in the discussion. A
wonderful little woman she was, young for her task, but old for her age,
and as we see her standing in the famous portrait painted in her
coronation robes we see all that is fairest and noblest in both girl and
Queen. She stands there as though mounting the steps to her throne, her
head slightly turned, looking back over her shoulder, and we feel the
buoyancy of her youth and the dignity of her purity, a far more royal
robe than the one of velvet and ermine which is over her shoulders, and
we know that she is already worthy of the homage so universally paid
her, this girl Queen of England awaiting what the future may bring.
SALLY WISTER:
A Girl of the American Revolution
WINSOME SALLY WISTER! What a pretty picture she makes against the sombre
background of the Revolutionary times in which she lived,--with her
piquant face and merry eyes half hidden under her demure Quaker bonnet,
and her snowy kerchief crossed so smoothly over her tempestuous young
heart!
To one of the finest old families in Philadelphia Sally belonged. Her
father, Daniel Wister, was the only son of John Wister, a prosperous
wine merchant, and Sally was born at her grandfather's city home, which
stands on what is now Market Street, Philadelphia, spending her summers
at his country house in Germantown, which charming old homestead is
still shown as a landmark of the place.
In winter Sally was a pupil in the girls' school kept by a famous
Quaker, Anthony Benezet, where there were gathered the daughters of many
"first" families of the vicinity, and it was there that the intimacy
began between Sally and her life-long friend Deborah Norris, who too was
a Quaker girl. The group of girls with whom Sally and "Debby" Norris
were intimate were all between fourteen and sixteen years old, and
formed a "Social Circle" which was very exclusive indeed, but to which a
few boys were occasionally admitted. The boys, however, seem to have
made themselves disliked, perhaps by teasing, after the manner of boys
of to-day, for in the summer of 1776 while the girls were all at their
summer homes, one of them wrote to Sally, in the quaint old-fashioned
way, making use of many capital letters, "I shall be glad when we get
together again; us Girls, I mean, for as to the Boys, I fancy we must
Give them up. Willingly I shall, nor have I the most distant desire of
being with them again. I think we pass our time more agreeably without
than with them." A clear declaration of independence, that--but it was
modified later as letters to Sally show, and one feels glad that such a
firm stand in an unworthy cause was open to amendment!
At noon on a hot sunny day in 1776, Monday the eighth of July, Sally and
Debby Norris were sitting in the cool shade of the big maples in the
garden of Debby's home, which adjoined the State House. For a while they
sewed and chatted and teased one another as girls will, then Sally held
up a silencing finger, "Shhh!" she whispered. "That is surely a drum and
fife."
Debby, who was listening too, nodded, "I remember now I heard Mr.
Hancock tell Mother that the Declaration of Independence was to be
proclaimed in public from the State House at noon to-day. Come, perhaps
we can hear some of it."
Sally was already half way across the lawn; Debby followed and they
climbed from a wheel-barrow up to the top of a wall looking down at the
State House yard, and had a fine view of the whole scene. Only a
small-sized crowd of citizens was there, for the most conservative
Philadelphians purposely did not go to hear it read, while those members
of Congress whom the girls could see, looked anxious and ill at ease.
Silently Sally and Debby listened while John Nixon read the mighty
phrases of the Declaration and, only half understanding what they
heard, they joined in the burst of applause following the last words,
"And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the
protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our
lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour."
Then as the crowd began to disperse, the girls climbed down and went
back to the cool garden, ignorant of the fact that in later years they
would have no more valued memory than that of the hot noon-day of July
7, 1776, when they saw and heard the Declaration of Independence read.
That was only one of the exciting events of those stirring days in which
Sally was living, for Philadelphia was then a war centre, and little
else was talked about except the movements of the armies and the battles
being fought. After the battle of Brandywine, when General Washington
made a brave fight to save Philadelphia, but was defeated by the British
general, Lord Howe, Sally Wister's father, feeling sure that the British
would now occupy Philadelphia, thought the time had come to send his
family out of the city. He at once despatched them to the Foulke farm,
on the Wissahickon creek, among the hills of Gwynedd, some fifteen miles
away from the storm centre of the city. The owner of the farm, Hannah
Foulke, was a relation by marriage of the Wisters, and evidently gave up
half of her home to them, retaining the other half for her own use, and
there the two families lived harmoniously during the following nine
months.
But to Mistress Sally the change of residence and the separation from
all her friends was not a happy one, and to while away some of its
lonely hours she began a series of letters in the form of a diary, for
Debby Norris's benefit, and that journal tells us much about the
happenings of that memorable epoch in American history, from a young
girl's point of view. Soon after the arrival of the Wisters at the farm
the peaceful quiet of the place was broken up, for the sights and sounds
of war began to be heard even in that remote location, as both armies
were marching towards Philadelphia. In the first letter to Debby Sally
informs us that on the 24th of September, two Virginia officers stopped
at the house, and informed them that the British army had crossed the
Schuylkill, and later another person called and said that General
Washington and Army were near Potsgrove, and Sally writes to Debby:
"Well, thee may be sure we were sufficiently scared; however, the road
was very still till evening. About seven o'clock we heard a great noise.
To the door we all went. A large number of waggons with about three
hundred of the Philadelphia Militia. They begged for drink and several
pushed into the house. One of those that entered was a little tipsy and
had a mind to be saucy. I then thought it time for me to retreat, so
figure me (mightily scared,) running in at one door and out another, all
in a shake with fear, but after a while seeing the officers appeared
gentlemanly and the soldiers civil, I call'd reason to my aid. My fears
were in some measure dispell'd, tho' my teeth rattled and my hand shook
like an aspen leaf. They did not offer to take their quarters with us,
so with many blessings and as many adieus they marched off. I have
given thee the most material occurrences of yesterday faithfully."