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The First Christening The Season Of 1841


Comments Upon The Young Queen By A Contemporaneous Writer In Blackwood


The Royal Young People

The Queen's First Visit To Scotland

The Queen's First Visit To Scotland



The Proroguing Of Parliament The Visit To Guildhall And The Coronation

Least Viewed

Prince Albert

The Condemnation Of The English Duel

Second Attempt On The Queen's Life

Fresh Attempts Against The Queen's Life And The Death Of The Duc D'orleans

Sketch Of The Princess Charlotte

The Emperor And Empress Of France Visit Windsor

Stress And Strain

Victoria The Great

The Last Day Of Victoria's Real Girlhood

Victoria's First Christmas At Windsor Castle As Queen

Last Years Of The Prince Consort


The weak-willed youth who took no interest in politics and never read a
newspaper had grown into a man of unbending determination whose
tireless energies were incessantly concentrated upon the laborious
business of government and the highest questions of State. He was busy
now from morning till night. In the winter, before the dawn, he was to
be seen, seated at his writing-table, working by the light of the green
reading-lamp which he had brought over with him from Germany, and the
construction of which he had much improved by an ingenious device.
Victoria was early too, but she was not so early as Albert; and when,
in the chill darkness, she took her seat at her own writing-table,
placed side by side with his, she invariably found upon it a neat pile
of papers arranged for her inspection and her signature. The day,
thus begun, continued in unremitting industry. At breakfast, the
newspapers--the once hated newspapers--made their appearance, and the
Prince, absorbed in their perusal, would answer no questions, or, if an
article struck him, would read it aloud. After that there were
ministers and secretaries to interview; there was a vast correspondence
to be carried on; there were numerous memoranda to be made.
Victoria, treasuring every word, preserving every letter, was all
breathless attention and eager obedience. Sometimes Albert would
actually ask her advice. He consulted her about his English: 'Lese
recht aufmerksam, und sage wenn irgend ein Fehler ist,' he would
say; or, as he handed her a draft for her signature, he would observe
'Ich hab' Dir hier ein Draft gemacht, lese es mal! Ich daechte es waere
recht so.' Thus the diligent, scrupulous, absorbing hours passed
by. Fewer and fewer grew the moments of recreation and of exercise.
The demands of society were narrowed down to the smallest limits, and
even then but grudgingly attended to. It was no longer a mere
pleasure, it was a positive necessity, to go to bed as early as
possible in order to be up and at work on the morrow betimes.

The important and exacting business of government, which became at last
the dominating preoccupation in Albert's mind, still left unimpaired
his old tastes and interests; he remained devoted to art, to science,
to philosophy; and a multitude of subsidiary activities showed how his
energies increased as the demands upon them grew. For whenever duty
called, the Prince was all alertness. With indefatigable perseverance
he opened museums, laid the foundation-stones of hospitals, made
speeches to the Royal Agricultural Society, and attended meetings of
the British Association. The National Gallery particularly
interested him: he drew up careful regulations for the arrangement of
the pictures according to schools; and he attempted--though in
vain--to have the whole collection transported to South Kensington.
Feodora, now the Princess Hohenlohe, after a visit to England,
expressed in a letter to Victoria her admiration of Albert both as a
private and a public character. Nor did she rely only on her own
opinion. 'I must just copy out,' she said, 'what Mr. Klumpp wrote to
me some little time ago, and which is quite true.--"Prince Albert is
one of the few Royal personages who can sacrifice to any principle (as
soon as it has become evident to them to be good and noble) all those
notions (or sentiments) to which others, owing to their
narrow-mindedness, or to the prejudices of their rank, are so
thoroughly inclined strongly to cling."--There is something so truly
religious in this,' the Princess added, 'as well as humane and just,
most soothing to my feelings which are so often hurt and disturbed by
what I hear and see.'

Victoria, from the depth of her heart, subscribed to all the eulogies
of Feodora and Mr. Klumpp. She only found that they were insufficient.
As she watched her beloved Albert, after toiling with state documents
and public functions, devoting every spare moment of his time to
domestic duties, to artistic appreciation, and to intellectual
improvements; as she listened to him cracking his jokes at the
luncheon-table, or playing Mendelssohn on the organ, or pointing out
the merits of Sir Edwin Landseer's pictures; as she followed him round
while he gave instructions about the breeding of cattle, or decided
that the Gainsboroughs must be hung higher up so that the Winterhalters
might be properly seen--she felt perfectly certain that no other wife
had ever had such a husband. His mind was apparently capable of
everything, and she was hardly surprised to learn that he had
made an important discovery for the conversion of sewage into
agricultural manure. Filtration from below upwards, he explained,
through some appropriate medium, which retained the solids and set free
the fluid sewage for irrigation, was the principle of the scheme. 'All
previous plans,' he said, 'would have cost millions; mine costs next to
nothing.' Unfortunately, owing to a slight miscalculation, the
invention proved to be impracticable; but Albert's intelligence was
unrebuffed, and he passed on, to plunge with all his accustomed ardour
into a prolonged study of the rudiments of lithography.

But naturally it was upon his children that his private interests and
those of Victoria were concentrated most vigorously. The royal
nurseries showed no sign of emptying. The birth of the Prince Arthur
in 1850 was followed, three years later, by that of the Prince Leopold;
and in 1857 the Princess Beatrice was born. A family of nine must be,
in any circumstances, a grave responsibility; and the Prince realised
to the full how much the high destinies of his offspring intensified
the need of parental care. It was inevitable that he should believe
profoundly in the importance of education; he himself had been the
product of education; Stockmar had made him what he was; it was for
him, in his turn, to be a Stockmar--to be even more than a Stockmar--to
the young creatures he had brought into the world. Victoria would
assist him; a Stockmar, no doubt, she could hardly be; but she could be
perpetually vigilant, she could mingle strictness with her affection,
and she could always set a good example. These considerations, of
course, applied pre-eminently to the education of the Prince of Wales.
How tremendous was the significance of every particle of
influence which went to the making of the future King of England!
Albert set to work with a will. But, watching with Victoria the
minutest details of the physical, intellectual, and moral training of
his children, he soon perceived, to his distress, that there was
something unsatisfactory in the development of his eldest son. The
Princess Royal was an extremely intelligent child; but Bertie, though
he was good-humoured and gentle, seemed to display a deep-seated
repugnance to every form of mental exertion. This was most
regrettable, but the remedy was obvious: the parental efforts must be
redoubled; instruction must be multiplied; not for a single instant
must the educational pressure be allowed to relax. Accordingly, more
tutors were selected, the curriculum was revised, the time-table of
studies was rearranged, elaborate memoranda dealing with every possible
contingency were drawn up. It was above all essential that there
should be no slackness: 'work,' said the Prince, 'must be work.' And
work indeed it was. The boy grew up amid a ceaseless round of
paradigms, syntactical exercises, dates, genealogical tables, and lists
of capes. Constant notes flew backwards and forwards between the
Prince, the Queen, and the tutors, with inquiries, with reports of
progress, with detailed recommendations; and these notes were all
carefully preserved for future reference. It was, besides, vital that
the heir to the throne should be protected from the slightest
possibility of contamination from the outside world. The Prince of
Wales was not as other boys; he might, occasionally, be allowed to
invite some sons of the nobility, boys of good character, to play with
him in the garden of Buckingham Palace; but his father presided, with
alarming precision, over their sports. In short, every possible
precaution was taken, every conceivable effort was made. Yet, strange
to say, the object of all this vigilance and solicitude continued to be
unsatisfactory--appeared, in fact, to be positively growing worse. It
was certainly very odd: the more lessons that Bertie had to do, the
less he did them; and the more carefully he was guarded against
excitements and frivolities, the more desirous of mere amusement he
seemed to become. Albert was deeply grieved and Victoria was sometimes
very angry; but grief and anger produced no more effect than
supervision and time-tables. The Prince of Wales, in spite of
everything, grew up into manhood without the faintest sign of
'adherence to and perseverance in the plan both of studies and
life'--as one of the Royal memoranda put it--which had been laid down
with such extraordinary forethought by his father.


Against the insidious worries of politics, the boredom of society
functions, and the pompous publicity of state ceremonies, Osborne had
afforded a welcome refuge; but it soon appeared that even Osborne was
too little removed from the world. After all, the Solent was a feeble
barrier. Oh, for some distant, some almost inaccessible sanctuary,
where, in true domestic privacy, one could make happy holiday, just as
if--or at least very, very, nearly--one were anybody else! Victoria,
ever since, together with Albert, she had visited Scotland in the early
years of her marriage, had felt that her heart was in the Highlands.
She had returned to them a few years later, and her passion had
grown. How romantic they were! And how Albert enjoyed them too! His
spirits rose quite wonderfully as soon as he found himself among the
hills and the conifers. 'It is a happiness to see him,' she wrote.
'Oh! What can equal the beauties of nature!' she exclaimed in her
journal, during one of these visits. 'What enjoyment there is in them!
Albert enjoys it so much; he is in ecstasies here.' 'Albert said,' she
noted next day, 'that the chief beauty of mountain scenery consists in
its frequent changes. We came home at six o'clock.' Then she went on
a longer expedition--up to the very top of a high hill. 'It was quite
romantic. Here we were with only this Highlander behind us holding the
ponies (for we got off twice and walked about) .... We came home at
half past eleven,--the most delightful, most romantic ride and walk I
ever had. I had never been up such a mountain, and then the day was so
fine. The Highlanders, too, were such astonishing people. They 'never
make difficulties,' she noted, 'but are cheerful, and happy, and merry,
and ready to walk, and run, and do anything.' As for Albert he 'highly
appreciated the good-breeding, simplicity, and intelligence, which make
it so pleasant and even instructive to talk to them.' 'We were always
in the habit,' wrote Her Majesty, 'of conversing with the
Highlanders--with whom one comes so much in contact in the Highlands.'
She loved everything about them--their customs, their dress, their
dances, even their musical instruments. 'There were nine pipers at the
castle,' she wrote, after staying with Lord Breadalbane; 'sometimes one
and sometimes three played. They always played about breakfast-time,
again during the morning, at luncheon, and also whenever we went
in and out; again before dinner, and during most of dinner-time. We
both have become quite fond of the bag-pipes.'

It was quite impossible not to wish to return to such pleasures again
and again; and in 1848 the Queen took a lease of Balmoral House, a
small residence near Braemar in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. Four years
later she bought the place outright. Now she could be really happy
every summer; now she could be simple and at her ease; now she could be
romantic every evening, and dote upon Albert, without a single
distraction, all day long. The diminutive scale of the house was in
itself a charm. Nothing was more amusing than to find oneself living
in two or three little sitting-rooms, with the children crammed away
upstairs, and the Minister in attendance with only a tiny bedroom to do
all his work in. And then to be able to run in and out of doors as one
liked, and to sketch, and to walk, and to watch the red deer coming so
surprisingly close, and to pay visits to the cottagers! And
occasionally one could be more adventurous still--one could go and stay
for a night or two at the Bothie at Alt-na-giuthasach--a mere couple of
huts with 'a wooden addition'--and only eleven people in the whole
party! And there were mountains to be climbed and cairns to be built
in solemn pomp. 'At last, when the cairn, which is, I think, seven or
eight feet high, was nearly completed, Albert climbed up to the top of
it, and placed the last stone; after which three cheers were given. It
was a gay, pretty, and touching sight; and I felt almost inclined to
cry. The view was so beautiful over the dear hills; the day so fine;
the whole so gemuethlich.' And in the evening there were
sword-dances and reels.

But Albert had determined to pull down the little old house, and to
build in its place a Castle of his own designing. With great ceremony,
in accordance with a memorandum drawn up by the Prince for the
occasion, the foundation-stone of the new edifice was laid, and by
1855 it was habitable. Spacious, built of granite in the Scotch
baronial style, with a tower 100 feet high, and minor turrets and
castellated gables, the Castle was skilfully arranged to command the
finest views of the surrounding mountains and of the neighbouring river
Dee. Upon the interior decorations Albert and Victoria lavished all
their care. The walls and the floors were of pitch-pine, and covered
with specially manufactured tartans. The Balmoral tartan, in red and
grey, designed by the Prince, and the Victoria tartan, with a white
stripe, designed by the Queen, were to be seen in every room: there
were tartan curtains, and tartan chair-covers, and even tartan
linoleums. Occasionally the Royal Stuart tartan appeared, for Her
Majesty always maintained that she was an ardent Jacobite.
Water-colour sketches by Victoria hung upon the walls, together with
innumerable stags' antlers, and the head of a boar, which had been shot
by Albert in Germany. In an alcove in the hall stood a life-sized
statue of Albert in Highland dress.

Victoria declared that it was perfection. 'Every year,' she wrote, 'my
heart becomes more fixed in this dear paradise, and so much more so
now, that all has become my dear Albert's own creation, own work,
own building, own laying-out; ... and his great taste, and the
impress of his dear hand, have been stamped everywhere.'

And here, in very truth, her happiest days were passed. In after
years, when she looked back upon them, a kind of glory, a radiance as
of an unearthly holiness, seemed to glow about these golden hours.
Each hallowed moment stood out clear, beautiful, eternally significant.
For, at the time, every experience there, sentimental, or grave, or
trivial, had come upon her with a peculiar vividness, like a flashing
of marvellous lights. Albert's stalkings--an evening walk when she
lost her way--Vicky sitting down on a wasps' nest--a torchlight
dance--with what intensity such things, and ten thousand like them,
impressed themselves upon her eager consciousness! And how she flew to
her journal to note them down! The news of the Duke's death! What a
moment!--when, as she sat sketching after a picnic by a loch in the
lonely hills, Lord Derby's letter had been brought to her, and she had
learnt that 'England's, or rather Britain's pride, her glory, her
hero, the greatest man she had ever produced, was no more!' For such
were her reflections upon the 'old rebel' of former days. But that
past had been utterly obliterated--no faintest memory of it remained.
For years she had looked up to the Duke as a figure almost superhuman.
Had he not been a supporter of good Sir Robert? Had he not asked
Albert to succeed him as Commander-in-Chief? And what a proud moment
it had been when he stood as sponsor to her son Arthur, who was born on
his eighty-first birthday! So now she filled a whole page of her diary
with panegyrical regrets. 'His position was the highest a subject ever
had--above party,--looked up to by all,--revered by the whole
nation,--the friend of the Sovereign ... The Crown never
possessed,--and I fear never will--so devoted, loyal, and faithful
a subject, so staunch a supporter! To us his loss is irreparable ...
To Albert he showed the greatest kindness and the utmost confidence ...
Not an eye will be dry in the whole country.' These were serious
thoughts; but they were soon succeeded by others hardly less moving--by
events as impossible to forget--by Mr. MacLeod's sermon on
Nicodemus,--by the gift of a red flannel petticoat to Mrs. P.
Farquharson, and another to old Kitty Kear.

But, without doubt, most memorable, most delightful of all were the
expeditions--the rare, exciting expeditions up distant mountains,
across broad rivers, through strange country, and lasting several days.
With only two gillies--Grant and Brown--for servants, and with assumed
names ... it was more like something in a story than real life. 'We
had decided to call ourselves Lord and Lady Churchill and party--Lady
Churchill passing as Miss Spencer and General Grey as Dr. Grey!
Brown once forgot this and called me "Your Majesty" as I was getting
into the carriage, and Grant on the box once called Albert "Your Royal
Highness," which set us off laughing, but no one observed it.' Strong,
vigorous, enthusiastic, bringing, so it seemed, good fortune with
her--the Highlanders declared she had 'a lucky foot'--she relished
everything--the scrambles and the views and the contretemps and the
rough inns with their coarse fare and Brown and Grant waiting at table.
She could have gone on for ever and ever, absolutely happy with Albert
beside her and Brown at her pony's head. But the time came for
turning homewards; alas! the time came for going back to England. She
could hardly bear it; she sat disconsolate in her room and watched the
snow falling. The last day! Oh! If only she could be snowed up!


The Crimean War brought new experiences, and most of them were pleasant
ones. It was pleasant to be patriotic and pugnacious, to look out
appropriate prayers to be read in the churches, to have news of
glorious victories, and to know oneself, more proudly than ever, the
representative of England. With that spontaneity of feeling which was
so peculiarly her own, Victoria poured out her emotion, her admiration,
her pity, her love, upon her 'dear soldiers.' When she gave them their
medals her exultation knew no bounds. 'Noble fellows!' she wrote to
the King of the Belgians. 'I own I feel as if these were my own
children; my heart beats for them as for my nearest and dearest.
They were so touched, so pleased; many, I hear, cried--and they won't
hear of giving up their medals to have their names engraved upon them
for fear they should not receive the identical one put into their
hands by me, which is quite touching. Several came by in a sadly
mutilated state.' She and they were at one. They felt that she
had done them a splendid honour, and she, with perfect genuineness,
shared their feeling. Albert's attitude towards such things was
different; there was an austerity in him which quite prohibited the
expansions of emotion. When General Williams returned from the
heroic defence of Kars and was presented at Court, the quick, stiff,
distant bow with which the Prince received him struck like ice upon the
beholders. He was a stranger still.

But he had other things to occupy him, more important, surely, than the
personal impressions of military officers and people who went to Court.
He was at work--ceaselessly at work--on the tremendous task of carrying
through the war to a successful conclusion. State papers, despatches,
memoranda, poured from him in an overwhelming stream. Between 1853 and
1857 fifty folio volumes were filled with the comments of his pen upon
the Eastern question. Nothing would induce him to stop. Weary
ministers staggered under the load of his advice; but his advice
continued, piling itself up over their writing-tables, and flowing out
upon them from red box after red box. Nor was it advice to be ignored.
The talent for administration which had reorganised the royal palaces
and planned the Great Exhibition asserted itself no less in the
confused complexities of war. Again and again the Prince's
suggestions, rejected or unheeded at first, were adopted under the
stress of circumstances and found to be full of value. The enrolment
of a foreign legion, the establishment of a depot for troops at Malta,
the institution of periodical reports and tabulated returns as to the
condition of the army at Sebastopol--such were the contrivances and the
achievements of his indefatigable brain. He went further: in a lengthy
minute he laid down the lines for a radical reform in the entire
administration of the army. This was premature, but his proposal that
'a camp of evolution' should be created, in which troops should
be concentrated and drilled, proved to be the germ of Aldershot.

Meanwhile Victoria had made a new friend: she had suddenly been
captivated by Napoleon III. Her dislike of him had been strong at
first. She considered that he was a disreputable adventurer who had
usurped the throne of poor old Louis Philippe; and besides he was
hand-in-glove with Lord Palmerston. For a long time, although he was
her ally, she was unwilling to meet him; but at last a visit of the
Emperor and Empress to England was arranged. Directly he appeared at
Windsor her heart began to soften. She found that she was charmed by
his quiet manners, his low, soft voice, and by the soothing simplicity
of his conversation. The good-will of England was essential to the
Emperor's position in Europe, and he had determined to fascinate the
Queen. He succeeded. There was something deep within her which
responded immediately and vehemently to natures that offered a romantic
contrast with her own. Her adoration of Lord Melbourne was intimately
interwoven with her half-unconscious appreciation of the exciting
unlikeness between herself and that sophisticated, subtle,
aristocratical old man. Very different was the quality of her
unlikeness to Napoleon; but its quantity was at least as great. From
behind the vast solidity of her respectability, her conventionality,
her established happiness, she peered out with a strange delicious
pleasure at that unfamiliar, darkly-glittering foreign object, moving
so meteorically before her, an ambiguous creature of wilfulness and
Destiny. And, to her surprise, where she had dreaded antagonisms, she
discovered only sympathies. He was, she said, 'so quiet, so simple,
naif even, so pleased to be informed about things he does not
know, so gentle, so full of tact, dignity, and modesty, so full of kind
attention towards us, never saying a word, or doing a thing, which
could put me out ... There is something fascinating, melancholy, and
engaging, which draws you to him, in spite of any prevention you may
have against him, and certainly without the assistance of any outward
appearance, though I like his face.' She observed that he rode
'extremely well, and looks well on horseback, as he sits high.' And he
danced 'with great dignity and spirit.' Above all, he listened to
Albert; listened with the most respectful attention; showed, in fact,
how pleased he was 'to be informed about things he did not know'; and
afterwards was heard to declare that he had never met the Prince's
equal. On one occasion, indeed--but only on one--he had seemed to grow
slightly restive. In a diplomatic conversation, 'I expatiated a little
on the Holstein question,' wrote the Prince in a memorandum, 'which
appeared to bore the Emperor as "tres-compliquee"'

Victoria, too, became much attached to the Empress, whose looks and
graces she admired without a touch of jealousy. Eugenie, indeed, in
the plenitude of her beauty, exquisitely dressed in wonderful Parisian
crinolines which set off to perfection her tall and willowy figure,
might well have caused some heartburning in the breast of her hostess,
who, very short, rather stout, quite plain, in garish middle-class
garments, could hardly be expected to feel at her best in such company.
But Victoria had no misgivings. To her it mattered nothing that her
face turned red in the heat and that her purple pork-pie hat was of
last year's fashion, while Eugenie, cool and modish, floated in an
infinitude of flounces by her side. She was Queen of England,
and was not that enough? It certainly seemed to be; true majesty was
hers, and she knew it. More than once, when the two were together in
public, it was the woman to whom, as it seemed, nature and art had
given so little, who, by the sheer force of an inherent grandeur,
completely threw her adorned and beautiful companion into the shade.

There were tears when the moment came for parting, and Victoria felt
'quite wehmuethig,' as her guests went away from Windsor. But before
long she and Albert paid a return visit to France, where everything was
very delightful, and she drove incognito through the streets of Paris
in 'a common bonnet,' and saw a play in the theatre at St. Cloud, and,
one evening, at a great party given by the Emperor in her honour at the
Chateau of Versailles, talked a little to a distinguished-looking
Prussian gentleman, whose name was Bismarck. Her rooms were furnished
so much to her taste that she declared they gave her quite a home
feeling--that, if her little dog were there, she should really imagine
herself at home. Nothing was said, but three days later her little dog
barked a welcome to her as she entered the apartments. The Emperor
himself, sparing neither trouble nor expense, had personally arranged
the charming surprise. Such were his attentions. She returned to
England more enchanted than ever. 'Strange indeed,' she exclaimed,
'are the dispensations and ways of Providence!'

The alliance prospered, and the war drew towards a conclusion. Both
the Queen and the Prince, it is true, were most anxious that there
should not be a premature peace. When Lord Aberdeen wished to
open negotiations Albert attacked him in a 'geharnischten' letter,
while Victoria rode about on horseback reviewing the troops. At last,
however, Sebastopol was captured. The news reached Balmoral late at
night, and 'in a few minutes Albert and all the gentlemen in every
species of attire sallied forth, followed by all the servants, and
gradually by all the population of the village--keepers, gillies,
workmen--up to the top of the cairn.' A bonfire was lighted, the pipes
were played, and guns were shot off. 'About three-quarters of an hour
after Albert came down and said the scene had been wild and exciting
beyond everything. The people had been drinking healths in whisky and
were in great ecstasy.' The 'great ecstasy,' perhaps, would be
replaced by other feelings next morning; but at any rate the war was
over--though, to be sure, its end seemed as difficult to account for as
its beginning. The dispensations and ways of Providence continued to
be strange.


An unexpected consequence of the war was a complete change in the
relations between the royal pair and Palmerston. The Prince and the
Minister drew together over their hostility to Russia, and thus it came
about that when Victoria found it necessary to summon her old enemy to
form an administration she did so without reluctance. The premiership,
too, had a sobering effect upon Palmerston; he grew less impatient and
dictatorial; considered with attention the suggestions of the Crown,
and was, besides, genuinely impressed by the Prince's ability and
knowledge. Friction, no doubt, there still occasionally was, for,
while the Queen and the Prince devoted themselves to foreign politics
as much as ever, their views, when the war was over, became once more
antagonistic to those of the Prime Minister. This was especially the
case with regard to Italy. Albert, theoretically the friend of
constitutional government, distrusted Cavour, was horrified by
Garibaldi, and dreaded the danger of England being drawn into war with
Austria. Palmerston, on the other hand, was eager for Italian
independence; but he was no longer at the Foreign Office, and the brunt
of the royal displeasure had now to be borne by Lord John Russell. In
a few years the situation had curiously altered. It was Lord John who
now filled the subordinate and the ungrateful role; but the Foreign
Secretary, in his struggle with the Crown, was supported, instead of
opposed, by the Prime Minister. Nevertheless the struggle was fierce,
and the policy, by which the vigorous sympathy of England became one of
the decisive factors in the final achievement of Italian unity, was
only carried through in face of the violent opposition of the Court.

Towards the other European storm-centre, also, the Prince's attitude
continued to be very different from that of Palmerston. Albert's great
wish was for a united Germany under the leadership of a constitutional
and virtuous Prussia; Palmerston did not think that there was much to
be said for the scheme, but he took no particular interest in German
politics, and was ready enough to agree to a proposal which was
warmly supported by both the Prince and the Queen--that the royal
Houses of England and Prussia should be united by the marriage of the
Princess Royal with the Prussian Crown Prince. Accordingly, when the
Princess was not yet fifteen, the Prince, a young man of twenty-four,
came over on a visit to Balmoral, and the betrothal took place.
Two years later, in 1857, the marriage was celebrated. At the last
moment, however, it seemed that there might be a hitch. It was pointed
out in Prussia that it was customary for Princes of the blood-royal to
be married in Berlin, and it was suggested that there was no reason why
the present case should be treated as an exception. When this reached
the ears of Victoria, she was speechless with indignation. In a note,
emphatic even for Her Majesty, she instructed the Foreign Secretary to
tell the Prussian Ambassador 'not to entertain the possibility of
such a question.... The Queen never could consent to it, both for
public and for private reasons, and the assumption of its being too
much for a Prince Royal of Prussia to come over to marry the Princess
Royal of Great Britain in England is too absurd to say the least....
Whatever may be the usual practice of Prussian princes, it is not
every day that one marries the eldest daughter of the Queen of
England. The question must therefore be considered as settled and
closed.' It was, and the wedding took place in St. James's Chapel.
There were great festivities--illuminations, state concerts, immense
crowds, and general rejoicings. At Windsor a magnificent banquet was
given to the bride and bridegroom in the Waterloo room, at which,
Victoria noted in her diary, 'everybody was most friendly and kind
about Vicky and full of the universal enthusiasm, of which the
Duke of Buccleuch gave us most pleasing instances, he having been in
the very thick of the crowd and among the lowest of the low.' Her
feelings during several days had been growing more and more emotional,
and when the time came for the young couple to depart she very nearly
broke down--but not quite. 'Poor dear child!' she wrote afterwards.
'I clasped her in my arms and blessed her, and knew not what to say. I
kissed good Fritz and pressed his hand again and again. He was unable
to speak and the tears were in his eyes. I embraced them both again at
the carriage door, and Albert got into the carriage, an open one, with
them and Bertie.... The band struck up. I wished good-bye to the good
Perponchers. General Schreckenstein was much affected. I pressed his
hand, and the good Dean's, and then went quickly upstairs.'

Albert, as well as General Schreckenstein, was much affected. He was
losing his favourite child, whose opening intelligence had already
begun to display a marked resemblance to his own--an adoring pupil,
who, in a few years, might have become an almost adequate companion.
An ironic fate had determined that the daughter who was taken from him
should be sympathetic, clever, interested in the arts and sciences, and
endowed with a strong taste for memoranda, while not a single one of
these qualities could be discovered in the son who remained. For
certainly the Prince of Wales did not take after his father.
Victoria's prayer had been unanswered, and with each succeeding year it
became more obvious that Bertie was a true scion of the House of
Brunswick. But these evidences of innate characteristics served
only to redouble the efforts of his parents; it still might not be too
late to incline the young branch, by ceaseless pressure and careful
fastenings, to grow in the proper direction. Everything was tried.
The boy was sent on a continental tour with a picked body of tutors,
but the results were unsatisfactory. At his father's request he kept a
diary which, on his return, was inspected by the Prince. It was found
to be distressingly meagre: what a multitude of highly interesting
reflections might have been arranged under the heading: 'The First
Prince of Wales visiting the Pope!' But there was not a single one.
'Le jeune prince plaisait a tout le monde,' old Metternich reported to
Guizot, 'mais avait l'air embarrasse et tres triste.' On his
seventeenth birthday a memorandum was drawn up over the names of the
Queen and the Prince informing their eldest son that he was now
entering upon the period of manhood, and directing him henceforward to
perform the duties of a Christian gentleman. 'Life is composed of
duties,' said the memorandum, 'and in the due, punctual and cheerful
performance of them the true Christian, true soldier, and true
gentleman is recognised.... A new sphere of life will open for you in
which you will have to be taught what to do and what not to do, a
subject requiring study more important than any in which you have
hitherto been engaged.' On receipt of the memorandum Bertie burst into
tears. At the same time another memorandum was drawn up, headed
'Confidential: for the guidance of the gentlemen appointed to attend on
the Prince of Wales.' This long and elaborate document laid down
'certain principles' by which the 'conduct and demeanour' of the
gentlemen were to be regulated 'and which it is thought may
conduce to the benefit of the Prince of Wales.' 'The qualities which
distinguish a gentleman in society,' continued this remarkable paper,

(1) His appearance, his deportment and dress.

(2) The character of his relations with, and treatment of, others.

(3) His desire and power to acquit himself creditably in conversation
or whatever is the occupation of the society with which he mixes.'

A minute and detailed analysis of these sub-headings followed, filling
several pages, and the memorandum ended with a final exhortation to the
gentlemen: 'If they will duly appreciate the responsibility of their
position, and taking the points above laid down as the outline, will
exercise their own good sense in acting upon all occasions upon these
principles, thinking no point of detail too minute to be important, but
maintaining one steady consistent line of conduct, they may render
essential service to the young Prince and justify the flattering
selection made by the royal parents.' A year later the young Prince
was sent to Oxford, where the greatest care was taken that he should
not mix with the undergraduates. Yes, everything had been
tried--everything ... with one single exception. The experiment had
never been made of letting Bertie enjoy himself. But why should it
have been? 'Life is composed of duties.' What possible place could
there be for enjoyment in the existence of a Prince of Wales?

The same year which deprived Albert of the Princess Royal brought him
another and a still more serious loss. The Baron had paid his last
visit to England. For twenty years, as he himself said in a letter to
the King of the Belgians, he had performed 'the laborious and
exhausting office of a paternal friend and trusted adviser' to the
Prince and the Queen. He was seventy; he was tired, physically and
mentally; it was time to go. He returned to his home in Coburg,
exchanging, once for all, the momentous secrecies of European
statecraft for the tittle-tattle of a provincial capital and the gossip
of family life. In his stiff chair by the fire he nodded now over old
stories--not of emperors and generals, but of neighbours and relatives
and the domestic adventures of long ago--the burning of his father's
library--and the goat that ran upstairs to his sister's room and ran
twice round the table and then ran down again. Dyspepsia and
depression still attacked him; but, looking back over his life, he was
not dissatisfied. His conscience was clear. 'I have worked as long as
I had strength to work,' he said, 'and for a purpose no one can impugn.
The consciousness of this is my reward--the only one which I desired to

Apparently, indeed, his 'purpose' had been accomplished. By his
wisdom, his patience, and his example he had brought about, in the
fullness of time, the miraculous metamorphosis of which he had dreamed.
The Prince was his creation. An indefatigable toiler, presiding, for
the highest ends, over a great nation--that was his achievement; and he
looked upon his work and it was good. But had the Baron no misgivings?
Did he never wonder whether, perhaps, he might have accomplished not
too little but too much? How subtle and how dangerous are the snares
which fate lays for the wariest of men! Albert, certainly, seemed to
be everything that Stockmar could have wished--virtuous,
industrious, persevering, intelligent. And yet--why was it?--all was
not well with him. He was sick at heart.

For in spite of everything he had never reached to happiness. His
work, for which at last he came to crave with an almost morbid
appetite, was a solace and not a cure; the dragon of his
dissatisfaction devoured with dark relish that ever-growing tribute of
laborious days and nights; but it was hungry still. The causes of his
melancholy were hidden, mysterious, unanalysable perhaps--too deeply
rooted in the innermost recesses of his temperament for the eye of
reason to apprehend. There were contradictions in his nature, which,
to some of those who knew him best, made him seem an inexplicable
enigma: he was severe and gentle; he was modest and scornful; he longed
for affection and he was cold. He was lonely, not merely with the
loneliness of exile but with the loneliness of conscious and
unrecognised superiority. He had the pride, at once resigned and
overweening, of a doctrinaire. And yet to say that he was simply a
doctrinaire would be a false description; for the pure doctrinaire
rejoices always in an internal contentment, and Albert was very far
from doing that. There was something that he wanted and that he could
never get. What was it? Some absolute, some ineffable sympathy? Some
extraordinary, some sublime success? Possibly, it was a mixture of
both. To dominate and to be understood! To conquer, by the same
triumphant influence, the submission and the appreciation of men--that
would be worth while indeed! But, to such imaginations, he saw too
clearly how faint were the responses of his actual environment. Who
was there who appreciated him, really and truly? Who could
appreciate him in England? And, if the gentle virtue of an inward
excellence availed so little, could he expect more from the hard ways
of skill and force? The terrible land of his exile loomed before him a
frigid, an impregnable mass. Doubtless he had made some slight
impression: it was true that he had gained the respect of his fellow
workers, that his probity, his industry, his exactitude, had been
recognised, that he was a highly influential, an extremely important
man. But how far, how very far, was all this from the goal of his
ambitions! How feeble and futile his efforts seemed against the
enormous coagulation of dullness, of folly, of slackness, of ignorance,
of confusion that confronted him! He might have the strength or the
ingenuity to make some small change for the better here or there--to
rearrange some detail, to abolish some anomaly, to insist upon some
obvious reform; but the heart of the appalling organism remained
untouched. England lumbered on, impervious and self-satisfied, in her
old intolerable course. He threw himself across the path of the
monster with rigid purpose and set teeth, but he was brushed aside.
Yes! even Palmerston was still unconquered--was still there to afflict
him with his jauntiness, his muddle-headedness, his utter lack of
principle. It was too much. Neither nature nor the Baron had given
him a sanguine spirit; the seeds of pessimism, once lodged within him,
flourished in a propitious soil. He

'questioned things, and did not find
One that would answer to his mind;
And all the world appeared unkind.'

He believed that he was a failure and he began to despair.

Yet Stockmar had told him that he must 'never relax,' and he never
would. He would go on, working to the utmost and striving for the
highest, to the bitter end. His industry grew almost maniacal.
Earlier and earlier was the green lamp lighted; more vast grew the
correspondence; more searching the examination of the newspapers; the
interminable memoranda more punctilious, analytical, and precise. His
very recreations became duties. He enjoyed himself by time-table, went
deer-stalking with meticulous gusto, and made puns at lunch--it was the
right thing to do. The mechanism worked with astonishing efficiency,
but it never rested and it was never oiled. In dry exactitude the
innumerable cog-wheels perpetually revolved. No, whatever happened,
the Prince would not relax; he had absorbed the doctrines of Stockmar
too thoroughly. He knew what was right, and, at all costs, he would
pursue it. That was certain. But alas! in this our life what are the
certainties? 'In nothing be over-zealous!' says an old Greek. 'The
due measure in all the works of man is best. For often one who
zealously pushes towards some excellence, though he be pursuing a gain,
is really being led utterly astray by the will of some Power, which
makes those things that are evil seem to him good, and those things
seem to him evil that are for his advantage.' Surely, both the
Prince and the Baron might have learnt something from the frigid wisdom
of Theognis.

Victoria noticed that her husband sometimes seemed to be depressed and
overworked. She tried to cheer him up. Realising uneasily that he was
still regarded as a foreigner, she hoped that by conferring upon him
the title of Prince Consort (1857) she would improve his position
in the country. 'The Queen has a right to claim that her husband
should be an Englishman,' she wrote. But unfortunately, in spite
of the Royal Letters Patent, Albert remained as foreign as before; and
as the years passed his dejection deepened. She worked with him, she
watched over him, she walked with him through the woods at Osborne,
while he whistled to the nightingales, as he had whistled once at
Rosenau so long ago. When his birthday came round, she took the
greatest pains to choose him presents that he would really like. In
1858, when he was thirty-nine, she gave him 'a picture of Beatrice,
life-size, in oil, by Horsley, a complete collection of photographic
views of Gotha and the country round, which I had taken by Bedford, and
a paper-weight of Balmoral granite and deers' teeth, designed by
Vicky.' Albert was of course delighted, and his merriment at the
family gathering was more pronounced than ever: and yet ... what was
there that was wrong?

No doubt it was his health. He was wearing himself out in the service
of the country; and certainly his constitution, as Stockmar had
perceived from the first, was ill-adapted to meet a serious strain. He
was easily upset; he constantly suffered from minor ailments. His
appearance in itself was enough to indicate the infirmity of his
physical powers. The handsome youth of twenty years since with the
flashing eyes and the soft complexion had grown into a sallow,
tired-looking man, whose body, in its stoop and its loose fleshiness,
betrayed the sedentary labourer, and whose head was quite bald on the
top. Unkind critics, who had once compared Albert to an operatic
tenor, might have remarked that there was something of the butler
about him now. Beside Victoria, he presented a painful contrast. She,
too, was stout, but it was with the plumpness of a vigorous matron; and
an eager vitality was everywhere visible--in her energetic bearing, her
protruding, enquiring glances, her small, fat, capable, and commanding
hands. If only, by some sympathetic magic, she could have conveyed
into that portly, flabby figure, that desiccated and discouraged brain,
a measure of the stamina and the self-assurance which were so
pre-eminently hers!

But suddenly she was reminded that there were other perils besides
those of ill-health. During a visit to Coburg in 1860, the Prince was
very nearly killed in a carriage accident. He escaped with a few cuts
and bruises; but Victoria's alarm was extreme, though she concealed it.
'It is when the Queen feels most deeply,' she wrote afterwards, 'that
she always appears calmest, and she could not and dared not allow
herself to speak of what might have been, or even to admit to herself
(and she cannot and dare not now) the entire danger, for her head would
turn!' Her agitation, in fact, was only surpassed by her thankfulness
to God. She felt, she said, that she could not rest 'without doing
something to mark permanently her feelings,' and she decided that she
would endow a charity in Coburg. 'L1,000, or even L2,000, given either
at once, or in instalments yearly, would not, in the Queen's opinion,
be too much.' Eventually, the smaller sum having been fixed upon, it
was invested in a trust, called the 'Victoria-Stift,' in the names of
the Burgomaster and chief clergyman of Coburg, who were directed to
distribute the interest yearly among a certain number of young
men and women of exemplary character belonging to the humbler ranks of

Shortly afterwards the Queen underwent, for the first time in her life,
the actual experience of close personal loss. Early in 1861 the
Duchess of Kent was taken seriously ill, and in March she died. The
event overwhelmed Victoria. With a morbid intensity, she filled her
diary for pages with minute descriptions of her mother's last hours,
her dissolution, and her corpse, interspersed with vehement
apostrophes, and the agitated outpourings of emotional reflection. In
the grief of the present the disagreements of the past were totally
forgotten. It was the horror and the mystery of Death--Death present
and actual--that seized upon the imagination of the Queen. Her whole
being, so instinct with vitality, recoiled in agony from the grim
spectacle of the triumph of that awful power. Her own mother, with
whom she had lived so closely and so long that she had become a part
almost of her existence, had fallen into nothingness before her very
eyes! She tried to forget it, but she could not. Her lamentations
continued with a strange abundance, a strange persistency. It was
almost as if, by some mysterious and unconscious precognition, she
realised that for her, in an especial manner, that grisly Majesty had a
dreadful dart in store.

For indeed, before the year was out, a far more terrible blow was to
fall upon her. Albert, who had for long been suffering from
sleeplessness, went, on a cold and drenching day towards the end of
November, to inspect the buildings for the new Military Academy at
Sandhurst. On his return, it was clear that the fatigue and
exposure to which he had been subjected had seriously affected his
health. He was attacked by rheumatism, his sleeplessness continued,
and he complained that he felt thoroughly unwell. Three days later a
painful duty obliged him to visit Cambridge. The Prince of Wales, who
had been placed at that University in the previous year, was behaving
in such a manner that a parental visit and a parental admonition had
become necessary. The disappointed father, suffering in mind and body,
carried through his task; but, on his return journey to Windsor, he
caught a fatal chill. During the next week he gradually grew
weaker and more miserable. Yet, depressed and enfeebled as he was, he
continued to work. It so happened that at that very moment a grave
diplomatic crisis had arisen. Civil war had broken out in America, and
it seemed as if England, owing to a violent quarrel with the Northern
States, was upon the point of being drawn into the conflict. A severe
despatch by Lord John Russell was submitted to the Queen; and the
Prince perceived that, if it were sent off unaltered, war would be the
almost inevitable consequence. At seven o'clock on the morning of
December 1, he rose from his bed, and with a quavering hand wrote a
series of suggestions for the alteration of the draft, by which its
language might be softened, and a way left open for a peaceful solution
of the question. These changes were accepted by the Government, and
war was averted. It was the Prince's last memorandum.

He had always declared that he viewed the prospect of death with
equanimity. 'I do not cling to life,' he had once said to Victoria.
'You do; but I set no store by it.' And then he had added: 'I am
sure, if I had a severe illness, I should give up at once, I should not
struggle for life. I have no tenacity of life.' He had judged
correctly. Before he had been ill many days, he told a friend that he
was convinced he would not recover. He sank and sank.
Nevertheless, if his case had been properly understood and skilfully
treated from the first, he might conceivably have been saved; but the
doctors failed to diagnose his symptoms; and it is noteworthy that his
principal physician was Sir James Clark. When it was suggested that
other advice should be taken, Sir James pooh-poohed the idea: 'there
was no cause for alarm,' he said. But the strange illness grew worse.
At last, after a letter of fierce remonstrance from Palmerston, Dr.
Watson was sent for; and Dr. Watson saw at once that he had come too
late. The Prince was in the grip of typhoid fever. 'I think that
everything so far is satisfactory,' said Sir James Clark.

The restlessness and the acute suffering of the earlier days gave place
to a settled torpor and an ever-deepening gloom. Once the failing
patient asked for music--'a fine chorale at a distance'; and a piano
having been placed in the adjoining room, Princess Alice played on it
some of Luther's hymns, after which the Prince repeated 'The Rock of
Ages.' Sometimes his mind wandered; sometimes the distant past came
rushing upon him; he heard the birds in the early morning, and
was at Rosenau again, a boy. Or Victoria would come and read to him
'Peveril of the Peak,' and he showed that he could follow the story,
and then she would bend over him, and he would murmur 'liebes Frauchen'
and 'gutes Weibchen,' stroking her cheek. Her distress and her
agitation were great, but she was not seriously frightened. Buoyed up
by her own abundant energies, she would not believe that Albert's might
prove unequal to the strain. She refused to face such a hideous
possibility. She declined to see Dr. Watson. Why should she? Had not
Sir James Clark assured her that all would be well? Only two days
before the end, which was seen now to be almost inevitable by everyone
about her, she wrote, full of apparent confidence, to the King of the
Belgians: 'I do not sit up with him at night,' she said, 'as I could be
of no use; and there is nothing to cause alarm.' The Princess
Alice tried to tell her the truth, but her hopefulness would not be
daunted. On the morning of December 14, Albert, just as she had
expected, seemed to be better; perhaps the crisis was over. But in the
course of the day there was a serious relapse. Then at last she
allowed herself to see that she was standing on the edge of an
appalling gulf. The whole family was summoned, and, one after another,
the children took a silent farewell of their father. 'It was a
terrible moment,' Victoria wrote in her diary, 'but, thank God! I was
able to command myself, and to be perfectly calm, and remained sitting
by his side.' He murmured something, but she could not hear what it
was; she thought he was speaking in French. Then all at once he began
to arrange his hair, 'just as he used to do when well and he was
dressing.' 'Es ist kleines Frauchen,' she whispered to him; and he
seemed to understand. For a moment, towards the evening, she went into
another room, but was immediately called back: she saw at a glance that
a ghastly change had taken place. As she knelt by the bed, he breathed
deeply, breathed gently, breathed at last no more. His features became
perfectly rigid. She shrieked--one long wild shriek that rang through
the terror-stricken Castle--and understood that she had lost him for

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