CHAPTER XXVI.

Visiting and counter-visiting--Charming domestic gossip--The Queen's

first grandchild--The Prince of Wales' trip to America--Another love-

affair--Death of the Duchess of Kent.

In May, Prince Albert ran over to Germany to visit his old home, and his

new son, and his darling daughter, whom he found well and happy. In one

of his letters to the Queen from Gotha, he says: "I enclose a forget-me-

not from grandmama's grave."

There is in that simple sentence an exquisite indication of his

affectionate and constant nature. This was a hurried visit, with many

interests and excitements, and yet the grave of that infirm, deaf, old

Dowager Duchess, who had, as practical people say, "outlived her

usefulness," was not found "out of the way." There was little need of the

dear grandmama calling softly through that tender blue flower--

"_Vergiss mein nicht, mein Engel Albert!_" He never forgot.

In July, the Queen and Prince took to their yacht again, for a visit to

the Emperor and Empress, at Cherbourg, and had a grand reception, and

there was a great _fête_, and fireworks and bombs and rockets; but the

account is not half so interesting to me as the one given by Her Majesty,

of their return to Osborne; an exquisite picture that, which I feel I

must reproduce almost entire: ... "At twenty minutes to five, we landed

at our peaceful Osborne. ... The evening was very warm and calm. Dear

Affie was on the pier, and we found all the other children, including

Baby, standing at the door. Deckel (a favorite dog), and our new charming

kennel-bred Dachs 'Boy,' also received us with joy." I like that bringing

in of the dogs to complete the-picture.

The Queen continues: "We went to see Affie's (Alfred's) table of birthday

presents--entirely nautical. ... We went with the children, Alice and I

driving, to the Swiss Cottage, which was all decked out with flags in

honor of Affie's birthday. ... I sat (at dinner) between Albert and

Affie. The two little boys (Princes Arthur and Leopold) appeared. A band

played, and after dinner we danced, with the three boys and three girls,

a merry country dance on the terrace."

A little later, the Queen and Prince made a visit to their daughter in

Germany. Her Majesty's description of the happy meeting is very sweet.

"There on the platform stood our darling child, with a nosegay in her

hand. She stepped in, and long and warm, was the embrace. ... So much to

say and to tell and ask, yet so unaltered--looking well--quite the old

Vicky still."

From beautiful Babelsberg, she wrote: "Vicky came and sat with me. I felt

as if she were my own again."

This was not a long, but a very happy visit; the Queen and Prince had

received many courteous attentions from the Prussian Court, and had found

their beloved daughter proud and content. From Osborne, in a letter to

his daughter, the Prince-Consort writes: "Alfred looks very nice and

handsome in his new naval cadet's uniform--the round-jacket and the long-

tailed coat, with the broad knife by his side." The next month the Prince

went to Spithead, to see this son off on a two-years' cruise--and felt

that his family had indeed begun to break up. The next exciting public

matter was the news of Louis Napoleon's alliance with King Victor

Emmanuel in the war against Austria. And this was the Emperor who, had

given out that his empire was "peace"--that the only clang of arms

henceforth to be heard therein would be a mighty beating of swords and

spears into plow-shares and pruning-hooks. The next domestic excitement

was caused by a telegram from Berlin, announcing the birth of a son to

the Crown Prince and Princess, and that mother and child were doing well.

Queen Victoria was a grandmother, and prouder, I doubt not, than when

afterwards she was made Empress of India.

For her mother's birthday, in May, 1859, the Crown Princess came over and

made a delightful little visit. The Queen wrote of her: "Dear Vicky is a

charming companion." Of the Princess Alice she had before written: "She

is very good, sensible and amiable, and a real comfort to me." Mothers

know how much there is in those words--"a real comfort to me." The Crown

Princess found most change in baby--Beatrice--and after her return home,

her father often wrote to her of this little sister: "The little aunt,"

he says, "makes daily progress, and is really too comical. When she

tumbles, she calls out, in bewilderment, 'She don't like it! She don't

like it!'--and she-came into breakfast a short time ago, with her eyes

full of tears, moaning, 'Baby has been so naughty,--poor baby so

naughty!' as one might complain of being ill, or of having slept badly."

Later in the year the Prince writes: "Alice comes out admirably, and is a

great support to her mother. Lenchen (the Princess Helena) is very

distinguished, and little Arthur amiable and full of promise as ever."

In November, Prince Frederick William and his Princess came over on a

visit--and the fond father wrote: "Vicky has developed greatly of late--

and yet remains quite a child; of such, indeed, 'is the kingdom of

heaven.'" Of the Prince he said: "He has quite delighted us." So all was

right then. About this time he said of his daughter, Alice, that she had

become "a handsome young woman, of graceful form and presence, and is a

help and stay to us all in the house." What a rich inheritance such

praise!

In the Queen's diary there was, on July 24, 1860, an interesting entry:

"Soon after we sat down to breakfast came a telegram from Fritz--Vicky

had got a daughter, at 8:10, and both doing well! What joy! Children

jumping about, every one delighted--so thankful and relieved."

The Prince wrote to his daughter as only _he_ could write--wisely and

thoughtfully, yet tenderly and brightly. There was in this letter a

charming passage about his playfellow, Beatrice. After saying of his new

grandchild, "The little girl must be a darling," he adds, "Little girls

are much prettier than boys. I advise her to model herself after her Aunt

Beatrice. That excellent lady has now not a moment to spare. 'I have no

time,' she says, when she is asked for anything, 'I must write letters to

my niece.'"

Shortly after his first little niece was born, the Prince of Wales made

his first acquaintance with the New World. He went over to America to

visit the vast domain which was to be his, some day, and the vaster

domain which might have been his, but for the blind folly of his great-

grandfather, George III. and his Ministers, who, like the rash voyagers

of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainment," kindled a fire on the back of a

whale, thinking it "solid land," till the leviathan "put itself in

motion," and flung them and their "merchandise" off into the sea. He was

a fine young fellow, the Prince, and was received with loyal enthusiasm,

and heartily liked in the Canadas. I believe we of the States treated him

very well, also--and that he had what Americans call "a good time,"

dancing with pretty girls in the Eastern cities, and shooting prairie-

chickens on the Western plains. I think we did not overdo the matter in

fêting and following the son of the beloved Queen of England. We had

other business on hand just then--a momentous Presidential election--the

election of Abraham Lincoln.

In our capital he was treated to a ball, a visit to the Patent-Office and

the tomb of Washington, and such like gaieties. President Buchanan

entertained him as handsomely as our national palace, the White House,

would allow; and afterwards wrote a courtly letter to Queen Victoria,

congratulating her on the charming behavior of her son and heir--"_the

expectancy and rose of the fair State_." The Queen replied very

graciously and even gratefully, addressing Mr. Buchanan as "my good

friend." That was the most she could do, according to royal rules. The

elected temporary ruler of our great American empire, even should it

become greater by the annexation of Cuba and Mexico, can never expect to

be addressed as "_mon frère_" by regularly born, bred, crowned and

anointed sovereigns--or even by a reigning Prince or Grand Duke; can

never hope to be embraced and kissed on both cheeks by even the Prince of

Monaco, the King of the Sandwich Islands, or the Queen of Madagascar. We

must make up our minds to that.

In the early autumn of 1860, the Queen, Prince, and Princess Alice went

over to Germany for another sight of their dear ones. It was the last

visit that the Queen was to pay with the Prince to his beloved

fatherland. They were delighted with their grandson, and I hope with

their granddaughter also. Of baby Wilhelm the Queen writes: "Such a

little love. ... He is a fine, fat child, with a beautiful, soft white

skin, very fine shoulders and limbs, and a very dear face. ... He has

Fritz's eyes and Vicky's mouth, and very fair, curling hair." Afterwards

she wrote: "Dear little William came to me, as he does every morning. He

is such a darling, so intelligent."

I believe this darling grandchild was the "little love" who gave to the

Queen her first great-grandchild.

At Coburg the Prince-Consort came frightfully near being killed by the

running away of his carriage-horses. The accident was a great shock to

the Queen, and the escape an unspeakable joy. At Mayence Her Majesty

confided a family secret to her discreet diary. During a visit from the

Prince and Princess Charles of Hesse-Darmstadt it was settled that the

young Prince Louis should come to England to get better acquainted with

the Princess Alice, whom he already greatly admired. So everything was

arranged and the way smoothed for these lovers, and in this case the

union proved as happy as though brought about in the usual hap-hazard way

of marriages in common life.

The next November the Prince wrote from Windsor: "The Prince Louis of

Hesse is here on a visit. The young people seem to like each other. He is

very simple, natural, frank and thoroughly manly."

The next day the Queen jotted down in her diary the simple story of the

betrothal in a way to reveal how fresh in her own heart was the romance

of her youth:

"After dinner, while talking to the gentlemen, I perceived Alice and

Louis talking before the fireplace more earnestly than usual, and when I

passed to go to the other room both came up to me, and Alice in much

agitation said he had proposed to her, and he begged for my blessing. I

could only squeeze his hand and say 'Certainly,' and that we would see

him in my room later. Got through the evening, working as well as we

could. Alice came to our room. ... Albert sent for Louis to his room,

then called Alice and me in. ... Louis has a warm, noble heart. We

embraced our dear Alice and praised her much to him. He pressed and

kissed my hand and I embraced him." The Queen was right, as she generally

was in her estimate of character. This son-in-law, of whom she has always

been especially fond, is a Prince of amiable and noble disposition, good

ability and remarkable cultivation; not exactly a second Prince Albert--

_he_ was a century plant.

At this Christmas time the Queen's two eldest sons were at home and full

of strange stories of strange lands. Soon after, the Prince of Wales went

to Cambridge and Prince Alfred joined his ship. Before that cruise was

over a deeper, darker sea rolled between the sailor lad and his father.

On February 9, 1861, Prince Albert wrote Baron Stockmar: "To-morrow our

marriage will be twenty-one years old. How many storms have swept over

it, and still it continues green and fresh." The anniversary occurring on

Sunday was very quietly observed, chiefly by the performance in the

evening of some fine sacred music, the appropriateness of which was

scarcely realized at the time. In a very sweet letter to the Duchess of

Kent, such a letter as few married men write to their mothers-in-law, the

Prince says: ... "To-day our marriage comes of age, according to law. We

have faithfully kept our pledge for better and for worse,' and have only

to thank God that He has vouchsafed so much happiness to us. May He have

us in His keeping for the days to come! You have, I trust, found good and

loving children in us, and we have experienced nothing but love and

kindness from you."

This dear "Mama-aunt" had been in delicate health for some time, and once

or twice seriously ill, but she seemed better, her physicians were

encouraging and all were hopeful till the 12th of March, when the Queen

and Prince were suddenly summoned from London to Frogmore by the news of

a very alarming relapse. They went at once with all speed, yet the Queen

says "the way seemed so long." When they readied the house, the Queen

writes: "Albert went up first, and when he returned with tears in his

eyes, I saw what awaited me. ... With a trembling heart I went up the

staircase and entered the bedroom, and here on a sofa, supported by

cushions, sat leaning back my beloved Mama, breathing rather heavily, but

in her silk dressing-gown, with her cap on, looking quite herself. ... I

knelt before her, kissed her dear hand and placed it next my cheek; but

though she opened her eyes she did not, I think, know me. She brushed my

hand off, and the dreadful reality was before me that for the first time,

she did not know the child she had ever received with such tender

smiles."

The further description given by the Queen of this first great sorrow of

her life, is exceedingly pathetic and vivid. It is the very poetry of

grief. I cannot reproduce it entire, nor give that later story of

incalculable loss as related by her in that diary, through which her very

heart beats. It is all too unutterably sad. There are passages in this

account most exquisitely natural and touching. When all was over, the

poor daughter tried to comfort herself with thoughts of the blessed rest

of the good mother, of the gentle spirit released from the pain-racked

body, but the heart would cry out: "But I--I, wretched child, who had

lost the mother I so tenderly loved, from whom for these forty-one years

I had never been parted, except for a few weeks, what was my case? My

childhood, everything seemed to crowd upon me at once... What I had

dreaded and fought--off the idea of, for years, had come, and must be

borne... Oh, if I could nave been with her these last weeks! How I grudge

every hour I did not spend with her! ... What a blessing we went on

Tuesday. The remembrance of her parting blessing, of her dear, sweet

smile, will ever remain engraven on my memory."

During all this time, the Queen received the most tender sympathy and

care from her children, and Prince Albert, was--_Prince Albert_;--

weeping with her, yet striving to comfort her, full of loving kindness

and consideration.

The Queen's grief was perhaps excessive, as her love had been beyond

measure, but he was not impatient with it, though he writes from Osborne,

some weeks after the funeral of the Duchess: "She (the Queen) is greatly

upset, and feels her childhood rush back upon her memory with the most

vivid force. Her grief is extreme... For the last two years her constant

care and occupation have been to keep watch over her mother's comfort,

and the influence of this upon her own character has been most salutary.

In body she is well, though terribly nervous, and the children are a

great disturbance to her. She remains almost entirely alone."

How true to nature! When the first love of a life is suddenly uprooted,

all the later growths, however strong, seem to have been torn up with it.

When the mother goes, only the child seems to remain. Victoria, tender

mother as she herself was, and adoring wife, was now the little girl of

Kensington and Claremont, whose little bed was at the side of her

mother's, and who had waked to find that mother's bed empty, and forever

empty! And yet she said in her first sense of the loss: "I seemed to have

lived through a life; to have become old."

We may say that with the coming of that first sorrow went out the youth

of the Queen; for it seems that while her mother lives, a woman is always

young, that there is something of girlhood, of childhood even, lingering

in her life while she can lay her tired head on her mother's knee, or

hide her tearful face against her mother's breast, that most sweet and

restful refuge from the trials and weariness of life.

Her Majesty's sister, Feodore, strove to comfort her; the dear daughter

Victoria came to her almost immediately; her people's tears and prayers

were for her, and amid the quiet and seclusion of Osborne she slowly

regained her cheerfulness; but the old gladness and content never came

back. The children, too, with all the natural gayety of their years,

found that something of sweetness and comfort had dropped out of life--

something of the charm and dearness of home was gone with "grandmama,"

from the Palace, the Castle, the seaside mansion, as well as from

pleasant Frogmore, where they were always so welcome. Not till then,

perhaps, had they known all she was to them--what a blessed element in

their lives was her love, so tender and indulgent. Age is necessary to

the family completeness. We do not even in our humbler condition, always

realize, this--do not see how the quiet waning life in the old arm-chair

gives dignity and serenity to the home, till the end comes--till the

silver-haired presence is withdrawn.

PART IV.

WIDOWHOOD.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Failing health of Prince Albert--His last visit to Balmoral--His

influence upon the policy of England in the _Trent_ difficulty with

the United States--Strange revolution in English sentiment in respect to

American slavery--The setting of the sun.

All this time while the Queen was absorbed by anxious care, or passionate

grief for her mother, the health of the Prince-Consort was slowly but

surely failing. The keen blade of his active mind was wearing out its

sheath. His vital forces must have begun to give out long before actual

illness, or he would not so easily have resigned himself to the thought

of the long rest,--still young as he was, with so much to enjoy in life,

and so much to do. It is said that he had premonitions of early death,

and tried to prepare the Queen for his going first--but the realization

of a loss so immense could not find lodgment in her mind. Yet though

often feeling weak and languid, he did not relax his labors--spurring up

his flagging powers. He never lost his interest in public affairs, or in

his children's affairs of the heart. He was happy in contemplating the

happiness of his daughter Alice, and followed with his heart the journey

of his son, Albert Edward, in his visit to the country of the fierce old

Vikings, to woo the daughter of a King of another sort--a Princess so

fair and fresh that she could

--"_with lilies boast,

And with the half-blown rose_."

That summer his daughter Victoria, with her husband (now Crown Prince)

and their children, came again, for a long visit, and there were many

other guests, and much was done to cheer the Queen; but her first

birthday in orphanage was hopelessly sad, and when that of the Prince

came round, his last--though she wrote to her uncle, "This is the dearest

of days, and one which fills my heart with love and gratitude," she

murmured, because her "beloved mama" was not there to wish him joy. Ah,

what an acting, unreasoning thing is the human heart!

Yet the Queen seems to have had a brief return of happiness--to have been

upborne on a sudden tide of youthful joyance, during their autumn stay at

Balmoral. She wrote: "Being out a good deal here and seeing new and fine

scenery does me good." Of their last great Highland excursion, she said:

"Have enjoyed nothing so much, or felt so much cheered by anything since

my great sorrow."

Because of this intense love of nature--not the holiday, dressed-up

nature, of English parks, streams and lakes--but as she appears in all

her wildness, ruggedness, raggedness and simple grandeur, in the glorious

land of Scott and Burns, the Queen's journal, though a little clouded at

the last, by that "great sorrow," is very pleasant, breezy reading. It

gives one a breath of heather, and pine and peat-smoke.

After coming from Balmoral, and its bracing outdoor avocations and

amusements, the Prince-Consort's health seemed to decline again. He

suffered from rheumatic pains and sleeplessness, and he began to feel the

chill shadows of the valley he was nearing, creeping around him. The last

work of his beneficent life was one of peculiar interest to Americans. It

was the amicable arrangement, in conjunction with the Queen, of the ugly

affair of the _Trent_. That was a trying time for Americans in England,

unless they were of the South, southerly. We of the North, in the

beginning of our war for the Union, found to our sad surprise that

the sympathies of perhaps the majority of the English were on the side of

our opponents. These very people had been ever before, so decidedly and

ardently anti-slavery in their sentiments--had counseled such stern and

valiant measures for the removal of our "national disgrace," that their

new attitude amazed us. We could not understand what sort of a moral

whirlwind it was that had caught them up, turned them round, borne them

off and set them down on the other side of Mason and Dixon's Line. It was

strange, but with the exception of a few such clear-headed, steadfast

"friends of humanity" as Cobden and Bright, and such heroes as those

glorious operatives of Lancashire, all seemed changed. Even the

sentiments of prominent. Exeter Hall, anti-slavery philanthropists had

suffered a secession change, "into something new and strange," especially

after the battle of Bull Run--that fortunate calamity for us, as it

proved. Most people here were captivated by the splendid qualities of

the Confederates--their gallantry, their enthusiasm, their bravery.

Before these practical revolutionists, those "moral suasion" agitators,

the Northern Abolitionists, made no great show. Garrison with his logic,

Burritt with his languages, Douglas with his magnificent eloquence, were

as naught to Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee, and that soldier of the

fine old Cromwellian type--Stonewall Jackson. The "institution" was

pronounced in Parliament "not so bad a thing, after all," and the

pathetic "Am-I-not-a-Man-and-a-Brother" of Clarkson, became the Sambo of

Christie and the "Quashee" of Carlyle. In the midst of this ill-feeling

on one side, and sore-feeling on the other, the rash act of a U. S. Naval

Officer, in boarding the British steamer _Trent_ and seizing the

Confederate Envoys, Mason and Slidell, gave England cause, had our

Government endorsed that act, for open hostility. So ready, so eager did

the English Government seem for a war with America, that it did not wait

for an apology, before making extensive military preparations. With that

brave but cool-headed Captain on our Ship of State, Abraham Lincoln, and

that prudent helmsman, William H. Seward, we could not easily have been

driven into a war with England at this time; but we might have been

humiliated even more than we were, by the peremptory demands of Lord

Palmerston--might have been obliged to eat a piece of "humble pie," so

big, hot, and heavy, that it would have remained undigested to this day--

had it not been for the prudence, the courtesy, good sense, and admirable

tact of the Queen and Prince-Consort in modifying and softening the tone

of that important State paper, the demand for an official apology, and

the liberation of the Confederate Envoys. It is for this that Americans

of the North, and I believe of the South, love Queen Victoria, and not

alone for her sake, bless the memory of "Albert the Good."

I know of nothing in literature so exquisite in its pathos and childlike

simplicity, as the Queen's own account, in the diary kept faithfully at

the time, of the last illness of the Prince-Consort. In it we see the

very beatings of her heart, in its hope and fear, love and agony--can

mark all the stages of the sacred passion of her sorrow. It is a

wonderful psychological study.

That illness in its serious phases, lasted about two weeks. It was a low,

slow fever, which at first was not recognized as fever at all, but only a

heavy cold. I have been told that the Prince himself had from the first,

an impression that he should not recover, and that he talked of his

probable death very calmly with his noble daughter Alice, saying: "Your

mother cannot bear to hear me speak of it yet." The Queen, though very

restless and distressed, and at times shaken with wild alarms, could not

face the coming calamity; could not admit the possibility that the sands

of that precious life--golden sands, were running out. The alternations

of hope and fear, must have been terrible. One morning the Queen records

that on going to the Prince she found him looking very wretched: "He did

not smile, or take much notice of me. His manner all along was so unlike

himself, and he had sometimes, such a strange, wild look." In the evening

she writes: "I found my Albert most dear and affectionate and quite

himself, when I went in with little Beatrice, whom he kissed. He laughed

at some of her new French verses which I made her repeat, then he. held

her little hand in his for some time, and she stood looking, at him."

For several days he wished to be read to, and the Queen and faithful

Alice read his favorite authors; he also asked for music, and Alice

played for him some fine German airs. He even wished often to look at a

favorite picture, one of Raphael's Madonnas, saying, "It helps me through

the day."

At length the fever took on a typhoid form, congestion of the lungs set

in, and there was no longer reason for hope,--though they did hope, till

almost the last hour. Now, it seems that from the first, even when he did

not apparently suffer, except from mortal weariness, there were little

fatal indications. One morning he told the Queen that as he lay awake he

heard the little birds outside, and "thought of those he used to hear at

the Rosenau, in his childhood"; and on the last morning the Queen writes

that he "began arranging his hair just as he used to do when well and he

was dressing."

It seemed to the poor Queen as though he were "preparing for another and

a greater journey" than they had ever taken together. His tenderness

towards her through all this sad fortnight, was very touching. It was not

calculated to loosen the detaining, clinging clasp of her arms; but it

must be very sweet for her to remember. After the weariness of watching,

the prostration of fever, he welcomed always the good-morning caress of

his "dear little wife." Through the gathering mists of unconsciousness,

through the phantom-shades of delirium, his love for her struggled forth,

in a tender word, a wistful look, a languid smile, a feeble stroking of

the cheek. It was "wondrous pitiful," but it was very beautiful. Even at

the last, when he knew no one else, he knew her; and when she bent over

him and whispered, "Tis your own little wife," he bowed his head and

kissed her.

After she knew that all hope must be given up, the Queen still was able

to sit calmly by his bedside, and not trouble with the sound of weeping

the peace of that loving, passing soul. Occasionally she felt that she

must leave the room and weep, or her suppressed grief would kill her. But

she counted the moments and stayed her soul with prayer, to go back to

her post.

It was on the night of December 14, 1861, that the beloved Prince-Consort

passed away,--quietly and apparently painlessly, from the station he had

ennobled, from the home he had blessed. Unconsciously he drifted out on

the unknown, mysterious sea, nor knew that loving feet followed him to

the strand, and that after him were stretched yearning arms.

That death-bed scene passed in a solemn hush, more mournful than any

outcry of passionate grief could be. On one side, knelt the Queen,

holding her husband's hand, trying to warm it with kisses and tears; on

the other, knelt the Princess Alice. At the foot of the bed, the Prince

of Wales and the Princess Helena were kneeling together. It is probable

that all the younger children were sleeping in quiet unconsciousness of

the presence of the dread angel in the Castle. The Dean of Windsor,

Prince Ernest Leiningen,--secretaries, physicians and attached attendants

were grouped around. All was silent, save that low, labored breathing,

growing softer and softer, and more infrequent, and then--it ceased

forever.

I have been told by a lady who had had good opportunities of knowing

about the sad circumstances of that death, that the Queen retained

perfect possession of herself to the last, and that after the lids had

been pressed down over the dear eyes whose light had passed on, she rose

calmly, and courteously thanked the physicians in attendance, saying that

she knew that everything which human skill and devotion could accomplish,

had been done for her husband, whom God had taken. Then she walked out of

the death-chamber, erect,--still the Queen, wearing "sorrow's crown of

sorrow," and went to her chamber, and shut herself in--her soul alone

with God, her heart alone for evermore.

Ah, we may not doubt that this royal being, in whose veins beats the

blood of a long, long race of Kings, was brought low enough then,--to her

knees, to her face,

"_For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop_."

So absorbing and unwavering had been the love of the Queen for her

husband, who to her, was "nobler than the noblest"; such a proud homage

of the soul had there been--such a dear habit of the heart, in one with

whom habit counted for much, that her people were filled with the most

intense anxiety on her behalf. They feared that this cruel stroke which

lopped off the best part of her life, would kill her, or plunge her into

a depth of melancholy, sadder than death. For some time she was not able

to sleep. The thought of that chamber, so lately the scene of all the

anxious activity of the sickroom, wherein softly moved troubled

physicians and nurses, tearful attendants and awe-struck children, but

where now there were shadowed lights, and solemn silence, and where lay

that beautiful, marble-like shape, so familiar, yet so strange--that

_something_ which was not _he_, yet was inexpressibly dear, kept her

awake, face to face with her sorrow,--and when at last, the bulletin from

Windsor announced, "The Queen has had some hours' sleep," her people all

in mourning as they were, felt like ringing joy-bells.

The friend from whom I have before quoted, Mrs. Crosland, a most loyal

lady, wrote on this text a very sweet poem, from which I am tempted to

give a few verses:

"Sleep, far the night is round thee spread,

Thou daughter of a line of kings;

Sleep, widowed Queen, white angels' wings

Make canopy above thy head!

"Sleep, while a million prayers rise up

To Him who knew all earthly sorrow,

That day by day, each soft to-morrow

May melt the bitter from thy cup.

. . . . . . . .

"Long life ask for thee, dear Queen,

And moonlight peace, since joy is set.

And Time's soft touch on dark regret.

And memories calm of what has been!

"Long life for thee--for our best sake.

To be our stay 'mid hopes and fears.

Through many far-off future years,

Till thou by Albert's side shall wake!"

It seems Her Majesty could not bear the thought of her beloved Albert,

whose nature was so bright and joyous, and beauty-loving, resting amid

the darkness and heavy silence and "cold obstruction" of the royal vault;

so, as early as the 18th of December, she drove with the Princess Alice

to Frogmore, where they were-received by the Prince of Wales, Prince

Louis of Hesse, and several officers of the Royal Household. Then,

leaning on the arm of her noble daughter, the Queen walked about the

pleasant gardens, till she fixed upon the spot, where now stands the

magnificent mausoleum, which, splendid and beautiful as art can make it,

is like a costly casket, for the dust, infinitely more precious to her

than all the jewels of her crown. It was sweet for her to feel that thus

under the shadow of her mother's dear home, the two most sacred loves and

sorrows of her life would be forever associated.

There was great and sincere mourning in England among all classes, not

alone for the Queen's sake, but for their own, for the Prince-Consort had

finally endeared himself to this too long jealous and distrustful people.

They had named him "alien," at first; they called him "angel," at last.

He was not _that_, but a most rare man, of a nature so sweet and

wholesome, of a character so well-balanced and symmetrical, of a life so

pure and blameless, that the English cannot reasonably hope to "look upon

his like again," not even among his own sons.

Some of his contemporaries, while admitting his grace and elegance, were

blind to his strength of character, forgetting that a shining column of

the Parthenon may be as strong as one of the dark rough-hewn columns of

Pæstum. Morally, I believe, the Prince-Consort stands alone in English

royal history. What other youth of twenty-one, graceful, beautiful and

accomplished, has ever forborne what he forbore?--Ever fought such a good

fight against temptations manifold? He was the Sir Galahad of Princes.

Being human, he must have been tempted,--if not to a life of sybaritic

pleasure, to one of ease, through his delicate organization,--and,

through his refined tastes, to one of purely artistic and esthetic

culture, which for him, where he was, would have been but splendid

selfishness.

Though my estimate of the Prince-Consort is based on his own good words

and works, to which I have paid tribute of sincerest praise, it is

strengthened and justified by a knowledge of the loving reverence in

which his name is held to this day, by the English people of the better

class, who honor the Queen for her love stronger than death, and love her

the better for it; for I hold,

----"the soul must cast

All weakness from it, all vain strife,

And tread God's ways through this sad life,

To be thus grandly mourned at last."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The Twilight Life after--Marriage of the Princess Alice--Incidents of the

Queen's life at Balmoral--John Brown--A letter from the Queen to the

Duchess of Sutherland.

"There is no one near me to call me 'Victoria' now!" is said to have been

the desolate cry of the Queen, when, on waking from that first sleep, the

cruel morning light, smote upon her with a full consciousness of her

bereavement, and a new sense of her royal isolation. She was on a height

where the storm beat fiercest and there was the least shelter. Her sacred

grief was the business of the world;--she could not long shut herself up

with it, and fold her hands in "blameless idleness"; but as the widowed

mother and housekeeper in humble life struggles up from the great stroke,

and staggers on, resolutely driving back the tears which "hinder needle

and thread," and choking down her sobs, to go wearily about her household

tasks,--so Victoria, after a little time, rose trembling to her feet, and

went through with such imperative State duties as could be delegated to

no one. To a near friend, who expressed joy to find her more calm than at

the time of her mother's death, she said simply, "I have had God's

teaching, and learned to bear all He lays upon me."

There is a record by Lord Beaconsfield of her faithful discharge of such

duties a few years later; but what was true of her then, was almost as

true an account of the routine of her official life, during a large part

of the first years of her widowhood. In a public speech, Beaconsfield

said: "There is not a dispatch received from abroad, or sent from this

country abroad, which is not submitted to the Queen. The whole of the

internal administration of this country greatly depends upon the sign-

manual of our Sovereign, and it may be said that her signature has never

been placed to any public document of which she did not know the purpose

and of which she did not approve. Those cabinet councils of which you all

hear, and which are necessarily the scene of anxious and important

deliberation, are reported, on their termination, by the Minister to the

Sovereign, and they often call from her critical remarks requiring

considerable attention; and I will venture to say that no person likely

to administer the affairs of this country would be likely to treat the

suggestions of Her Majesty with indifference, for at this moment there is

probably no person living who has such complete control over the

political condition of England as the Sovereign herself."

I have come upon few incidents of that first sad year. The Princess Alice

was married very quietly at Osborne, and went away to her German home,

where she lived for seventeen happy years, a noble and beneficent life.

In character she was very like her father--to whose soul hers was so

knit, that, when in her last illness, the anniversary of his death came

round, she seemed to hear his call, and went to him at once in child-

like obedience. She took that fatal illness--the diphtheria--from a dear

child in a kiss, "the kiss of death," as Lord Beaconsfield called it.

The Rev. Norman McLeod has left a record of the widowed Queen's first

visit to Balmoral. It seems he thought she was too unreconciled to her

loss, and felt it his duty to preach what he believed to be "truth in

God's sight, and that which I believe she needed," he said, "though I

felt it would be very trying for her to receive it." She did receive it

very sweetly, and wrote him "a kind, tender letter of thanks for it," She

afterwards summoned him to the castle, and to her own room. He writes:

"She was alone. She met me with an unutterably sad expression, which

filled my eyes with tears, and at once began to speak about the Prince.

... She spoke of his excellencies--his love, his cheerfulness; how he was

everything to her. She said she never shut her eyes to trials, but liked

to look them in the face; how she would never shrink from duty, but that

all was at present done mechanically; that her highest ideas of purity

and love were obtained from him, and that God could not be displeased

with her love."

No, we cannot love enough to displease the God of love, who is not,

whatever men may preach, a "jealous God," in that small way; but perhaps

we may grieve too much to please the Master of Life, of which, in His

eyes, what we call death, is the immortal blossom and crowning.

It seems to me that in her loving tribute to the Prince, the Queen was a

little unjust to her mother, to whose precepts and example she owed very

high "ideas of purity" and that strong sense of duty, and that fortitude,

essentially a womanly, not a manly, virtue, which preserved her through

the temptations of a glad and splendid youth--through the trials and

sorrows of maturer years, and which, when that time of bitterest trial

came, braced up her shattered forces, and held together her broken heart.

Balmoral--the dear mountain-home, so entirely her husband's creation--now

became more than ever dear to the Queen, and has never lost its charm for

her. Her life there has been, from the first, almost pastoral in its

simplicity.

The Highlanders about them, a primitive, but very proud people, regarded

their Sovereign and her husband with no servile awe. With them, even

respect begins, like charity, at home; what there is left, they give

loyally to their superiors in rank. To the Queen and her family they have

given more,--love and free-hearted devotion. Her Majesty has always gone

about among the poorer tenants of the estate, like any laird's wife, in

an unpretending, neighborly way; and they, thanks to their good Scotch

sense and Highland pride, never take advantage of the uncondescending

condescension, to offend her by too great familiarity, or shock her by

servility. Taking up her "Journal," I have chanced upon an account given

by Her Majesty of a round of visits to the cottages of certain "poor old

women," and here is an entry or two:

"Before we went into any, we met a woman who was very poor, and eighty-

eight years old. I gave her a warm petticoat, and the tears rolled down

her old cheeks, and she shook my hands and prayed God to bless me: it was

very touching.

"I went into a small cabin of old Kitty Kear's, who is eighty-six years

old, quite-erect, and who welcomed us with a great air of dignity. She

sat down and spun. I gave her, also, a warm petticoat. She said, 'May the

Lord ever attend ye and yours, here and hereafter; and may the Lord be a

guide to ye, and keep ye fra all harm.'"

Now, some readers, whose ideas of royal charities are derived from the

kings and queens of melodrama, who fling about golden largess, or "chuck"

plethoric purses at their poor subjects, may be amused at these entries

in a great Queen's journal, but "let them laugh who win"--the flannel

petticoats.

During a later visit to the widowed Queen at Balmoral, Dr. McLeod writes:

"After dinner, the Queen invited me to her room, where I found the

Princess Helena and the Marchioness of Ely. The Queen sat down to spin on

a fine Scotch wheel, while I read Burns to her--'_Tam O'Shanter_,' and

'_A Man's a Man for a' That_'--her favorites."

In the Queen's book I find frequent pleasant mention of the young

Highlander, John Brown--a favorite personal attendant, first of Prince

Albert, and afterwards of Her Majesty.

She had the misfortune to lose this "good and faithful servant," in the

early part of this year. In a foot-note in her "Journal," she paid a

grateful tribute to his "attention, care and faithfulness"--to his rare

devotion to her, especially during a period of physical weakness and

nervous prostration, when such service as his was invaluable. She also

says of him, "He has all the independence and elevation of feeling

peculiar to the Highland race, and is singularly straightforward, simple-

minded, kind-hearted and disinterested."

If there is something touching in the nearly life-long service and

devotion of the Highlander, almost always seen so close behind his Liege

Lady, when she appeared in public, that he was named "the Queen's

shadow"--there is something admirable in her grateful appreciation of

that service, in her frank acknowledgment of all she has owed of comfort,

in a constant sense of security, to this man's steadfast faithfulness;

and now that the "shadow" has gone before, I hold it is only fitting and

loyal in her to acknowledge for him, as she does, "friendship," and even

"affection"--not only to lay flowers on his grave, but to pay more

enduring tribute to his honest memory. He was a Highland gillie, of

simple Highland ways and words but "_A man's a man for a' that._" If

Byron could nurse his dying dog, _Boatswain_, and erect a monument to his

memory, and not lose, but gain, our respect by so doing, we surely might

let pass, unquestioned, the Queen's grief for a faithful human creature--

for thirty-four years devoted to her--ever at her call--looking up to

her, yet watching over her; a friend, whose humble good sense and canny

bits of counsel must often, in the simpler, yet not simple, affairs of

her complex life, be sorely missed.

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

About a year after the death of Prince Albert, the Duchess of Sutherland

presented to the Queen a richly-bound Bible, the offering of loyal

"English widows."

In her letter of acknowledgment, Her Majesty gives very strong and clear

expression to her faith, not only in the happy continued existence of her

beloved husband, but in his "unseen presence" with her--a faith which she

has often expressed. The letter runs thus:

"MY DEAREST DUCHESS:--I am deeply touched by the gift of a Bible 'from

many widows,' and by the very kind and affectionate address which

accompanied it. ... Pray express to all these kind sister-widows the deep

and heartfelt gratitude of their widowed Queen, who can never feel

grateful enough for the universal sympathy she has received, and

continues to receive, from her loyal and devoted subjects. But what she

values far more is their appreciation of her adored and perfect husband.

To her, the only sort of consolation she experiences is in the constant

sense of his unseen presence and the blessed thought of the Eternal Union

hereafter, which will make the bitter anguish of the present appear as

naught. That our Heavenly Father may impart to 'many widows' those

sources of consolation and support, is their broken-hearted Queen's

earnest prayer ... Believe me ever yours most affectionately, VICTORIA."

Dean Stanley is reported as telling of a touching little circumstance

which he received from the Princess Hohenlohe (Feodore), from which it

seems that Her Majesty was for a long time in the habit of going every

morning to look at the cows on Prince Albert's model farm, because

"_he_ had been used to do so," feeling, perhaps, that the gentle

creatures might miss him--that somewhere in their big dull brains, they

might wonder where their friend could be, and why he did not come. The

Princess also said that her poor sister found her only comfort in the

belief that her husband's spirit was close beside her--for he had

promised her that it should be so.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Arrival in England of the Princess Alexandra to wed the Prince of Wales--

Garibaldi's visit to London--The Queen's first public appearance after

her widowhood--Marriage of the Princess Louise--Illness of the Prince of

Wales--Disaffection in Ireland--The Queen's sympathy during the illness

of President Garfield.

On the 7th of March, 1863, all London and nearly all England went mad

over the coming of the Princess Alexandra, from Denmark, to wed the

Prince of Wales. Lord Ronald Gower, a son of the beautiful Duchess of

Sutherland, gives in his "Reminiscences" a fine description of her

arrival in London, and of the wedding at Windsor three days after. He

says: "Probably since the day in Paris when Marie Antoinette was

acclaimed in the gardens of the Tuileries, no Princess ever had so

enthusiastic a reception, or so quickly won the hearts of thousands by

the mere charm of her presence." This writer gives a very vivid

description of the crowd which waited patiently for hours, of a cold,

wretched day, for the sight of that sweet face whose sweetness has never

yet cloyed upon them. At last, there came a small company of Life Guards,

escorting an open carriage-and-four, containing the young Danish Princess

and His Royal Highness Albert Edward, looking very happy and very

conscious. The smiling, blushing, appealing face of the Princess warmed

as well as won all hearts. There were few flowers at that season to

scatter on her way, except flowers of poetry, of which there was no jack.

Tennyson's pretty ode has not been forgotten, but all as noble and sweet

was the greeting of her from whom I have before quoted; Mrs. Crosland.

The most touching, though not the strongest verse in that poem, is this:

"She comes another child to be

To that Crowned Widow of the land,

Whose sceptre weighs more heavily

Since One has ceased to hold her hand."

The Queen did not feel herself equal to taking any part in the marriage

ceremony, but looked down upon the scene of grandeur and gayety from the

Royal Gallery of St George's Chapel. The Duchess of Sutherland attended

her then for the last time. She had been with her at her coronation and

marriage; to-day they were both widows, and must have been at the moment

living intensely and sorrowfully in the past. With the exception of the

Crown Princess of Germany and the Duke of Edinburgh, all the Queen's

children, down to little Beatrice, were present. The bride, it is stated,

"looked lovely; she did not raise her eyes once in going into, and but

little in going out of, the Chapel on her husband's arm."

This first daughter-in-law soon made a place for herself in the Queen's

heart, by her grace and amiability. I have heard a pretty little story of

an attempt of hers to lighten somewhat Her Majesty's heavy cloud of

mourning. Millinery being one of her accomplishments, she prevailed upon

the Queen to let her remodel her bonnet, which she did, principally by

removing a small basketful of sombre weeds. The Queen saw through her

little _ruse_ and shook her head mournfully,--but wore the bonnet.

The next year London went still more mad over Garibaldi. His enthusiastic

admirers almost mobbed Stafford House, at which he was entertained by the

young Duke of Sutherland Lord Ronald Gower describes that memorable visit

and the popular excitement very vividly.

The Italian hero entered that beautiful palace, where a grand company of

the nobility were waiting to receive him, attired in a rough gray

overcoat and trousers, a large pork-pie hat, a loose black neck-tie, and

a red flannel shirt. This he never changed--I mean his style of dress,

not the shirt--but Garibaldi would have been quite un-Garibaldi-ed in an

English evening suit. Lord Ronald Gower writes that his noble, liberty-

loving mother was very devoted to their guest, but does not add that by

so doing she shocked the sensibilities of footmen and housemaids. One of

the latter once told to another guest, a moving story of the strange

habits of "Italian brigand": "Why, marm," she said, "he was such a

common-looking person, and he would get up so awful early and go hobbling

about in the garden. One morning at six o'clock, I looked out of my

window, and there he was walking up and down, and the Duchess with him--

_my_ Duchess, walking and talking with the likes of him!"

The first public appearance of the widowed Queen was at the opening of

Parliament, in 1866. I do not know whether the splendid chair of State

she had provided for Prince Albert, in the happy old time, had been left

in its place, to smite her eyes with its gilding and her heart with its

emptiness; I do not know whether its presence or its absence would have

grieved her most; but every sorrowing widow knows what it is to look on

her husband's vacant chair. It does not matter whether it is made of

rude, unpainted wood and woven rushes, or is a golden and velvet-

cushioned chair of State,--it was _his_ seat, and he is gone! Queen

Victoria must have felt that day, in her lonely grandeur, like crying out

with Constance,

"_Here I and Sorrow sit. _"

Lady Bloomfield gives a very touching account of her first visit to the

widowed mistress, whom, nearly twenty years before, she had so gladly and

proudly served--for true service is in the spirit, though the act may be

limited to taking a part in a duet, or handing the daily bouquet. She

wrote: "The Queen is dreadfully changed--most sad, but with the gentlest,

most benevolent smile. Even when the tears rolled down her cheeks, she

tried to smile." I think it was about this time that the Queen presented

to our George Peabody her portrait, expressly painted for him, in

recognition of his more than princely munificence in the gift of model

lodging-houses to the London poor. It was a small portrait--enameled, I

believe. I do not think it was an idealized picture, though the pencil

was evidently guided by a delicate and reverential loyalty, "doing its

spiriting gently," in marking the tracings of time and sorrow. In a

description which I wrote at the tune of its exhibition in Philadelphia,

I said: "With the exception of a touching expression of habitual sadness,

this face is very like the one I looked down upon from the gallery of the

House of Lords fifteen years ago. There is the same roundness of outline,

only 'a little more so'--almost the same freshness of tints in the fair

complexion. The soft brown hair is unchanged in color, if somewhat

thinner; and the clear blue eyes have the same steady outlook. The whole

figure is marked by a sort of regal rigidity. The face, if not positively

unhappy in expression, is quite empty of happiness. There is about it an

atmosphere of lonely state and absolute widowhood. The Mary Stuart cap is

very becoming to Her Majesty, but the black dress mars the picturesque

effect of the portrait. The neck and arms have all the roundness of

youth, and are exquisitely painted. I remember hearing the late Mr.

Gibson, who made several statues of the Queen, say that loyalty itself

need not to flatter her arms or bust; in sculpture or painting, as they

were really remarkably beautiful."

In 1868 the Queen had the misfortune to lose her "dearest Duchess"--that

grandest daughter of the grand house of Howard, _the_ Duchess of

Sutherland. She floated all unconsciously out on the waves that wash

against the restful palm-crowned shore, her last words being, "I think I

shall sleep now--I am so tired."

The Princess Louise was married with really royal pomp and a brave

attempt at the old gayety, in St. George's Chapel, Windsor, in March,

1871, to the Marquis of Lome.

The bride, who, according to Lord Ronald Gower, was. "very pale, but

handsome as she always is," was accompanied by the Prince of Wales; her

uncle, the Grand Duke of Coburg; and, to the great joy of all the

assembly, by her mother, the Queen. The wedded pair went to Claremont for

their honeymoon. As they drove away, "rice and white satin slippers were

sent after them, and John Brown threw a new broom, Highland fashion."

The people were much comforted at this appearance of the Queen once more

in the great gay world. They had begun to think that her social seclusion

would never end. When she went down into the "valley of the shadow of

death" with her beloved, though she struggled bravely up alone, she

brought the shadow with her; it enveloped her and wrapped her away from

her subjects--even the most loving and sympathetic. Now they took heart,

believing that royalty was finally coming out from under its eclipse of

mourning, that the Court would be re-established in Buckingham Palace,

and things generally, go on as in the good old days. They never did,

however, and never will, under her reign. It is too much to ask of her,

it seems.

Whether it is true, as I hear, that the air of London is hurtful to her,

giving her severe headaches, or that the scenes of her childhood and

early queenhood, and of her marriage, are too much for her, and heart-

ache is the matter, I know not; but it is undeniable that the Queen

prefers any one of her other homes to Buckingham Palace. She only comes

to it when absolute compelled by the duties of State. It is hard for

London tradesmen and pleasure-seekers, who think Her Majesty's mourning

immoderate, and doubt whether their wives would fret so long for them;

but when, in the first year of her, reign, the pretty, wilful Victoria

said to Lord Melbourne: "What is the use of being a Queen if one cannot

do as one likes!" her people laughed and applauded. Surely, with years

and trouble, and much faithful care and labor, and has not lost the right

to have a mind of her own, or the will to maintain it.

Of late years I have seen Her Majesty some half dozen times; once on her

way to prorogue Parliament, seated in the grand State coach, drawn by the

superb, cream-colored State horses, in all imaginable splendor of

trappings--escorted by the dashing Life Guards, and all the royal

carriages, each with its resplendent coachman and footmen, most gorgeous

of human creatures, and inside, very nice and respectable-looking people,

with no particular air of pride or elation. The Queen wore a cloak of

ermine, a tiara of diamonds, and a long, cloud-like veil of tulle,

floating back from her face, which that day had a very pleasant, genial

expression. She is changed,--of course she is; but she has even more of

the old calm dignity, and when she smiles, the effect is magical; her

youth flashes over her face, and quite the old look--the look _he_

knew her by, comes back for a little while.

At other times I have had glimpses of her as her carriage dashed through

the gateway to Marlborough House, on a garden-party day, or through the

Park, as she was fleeing with all speed from the city, after a Drawing-

room. Sometimes, she has bowed right and left, and smiled, as though

pleased by the cheers of the people; but at other times she has scarcely

inclined her head, and worn a look of unsmiling, utter weariness--proving

that a woman may have much worldly goods, many jewels, and brave velvet

gowns, and heaps of India shawls, and half a dozen grand mansions, with a

throne in every one, and yet at times feel that this brief life of ours

is "all vanity and vexation of spirit."

The Queen, though she had not kept up her intimate relations with the

Emperor and Empress, was shocked at the utter ruin to them and their son,

which resulted from the French and Prussian war, and she was not wanting

in tender sympathy, when the poor frightened refugee, Eugenie, hid a

tearful face against her sisterly breast, and sobbed out, "I have been

too favorable to war." To the Emperor she granted an asylum and a grave.

I know not whether France will ever demand his dust, to give it sepulture

under the dome of the Invalides; but he has already on the banks of the

Seine the grandest of monuments--_Paris_. His memory stands fair and

firm in stately buildings and massive bridges, and is renewed every year

in the plane tree of noble Boulevards, those green _longas vias_,

grander than the military highways of the Caesars.

In 1867 the Prince of Wales fell grievously ill, with the same fearful

malady that had deprived him of his father. Intense was the anxiety not

only of the Royal Family, but of all the English people the world over.

Soon the sympathy of other nations was aroused, and prayers began to

ascend to Heaven for the preservation of that precious life, not only

from all Christian peoples, but from Hebrews, Mohammedans and Buddhists;

in heathen lands the missionaries prayed, and in heathen portions of

Christian cities the mission-children prayed, while on the high seas the

sailors responded fervently when the captain. read in the Service the

"Prayer for the Sick," meaning their Prince, "sick unto death." The fine

old boast of England's power, that "her morning drum beats round the

world," how poor it seems beside the thought, of this zone of prayer!

There had been nothing like this in English history, and there was

nothing like it in ours, till that heart-breaking time of the mortal

illness of President Garfield. O, worthy should be, the life and manifold

the good works of that man for whom so many peoples and tongues have

given surety to Heaven by fervent intercessions and supplications.

This long sad time of anxiety and peril drew the Queen out of her sorrow

as nothing had done before. She watched tenderly by the bedside of her

son, and when he was recovered, and went to St. Paul's to return thanks,

she sat by his side, and wore a white flower in her bonnet, and her

grateful smile showed that there was a rift in the cloud of her mourning,

and that God's sunlight was striking through.

Lord Ronald Gower quotes a letter from his sister, the Duchess of

Westminster, describing the Prince and Princess of Wales as she saw them

about this time. She said: "He is much thinner and his head shaved, but

little changed in his face, and looking so grateful. She looks thin and

worn, but so affectionate--tears in her eyes when talking of him, and his

manner to her so gentle."

Surely convalescence is a "state of grace." Would that it might always

last a lifetime with us!

During this year, Irish disaffection broke out very seriously in the

great Fenian movement. An upheaval this, from the lowest stratum of

society, with no gentlemen, or eloquent orators, for leaders, but all the

more appalling for that. These rough, desperate men meant, as they said,

"business." This movement <was suppressed, driven under the surface, but

only to break out more appallingly than ever some ten or twelve years

later, in brutal assassinations, which have curdled the blood of the

world. Ah, must it always be so? Will this tiresome old Celtic Enceladus

never lie quiet, and be dead, though the mountain sit upon him ever so

solidly, and smoke ever so placidly above him?

Where now, we sadly ask, is the Ireland of Tom Moore, Father Prout, Lover

and Lever? Not enough left of it to furnish a new drama for Mr.

Boucicault. Donnybrook Fair has given place to midnight conspirations.

Fox-hunts to the stalking of landlords--all the jolly old customs

extinct, except the "wake." Peasant-life, over there, sometimes seems, at

the best, one protracted "wake."

I suppose it is too late now, yet I can but think that if the Queen had

built years ago, a palace in Ireland, at Killarney, or in lovely Wicklow,

or in Dublin itself, and resided there a part of every year, things might

have been better. She was so popular in that "distressful country" when,

by frequent visits, she testified an interest in it, and her gentle,

motherly presence might have had a more placating influence than any

"Coercion bill." The money she would have spent there,--the very crumbs

that would have fallen from her table, would have been a benefaction to

that poor people.

The Fenian drama had its ghastly closing _tableau_ in the hanging of

the ringleaders, and the explosion at Clerkenwell. The hanging of those

Fenians must have been about the last of that sort of a public

entertainment, as a law was soon passed making all future executions

strictly private. Among a certain class of Her Majesty's subjects this

was a most unpopular measure. Pot-house politicians and gin-palace

courtiers, both ladies and gentlemen, discussed it hotly and denounced it

sternly, as an infringement on the sacred immemorial rights of British

freemen and a blow to the British Constitution.

In 1874 Mr. Disraeli had become Prime Minister. He died in 1880--Lord

Beaconsfield, sincerely lamented by the Queen, who was much attached to

him as a friend, and greatly admired him as a man of genius. He was a

brilliant novelist and a famous statesman; but the best things I know of

him are the tender love and manly gratitude he always testified towards

his devoted wife, and his pathetic mourning for her loss. He might have

adopted for her tombstone the quaint, terse epitaph of an American

husband--"Think what a wife should be, and she was that."

Through his means, the title of "Empress of India" was conferred on the

Queen by act of Parliament. Some English people opposed it as

superfluous, a sort of anti-climax of dignity, as "gilding the refined

gold" of English Sovereignty with baser metal, as "painting the lily" of

the noblest of English royal titles with India-ink; but it did no harm.

It did not hurt the Radicals and it pleased the Rajahs.

Then came the Zulu war, with its awful disasters in the inglorious

slaughter of some thousands of gallant young soldiers, among which,

because of the power of romantic, historic associations, the death of the

young Prince Imperial stands out in woful relief. This was a severe

personal shock to the Queen. With all her tender sympathy she tried to

console the inconsolable Empress, and with her sons paid funeral honors

to the memory of the Prince, who had been almost as one of her family.

The only time I ever saw him he was in their company, driving away from a

royal garden-party.

The Prince of Wales visited India, traveled and hunted extensively, was

fêted after the most gorgeous Oriental style, and brought home rich

presents enough to set up a grand Eastern bazaar in Marlborough House,

and animals enough to start a respectable menagerie. Everywhere he went

he inclined the hearts of the people to peace and loyalty, by his frank

and genial ways. Does His Royal Highness ever propose such a tour in

Ireland? He would not probably receive as tribute so much jewelry and

gorgeous merchandise--so many tigers, pythons and other little things;

but there is a fine chance for giving over there, and we read: "It is

more blessed to give, than to receive."

I come now to that period of our national history with which the Queen of

England so kindly, so "gently and humanly" associated herself--I mean the

illness and death of President Garfield. To this day, that association is

a drop of sweetness in the bitter cup of our sorrow and humiliation. From

the 2d of July, 1881, the date of her first telegram of anxious inquiry

addressed to our Minister, to the 27th of the following September, when

she telegraphed her tender solicitude as to the condition of "the late

President's mother," not a week went by that she did not send to Mr.

Lowell sympathetic messages, asking for the latest news--congratulating

or condoling, as the state of "the world's patient" fluctuated between

life and death--and when all was over, she at once telegraphed directly

to Mrs. Garfield in these words of tenderest commiseration, so worthy of

her great heart:

"Words cannot express the deep sympathy I feel with you at this terrible

moment. May God support and comfort you as He alone can."

She afterwards sent an autograph letter to Mrs. Garfield, and also asked

for a photograph of the President.

No American who was in London at that time, especially on the day of or

President's funeral, so universally observed throughout Great Britain,

can ever forget the generous, whole-souled sympathy of the English

people, in part at least, inspired by the words 'and acts of the English

Queen. The intense interest with which she had watched that melancholy

struggle between "the Two Angels," over that distant death-bed, and the

grief with which she beheld the issue were known and responded to, and so

the noble contagion spread. It was not needed, perhaps, that signs of

mourning should be shown in her Palace windows, to have them appear as

they did, all over the vast city, but it was something strange and

affecting to see those blinds of a proud royal abode lowered out of

respect for the memory of a republican ruler, and sympathy for an

untitled "sister-widow."

We respected all those signs of mourning about us then--were grateful for

them all, from the flag at half-mast and the tolling bell, to the closing

of the shop of the small tradesman, and the bit of crape on the whip of

the cabman.

CHAPTER XXX.

My reasons for Honoring the Queen--Anecdotes--Some democratic reflections

upon the Queen's position and her Subjects' loyalty--The Royal Children--

Last words.

My reasons for admiring and honoring Queen Victoria are, perhaps, amply

revealed in this little book, but I will briefly recapitulate them:

First, is her great power of loving, and tenacity in holding on to love.

Next is her loyalty--that quality which makes her stand steadfastly by

those she loves, through good and evil report, arid not afraid to do

honor to a dead friend, be he prince or peasant--that quality which in

her lofty position, makes her friendship for the unfortunate exile "as

the shadow of a great rock in a weary land."

Next I place her sincerity, her downright honesty, which makes falsehood

and duplicity in those she has to do with, something to be wondered over

as well as scorned. Next, is her courage, so abundantly shown in the many

instances in which her life has been menaced. I do not believe that a

braver woman lives than Queen Victoria.

I admire her also for the respect and delicate consideration which she

has always had for the royalty of intellect, for the pride and

sensitiveness of genius. This peculiarity dates far back to when, as the

young Princess Victoria, she timidly asked that such men as the poets

Moore and Rogers, and the actors Charles Kemble and Macready might be

presented to her. Thomas Campbell used to relate an incident showing what

charming compliments she knew how to pay to poets. Wishing to witness the

coronation, he wrote to the Earl Marshal, saying: "There is a place in

the Abbey called 'The Poets' Corner,' which suggests the possibility of

there being room in it for living poets also." This brought him a ticket

of admission. His admiration of the young Queen's behavior was unbounded,

and he says: "On returning home, I resolved out of pure esteem and

veneration, to send her a copy of all say works. Accordingly I had them,

bound up and went personally with them to Sir Henry Wheatley, who, when

he understood my errand, told me that Her Majesty made it a rule to

decline presents of this kind, as it placed her under obligations which

were not pleasant to her. 'Say to Her Majesty, Sir Henry,' I replied,

'that there is nothing which the Queen can touch with her sceptre in any

of her dominions which I covet; and I therefore entreat you to present

them with my devotion as a subject.' But the next day they were returned.

I hesitated to open the parcel, but on doing so I found to my

inexpressible joy a note enclosed, desiring my autograph on them. Having

complied with this wish, I again transmitted the books to Her Majesty,

and in the course of a day or two, received in return this elegant

portrait engraving, with Her Majesty's autograph, as you see, below."

The Queen was the friend of Charles Kingsley, and of Charles Dickens, in

his later days. In presenting the latter with her. book, "_Leaves from

a Journal of Our Life in the Highlands_" she spoke of herself as "the

humblest of writers," and as almost ashamed to offer it, even with her

priceless autograph, to "one of the greatest." Mr. Tennyson she delights

to honor with her friendship. I have read a little story of her calling

on him at his place, on the Isle of Wight. It seems he had not received

due notice, or that, absorbed in writing, he had forgotten the hour. At

all events, he was taken by surprise, and was obliged to run out to

receive Her Majesty in his dressing-gown and slippers, and with his hair

disheveled, as it had become in the fine frenzy of composition. Just

think of Mr. Tennyson with his hair more than usually disheveled! Of

course it was all right, as far as the Queen was concerned,--but then the

footmen!

In her youth, the Queen was very fond of the drama, and did honor to its

representations, as we have seen. Rachel used to show, with especial

pride, a costly bracelet, within which was the inscription, "_Victoria

à Rachel._" When the beautiful English actress, Mrs. Warner, was

slowly dying of cancer, the Queen, I am told, used to send daily one of

her carriages to take her out for a drive--as the actress could not

afford herself such a luxury.

Of Americans distinguished for talent, Her Majesty has never failed to

show, when in her power, a generous appreciation. As long ago as 1839,

she invited to Buckingham Palace, Daniel Webster and Mrs. Webster. To our

great statesman--who Miss Mitford, at the time, said was "the grandest-

looking man" she had ever beheld, and whom Sydney Smith called, more

tersely than elegantly, "a steam-engine in breeches"--the Queen was

especially attentive, talking much with him; and he pronounced her "very

intelligent." To Longfellow, purest of poets and sweetest of spirits, she

showed a respect which was almost homage; and I am told that in Mr.

Lowell, she respects the poet and the scholar, even more than the

Minister. Ah, he is one whose poetic genius, whose scholarship, keen wit,

and, above all, exquisite humor, the Prince-Consort would have

appreciated and delighted in.

Artists and men of letters have never been behindhand in tributes to the

Queen. Every sculptor and painter to whom she has sat, has had the same

story as Gibson and Leslie to tell of her kindness, taste and

intelligence. Miss Fox, writing of Landseer, says, "He deeply admires the

Queen's intellect, which he thinks superior to any woman's in Europe. Her

memory is so remarkable that he has known her recall exact words of

speeches, made years ago, which the speakers themselves had forgotten."

That was saying too much, I think, when Mrs. Somerville, Miss Martineau,

and Elizabeth Barrett were living, and working, in England. In the things

pertaining to her station and vocation, Victoria doubtless was, and is,

superior to any woman in Europe. The Duke of Wellington, who thought at

fink that he could not get on with her, because he had "no small talk,"

finally enjoyed conversing with her on the most serious matters of State.

Sir Archibald Alison, in describing an evening with her and Prince

Albert, says: "The Queen took her full share in the conversation, and I

could easily see, from her quickness of apprehension. And the questions

she put to those around her, that she possessed uncommon talent, a great

desire for information, and, in particular, great rapidity of thought--a

faculty often possessed by persons of her rank, and arising not merely

from natural ability, but from the habit of conversing with the first men

of the age."

Ah, I wonder if Her Majesty has ever realized her blessed privilege in

being able to converse freely with "the first men of the age"; to avow

her interest in politics, which is history flowing by; in statesmanship,

that cunning tapestry-work of empire, without fearing to be set down as

"a strong-minded female out of her sphere."

Much has been told me of the Queen's shrewdness and perspicacity. An

English gentleman, who has opportunities of knowing much of her, lately

said to me: "Her Majesty has an eagle-eye; she sees everything--sees

everybody--sees through everybody." And this reminded me of a little

anecdote, told me many years before, by an English fellow-traveler,--the

story of a little informal interview, which amusingly revealed not only

the Queen's quickness of perception, but directness of character.

My informant was a young gentleman of very artistic tastes--a passionate

picture-lover. He had seen all the great paintings in the public

galleries of London, and had a strong desire to see those of Buckingham

Palace, which, that not being a show-house, are inaccessible to an

ordinary connoisseur. Fortune favored him at <last. He was the brother of

a London carpet merchant, who had an order to put down new carpets in the

State apartments of the palace; and so it chanced that the temptation

came to my friend to put on a workman's blouse and thus enter the royal

precincts, while the flag, indicating the presence of the august family,

floated defiantly over the roof. So he effected an entrance, and, when

once within the royal halls, dropped his assumed character and devoted

himself to the pictures. It happened that he remained in one of the

apartments after the workmen had left, and, while quite alone, the Queen

came tripping in, wearing a plain white morning-dress, and followed by

two or three of her younger children, dressed with like simplicity. She

approached the supposed workman and, said: "Pray can you tell me when the

new carpet will be put down in the Privy Council Chamber?" and he,

thinking he had no right to appear to recognize the Queen under the

circumstances, replied: "Really, madam--I cannot tell--but I will

enquire." "Stay," she said abruptly, but not unkindly; "who are you? I

perceive that you are not one of the workmen." Mr. W----, blushing and

stammering somewhat, yet made a clean breast of it, and told the simple

truth. The Queen seemed much amused with his _ruse_, and, for the sake of

his love for art, forgave it; then added, smiling, "I knew, for all your

dress, that you were a gentleman, because you did not address me as 'your

Majesty.' Pray look at the pictures as long as you will. Good-morning!

Come, chicks, we must go."

I hear that a distinguished American friend has expressed a fear that I

shall "idealize Queen Victoria." I do not think I have done so. I leave

that to her English biographers and eulogists. In my researches, I have

come upon curious things, in the way of pompous panegyric, which would

have made Minerva the Wise, feel foolish, and which Juno the Superb,

would have pronounced "a little too strong, really." I have not, it is

true, pointed out faults--I have not been near enough to "the Queen's

Most Excellent Majesty" to become acquainted with them. I presume she has

them--I hope she has. I think all writers who deny her human weaknesses,

or betray surprise at any exhibition of ordinary human feeling, pay the

Queen a very poor compliment. There is in England a good deal of

exaggerated expression of loyalty. Such words as "gracious" and

"condescending" are habits and forms of speech. Of the real sentiment of

loyalty, I do not think there is an excess--at least not toward the

Queen. When Her Majesty gives way to natural emotion over the death of a

friend, or over a great public calamity, I do not believe she likes to

have the fact made a circumstance of. For instance, when that dreadful

tragedy occurred in the Victoria Hall, at Sunderland, when hundreds of

children perished, by being trampled underfoot and suffocated, the Court

intelligence, which seemed to deepen the sadness in many minds, was that

"Her Majesty was observed to weep on reading the account." This item went

the rounds, and called forth such expressions of sympathy that one would

have supposed that it was the august _mater patriæ_ at Windsor, who

had been bereaved, and not those poor distracted mothers at Sunderland.

Why should the Queen not weep over such a "massacre of the innocents,"

like any other good, sympathetic, motherly woman? She has not wept away

all her tears for herself.

I remember at the time of the death of Lady Augusta Stanley, who had

formerly been one of Her Majesty's Maids of Honor, much was said of the

Queen's sympathy with the Dean. She attended the funeral, and afterwards,

it is said, "led the widowed mourner into his desolate home." This act,

so simple and sweet in a friend, was, I know, looked upon' by some as

"condescension," in a sovereign; but how could one sorrowing human soul

condescend to another--and that other Arthur Stanley? Sorrow is as great

a leveler as death. Tears wash away all poor human distinctions.

We also took the Queen's sympathy with us, in our great national-

bereavement, too much as though it were something quite super-royal, if

not superhuman. It was the exquisite wording of those telegrams which

touched, melted our hearts; but we should have been neither surprised,

nor overcome. It was beautiful, but it was natural. _She_ could not have

said less, or said it differently. It was very sweet of her to send that

floral offering, known and dear to us all as "the Queen's Wreath," but

she sacrificed no dignity in so doing, as her flowers were to lie on the

coffin of the ruler of a great empire--a ruler who had been as much

greater than an ordinary monarch as election is greater than accident.

Of course, as the Queen is the most interesting personage in all England,

the least little things connected with her have an interest which

Americans can hardly understand. In a handsome semi-official work called

"A Diary of Royal Events," I find gravely related the story of an Osborne

postman, who once lent the Queen and Prince Albert his umbrella, and was

told to call for it at the great house, when he received it back, and

with it a five-pound note. I see nothing very note-worthy in this, except

the fact, honorable to humanity, of a borrowed umbrella being promptly

returned, the owner calling for it. The five-pound note, though, was an

"event" to the postman.

A few concluding words about the Queen's children, who with many

grandchildren "rise up to call her blessed."

Victoria, the Crown Princess of Germany, is a fine-looking woman, with

the same peculiarly German face, "round as an apple," which she had as a

child. She is very clever, especially in art, and her character, formed

under her father's hand, very noble. The Prince of Wales is a hard-

working man in his way, which means in many ways, for the public benefit-

-industrial, artistic, scientific and social. The people seem bent on

making him true to his old Saxon motto--"_Ich dien_" (I serve). He

is exceedingly popular, being very genial and affable--not jealous, it is

said, of his dignity as a Prince, but very jealous of his dignity as a

gentleman--and that is right; for kings may come, and kings may go, but

the fine type of the English gentleman goes on forever. No revolution can

depose it; no commune can destroy it--it is proof against dynamite.

A handsome man is the Duke of Edinburgh (Prince Alfred), who no longer

follows the sea, but is settled down in England, with his wife, a

daughter of the late Czar, who testified by this alliance his wish to let

Crimean "by-gones be by-gones"--till the next time, at least.

The Duke resembles his father in his love for and cultivation of music.

There does not seem to be any opening for him to play a part like that of

Alfred the Great, but he can probably play the violin better than that

monarch ever did. They drew another sort of a bow in those old days.

The Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein (Princess Helena) is in

appearance most like her mother, and perhaps in character and tastes, as

she lives a life of quiet retirement, is a devoted wife and-mother, yet

often giving her time and energies to a good work, or an artistic

enterprise. She also is exceedingly fond of music and is an accomplished

pianist. A passion for music belongs to this family by a double

inheritance. Even poor, old, blind George the Third consoled himself at

his organ, for the loss of an empire and the darkening of as world.

The Duke of Connaught, whom we so pleasantly remember in America as

Prince Arthur, is the soldier of the family--a real one, since he won his

spars in Egypt. He has something of the grave, gentle look of his father,

and is much liked and respected.

The Princess Louise (Marchioness of Lome) is a beautiful woman, but with

a somewhat cold and proud expression, a veritable _grande dame_. She

is remarkably clever and accomplished, especially in art--modeling

admirably well--for a Princess.

Prince Leopold (Duke of Albany) is the scholar of the family--

intellectually and morally more like Prince Albert, it is said, than any

of his brothers. I was once told by the eminent Dr. James Martineau, who

had met and conversed with him, that he was a young man of a very

thoughtful mind, high aims, and quite remarkable acquirements. As Dr.

Martineau is not of _the_ church, being a Unitarian divine, he

cannot be suspected, in pronouncing such eulogies on the Queen's darling

son, of having an eye to preferment-of working for a "living." On the

whole, Her Majesty's sons are a decided improvement on her six royal

uncles, on the paternal side.

We come now to the youngest, the darling and delight of her father, the

little one who "stood and looked at him," when he lay ill, marveling at

the mysterious change in his dear face;--the Princess Beatrice--as

closely associated, as constantly with her mother as was the Princess

Victoria with the Duchess of Kent. She also is accomplished and clever,

nor appears in any way to "unbeseem the promise of her spring." She also

has the love of music which marks her race. She was little more than a

baby when her father went away, and her innocent wonder and questioning

must often have pierced her mother's wounded heart anew; and yet those

little loving hands must have helped to draw that mother from the depths

of gloom and despair in which she was so nearly engulfed. Though the

youngest of all, her father seems to have delegated to her much of his

dearest earthly care, and she the good daughter, is, it may be, led by

unseen hands, and inspired by unspoken words of counsel and acceptance.

So, though the life of the Princess Beatrice is not abounding in the

Court gayeties and excitements which usually fall to the lot of a

Princess, "young, and so fair," none, can question its happiness, for it

is a life of duty and devotion.

* * * * *

And now my little biography is finished--"would it were worthier!"--and I

must take leave of my illustrious subject, "kissing hands" in

imagination, with profound respect. If I back out of the presence, it is

not in unrepublican abasement, but because I am loath to turn my eyes

away, from the kindly and now familiar face of the good woman, and the

good Queen--VICTORIA.

THE END.