repellant. The look his large, keen eyes, which had very pale lashes, and every now and then showed the white all round the iris, is said to have been quite awful. He was a soldier above all things, and told the Queen he felt very awkward in evening-dress, as though in leaving off his uniform he had “taken off his skin.” He must have been rather a discommoding guest, from a little whim he had of sleeping only on straw. He always had with him a leathern case, which at every place he stopped, was filled with fresh straw from the stables.
He was an excessively polite man–this towering Czar; but for all that, a very cruel man–a colossal embodiment of the autocratic principle– selfish and cold and hard–though he did win upon the Queen’s heart by praise of her husband. He said: “Nowhere will you find a handsomer young man; he has such an air of nobility and goodness.” It was a mystery how he could so well appreciate that pure and lovable character, for the Prince Consort must always have been a mystery to men like the Czar Nicholas.
CHAPTER XIX.
Old homes and new–A visit from the King of France–The Queen and Prince Albert make their first visit to Germany–Incidents of the trip–A new seaside home on the Isle of Wight–Repeal of the Corn Laws–Prince Albert elected Chancellor of Cambridge University–Benjamin Disraeli.
This year–1844–there was a death in the household at Windsor, and a birth. The death was that of Eos, the favorite greyhound of Prince Albert. “Dear Eos,” as the Queen called her, was found dead one morning. The Prince wrote the next day to his grandmother, “You will share my sorrow at this loss. She was a singularly clever creature and had been for eleven years faithfully devoted to me. How many recollections are linked with her.”
This beautiful and graceful animal, almost human in her love, and in something very like intellect and soul, appears in several of Landseer’s pictures. I will not apologize for keeping a Royal Prince waiting while I give this space to her. This Prince, born at Windsor, in August, was the present Duke of Edinburgh. He was christened Alfred Ernest Albert. The Queen in her journal wrote: “The scene in the chapel was very solemn. … To see those two children there too” (the Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales), “seemed such a dream to me. May God bless them all, poor little things!” Her Majesty adds that all through the service she fervently prayed that this boy might be “as good as his beloved father.” How is it, your Royal Highness?
This year they went again to the Highlands for a few weeks. The Queen’s journal says: “Mama came to take leave of us. Alice and the baby were brought in, poor little things! to bid us good-bye. Then good Bertie came down to see us, and Vicky appeared as _voyageuse_, and was all impatience to go.”
“Bertie” is the family name for the Prince of Wales. I believe that at heart he is still “good Bertie.” “Vicky” was the Princess Royal. The Queen further on remarks: “I said to Albert I could hardly believe that our child was traveling with us; it put me so in mind of myself when I was the little Princess.'”
This year Louis Philippe came over to return the visit of the Queen and the Prince, and there were great festivities and investings at Windsor with all possible kindness and courtesy, and I hope the wily old King went home with gratitude in his heart, as well as the garter on his leg. This year too the Queen and Prince made their first visit to Germany together. The picture the Queen paints of the morning of leaving and the parting from the children is very domestic, sweet, and motherly: “Both Vicky and darling Alice were with me while I dressed. Poor dear Puss wished much to go with us and often said, ‘Why am I not going to Germany?’ Most willingly would I have taken her. I wished much to take one of dearest Albert’s children with us to Coburg; but the journey is a serious undertaking and she is very young still.” … “It was a painful moment to drive away with the three poor little things standing at the door. God bless them and protect them–which He will.”
The English Queen and the Prince-Consort were received with all possible royal honors and popular respect at Aix-la-Chapelle and Cologne, and at the Royal Palace at Brühl. It was past midnight when they reached that welcome resting-place, and yet, as an account before me states, they were regaled by a military serenade “in which seven hundred performers were engaged!” A German friend of ours from that region supplements this story by stating that five hundred of those military performers were drummers; that they were accompanied by torch-bearers; that they came under the Queen’s windows, wakened her out of her first sleep, and almost drove her wild with fright. With those tremendous trumpetings and drum-beatings, “making night hideous” with their storm of menacing, barbaric sound, and with the fierce glare of the torchlight, it might have seemed to her that Doomsday had burst on the world, and that the savage old Huns of Attila were up first, ready for war.
The next day they all went up the Rhine to the King’s Palace of Stolzenfels. Never perhaps was even a Rhine steamer so heavily freighted with royalty–a cargo of Kings and Queens, Princes and Archdukes. It was all very fine, as were the royal feasts and festivals, but the Queen and Prince were happiest when they had left all this grandeur and parade behind them and were at Coburg amid their own kin–for there, impatiently awaiting them, were the mother of Victoria and the brother of Albert, and “a staircase full of cousins,” as the Queen says. They stopped at lovely Rosenau, and the Queen, with one of her beautiful poetic impulses, chose for their chamber the room in which her husband was born. She wrote in her journal, “How happy, how joyful we were, on awaking, to find ourselves here, at the dear Rosenau, my Albert’s birth-place, the place he most loves. … He was so happy to be here with me. It was like a beautiful dream.”
The account of the rejoicings of the simple Coburg people, and especially of the children, over their beloved Prince, and over the visit of his august wife, is really very touching. Their offerings and tributes were mostly flowers, poems and music–wonderfully sweet chorales and gay _réveils_ and inspiriting marches. There was a great _fête_ of the peasants on Prince Albert’s birthday, with much waltzing, and shouting, and beer-quaffing, and toast-giving. The whole visit was an Arcadian episode, simple and charming, in the grand royal progress of Victoria’s life. But the royal progress had to be resumed–the State called back its bond-servants; and so, after a visit to the dear old grandmother at Gotha–the parting with whom seemed especially hard to Prince Albert, as though he had a presentiment it was to be the last– they set out for home. They took their yacht at Antwerp, and after a flying visit to the King and Queen of France at Eu, were soon at Osborne, where their family were awaiting them. The Queen wrote: “The dearest of welcomes greeted us as we drove up straight to the house, for there, looking like roses, so well and so fat, stood the four children, much pleased to see us!”
Ah, often the best part of going away is coming home.
During this year the Royal Family were very happy in taking possession of their new seaside palace on the Isle of Wight, and I believe paid no more visits to Brighton, which was so much crowded in the season as to make anything like the privacy they desired impossible. During her last stay at the Pavilion the Queen was so much displeased at the rudeness of the people who pressed about her and Prince Albert, when they were trying to have a quiet little walk on the breezy pier, that I read she appealed to the magistrates for protection. There was such a large and ever-growing crowd of excited, hurrying, murmuring, staring Brightonians and strangers about them that it seemed a rallying cry had gone through the town, from lip to lip: “The Queen and Prince are out! To the pier! To the pier!”
The Pavilion was never a desirable Marine Palace, as it commanded no good views of the sea; so Her Majesty’s new home in the Isle of Wight had for her, the Prince and the children every advantage over the one in Brighton except in bracing sea-air. Osborne has a broad sea view, a charming beach, to which the woods run down–the lovely woods in which are found the first violets of the spring and to which the nightingales first come. The grounds were fine and extensive, to the great delight of the Prince Consort, who had not only a peculiar passion, but a peculiar talent for gardening. Indeed, when this many-sided German was born a Prince, a masterly landscape-gardener was lost to the world–that is, the world outside the grounds of Windsor, Osborne and Balmoral, which indeed “keep his memory green.” The Queen writing from Osborne says: “Albert is so happy here–out all day planting, directing, etc., and it is so good for him. It is a relief to get away from the bitterness which people create for themselves in London.”–But I am not writing the Life of Prince Albert;–I often forget that.
The year of 1846 was gloriously marked by the repeal of the Corn Laws; a measure of justice and mercy, the withholding of which from the people had for several years produced much distress and commotion. Some destructive work had been done by mobs on the houses of the supporters of the old laws; they had even stoned the town residence of the Duke of Wellington, Apsley House. The stern old fighter would have been glad at the moment to have swept the streets clear with cannon, but he contented himself with putting shutters over his broken windows, to hide the shame. I believe they were never opened again while he lived. The great leaders in this Corn Laws agitation were Mr. Cobden and Mr. Bright. These great- hearted men could not rest for the cries which came up to them from the suffering people. There were sore privations and “short commons” in England, and in Ireland, starvation, real, honest, earnest starvation. The poverty of the land had struck down into the great Irish stand-by, the potato, a deadly blight. A year or two later the evil took gigantic proportions; the news came to us in America, and an alarm was sounded which roused the land. We sent a divine Armada against the grim enemy which was wasting the Green Isle; ships, which poured into him broadsides of big bread-balls, and grape-shot of corn, beans and potatoes. It is recorded that “in one Irish seaport town the bells were kept ringing all day in honor of the arrival of one of these grain-laden vessels.” I am afraid these bells had a sweeter sound to the poor people than even those rung on royal birthdays.
Strangely enough, after the passage of measures which immortalized his ministerial term, Sir Robert Peel was ejected from power. The Queen parted from him with great regret, but quietly accepted his successor, Lord John Russell.
Six years had now gone by since the marriage of Victoria and Albert, and the family had grown to be six, and soon it was seven, for in May the Princess Helena Augusta Victoria was born. Her godmother was Hélène, the widowed Duchess of Orleans, the mother of the gallant young men, the Count de Paris and the Duke de Chartres, who during our great war came over to America to see service under General McClellan.
About this time the Prince-Consort was called to Liverpool to open a magnificent dock named after him, which duty he performed in the most graceful manner. The next day he laid the foundation-stone for a Sailors’ Home. The Queen, who was not able to be with him on these occasions, wrote to the Baron: “I feel very lonely without my dear master, and though I know other people are often separated, I feel that I could never get accustomed to it. … Without him everything loses its interest. It will always cause a terrible pang for me to be separated from him even for two days, and I pray God not to let me survive him. I glory in his being seen and loved.”
In September they went into the new Marine Palace at Osborne. On the first evening, amid the gaieties of the splendid house-warming festival, the Prince very solemnly repeated a hymn of Luther’s, sung in Germany on these occasions. Translated it is:
“God bless our going out, nor less
Our coming in, and make them sure; God bless our daily bread, and bless
Whate’er we do–whate’er endure;
In death unto His peace awake us,
And heirs of His salvation make us.”
They were very happy amid all the political trouble and perplexity– almost too happy, considering how life was going on, or going off in poor Ireland. Doubtless the cries of starving children and the moans of fever- stricken mothers must often have pierced the tender hearts of the Queen and Prince; but the calamity was so vast, so apparently irremediable, that they turned their thoughts away from it as much as possible, as we turn ours from the awful tragic work of volcanoes in the far East and tornadoes in the West. It was a sort of charmed life they lived, with its pastoral peace and simple pleasures. Lady Bloomfield wrote: “It always entertains me to see the little things which amuse Her Majesty and the Prince, instead of their looking bored, as people so often do in English society.” One thing, however, did “bore” him, and that, unfortunately, was riding–“for its own sake.” So it was not surprising that after a time the Queen indulged less in her favourite pastime. She still loved a romping dance now and then, but she was hardly as gay as when Guizot first saw and described her. Writing from Windsor to his son he gives a picture of a royal dinner party: “On my left sat the young Queen whom they tried to assassinate the other day, in gay spirits, talking a great deal, laughing very often and longing to laugh still more; and filling with her gaiety, which contrasted with the already tragical elements of her history, this ancient castle which has witnessed the career of all her predecessors.”
The political affairs which tried and troubled the Queen and the Prince were not merely English. They were much disturbed and shocked by the unworthy intrigues and the unkingly bad faith shown by Louis Philippe in the affair of the “Spanish Marriages”–a complicated and rather delicate matter, which I have neither space nor desire to dwell upon here. It had a disastrous effect on the Orleans family, and perhaps on the history of France. It has been mostly interesting to me now for the manner in which the subject was, handled by the Queen, whose letters revealed a royal high spirit and a keen sense of royal honor. She regretted the heartless State marriage of the young Queen of Spain, not only from a political but a domestic point of view. She saw poor Isabella forced or tricked into a distasteful union, from which unhappiness must, and something far worse than unhappiness might, come. Many and great misfortunes did come of it and to the actors in it.
In the spring of 1847 the Prince-Consort was elected Chancellor of the University of Cambridge–a great honor for so young a man. The Queen was present at the installation, and there was a splendid time. Wordsworth wrote an ode on the occasion. It was not quite equal to his “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality.” In truth, Mr. Wordsworth did not shine as Poet Laureate. Mr. Tennyson better earns his butt of Malmsey.
Seated on the throne in the great Hall of Trinity, the Queen received the new Chancellor, who was beautifully dressed in robes of black and gold, with a long train borne by two of his officers. He read to her a speech, to which she read a reply, saying that on the whole she approved of the choice of the University. “I cannot say,” writes the Queen, “how it agitated and embarrassed me to have, to receive this address, and hear it read by my beloved Albert, who walked in at the head of the University, and who looked dear and beautiful in his robes.”
Happy woman! When ordinary husbands make long, grave speeches to their wives, they do not often look “dear and beautiful!”
This year a new prima-donna took London by storm and gave the Queen and Prince “exquisite enjoyment.” Her Majesty wrote: “Her acting alone is worth going to see, and the _piano_ way she has of singing, Lablache says, is unlike anything he ever heard. He is quite enchanted. There is a purity in her singing and acting which is quite indescribable.”
That singer was Jenny Lind.
About this time lovers of impassioned oratory felt the joy which the astronomer knows “_when a new comet swims into his ken_” in the appearance of a brilliant political orator, of masterly talent and more masterly will. This still young man of Hebraic origin, rather dashing and flashing in manner and dress, had not been thought to have any very serious purpose in life, and does not seem to have much impressed the Queen or Prince Albert at first; but the time came when he, as a Minister and friend, occupied a place in Her Majesty’s respect and regard scarcely second to the one once occupied by Lord Melbourne. This orator was Benjamin Disraeli.
CHAPTER XX.
A Troublous Time–Louis Philippe an Exile–The Purchase of Balmoral–A Letter of Prince Albert’s–Another attempt on the Queen’s Life–The Queen’s instructions to the Governess of her Daughters–A visit to Ireland–Death of Dowager Queen Adelaide.
At last came 1848–a year packed with political convulsions and overthrows. The spirit of revolution was rampant, bowling away at all the thrones of Europe. England heard the storm thundering nearly all round the horizon, for in the sister isle the intermittent rebellion broke out, chiefly among the “Young Ireland” party, led by Mitchel, Meagher and O’Brien. This plucky little uprising was soon put down. The leaders were brave, eloquent, ardent young men, but their followers were not disposed to fight long and well–perhaps their stomachs were too empty. The Chartists stirred again, and renewed their not unreasonable or treasonable demands; but all in vain. There is really something awful about the strength and solidity and impassivity of England. When the French monarchy went down in the earthquake shock of that wild winter, and a republic came up in its place, it surely would have been no wonder if a vast tidal-wave of revolution caused by so much subsidence and upheaving had broken disastrously on the English shores. But it did not. The old sea-wall of loyalty and constitutional liberty was too strong. There were only floated up a few waifs, and among them a “_forlorn and shipwrecked brother_,” calling himself “John Smith,” and a poor, gray- haired, heart-broken woman, “Mrs. Smith,” for the nonce. When these came to land they were recognized as Louis Philippe and Marie Amélie of France. Afterwards most of their family, who had been scattered by the tempest, came also, and joined them in a long exile. The English asylum of the King and Queen was Claremont, that sanctuary of love and sorrow, which the Queen, though loving it well, had at once given over to her unfortunate old friends, whom she received with the most sympathetic kindness, trying to forget all causes of ill-feeling given her a year or two before by the scheming King and his ambitious sons.
In the midst of the excitement and anxiety of that time, a gentle, loving, world-wearied soul passed out of our little mortal day at Gotha, and a fresh, bright young soul came into it in London. The dear old grandmother of the Prince died, in her palace of Friedrichsthal, and his daughter, Louise Caroline Alberta, now Marchioness of Lorne, was born in Buckingham Palace.
Among those ruined by the convulsions in Germany were the Queen’s brother, Prince Leiningen, and her brother-in-law, Prince Hohenlohe. So the thunderbolt had struck near. At one time it threatened to strike still nearer, for that spring the Chartists made their great demonstration, or rather announced one. It was expected that they would assemble at a given point and march, several hundred thousand strong, on Parliament, bearing a monster petition. What such a mighty body of men might do, what excesses they might commit in the capital, nobody could tell. The Queen was packed off to Osborne with baby Louise, to be out of harm’s way, and 170,000 men enrolled themselves as special constables. Among these was Louis Napoleon, longing for a fight of some sort in alliance with England. He did net get it till some years after. There was no collision, in fact no large compact procession; the Chartists, mostly very good citizens, quietly dispersed and went home after presenting their petition. The great scare was over, but the special constables were as proud as Wellington’s army after Waterloo.
When the Chartist leaders had been tried for sedition and sentenced to terms of imprisonment, and the Irish leaders had been transported, things looked so flat in England that the young French Prince turned again to France to try his fortune. It was his third trial. The first two efforts under Louis Philippe to stir up a revolt and topple the citizen king from the throne had ended in imprisonment and ridicule; but now he would not seem to play a Napoleonic game. He would fall in with republican ideas and run for the Presidency, which he did, and won. But as the countryman at the circus, after creating much merriment by his awkward riding in his rural costume, sometimes throws it off and appears as a spangled hero and the very prince of equestrians; so this “nephew of his uncle,” suddenly emerging from the disguise of a republican President, blazed forth a full-panoplied warrior-Emperor. But this was not yet.
In September of this year the Queen and Prince first visited a new property they had purchased in the heart of the Highlands. The Prince wrote of it: “We have withdrawn for a short time into a complete mountain solitude, where one rarely sees a human face, where the snow already covers the mountain-tops and the wild deer come creeping stealthily round the house. I, naughty man, have also been creeping stealthily after the harmless stags, and today I shot two red deer.” … “The castle is of granite, with numerous small turrets, and is situated on a rising-ground, surrounded by birchwood, and close to the river Dee. The air is glorious and dear, but icy cold.”
What a relief it must have been to them to feel themselves out of the reach of runaway royalties, and “surprise parties” of Emperors and Grand Dukes.
In March, 1849, the Prince laid the foundation-stone for the Great Grimsby Docks, and made a noble speech on the occasion. From that I will not quote, but I am tempted to give entire a charming note which he wrote from Brocklesby, Lord Yarborough’s place, to the Queen.
It runs thus:
“Your faithful husband, agreeably to your wishes, reports: 1. That he is still alive. 2. That he has discovered the North Pole from Lincoln Cathedral, but without finding either Captain Ross or Sir John Franklin. 3. That he arrived at Brocklesby and received the address. 4. That he subsequently rode out and got home quite covered with snow and with icicles on his nose. 5. That the messenger is waiting to carry off this letter, which you will have in Windsor by the morning. 6. Last, but not least, that he loves his wife and remains her devoted husband.”
We may believe the good, fun-loving wife was delighted with this little letter, and read it to a few of her choicest friends.
A few months later, while the Queen was driving with her children in an open carriage over that assassin-haunted Constitution Hill, she was fired at by a mad Irishman–William Hamilton. She did not lose for a moment her wonderful self-possession, but ordered the carriage to move on, and quieted with a few calm words the terror of the children.
We have seen that at the time of Oxford’s attempt she “laughed at the thing”; but now there had been so many shootings that “the thing” was getting tiresome and monotonous, and she did not interfere with the carrying out of the sentence of seven years’ transportation. This was not the last. In 1872 a Fenian tried his hand against his widowed sovereign, and we all know of the shocking attempt of two years ago at Windsor. In truth, Her Majesty has been the greatest royal target in Europe. _Messieurs les assassins_ are not very gallant.
All this time the Prince-Consort was up to his elbows in work of many kinds. That which he loved best, planning and planting the grounds of Osborne and Balmoral and superintending building, he cheerfully sacrificed for works of public utility. He inaugurated and urged forward many benevolent and scientific enterprises, and schools of art and music. This extraordinary man seemed to have a prophetic sense of the value and ultimate success of inchoate public improvements, and when he once adopted a scheme allowed nothing to discourage him. He engineered the Holborn Viaduct enterprise, and I notice that at a late meeting of the brave Channel Tunnel Company, Sir E. W. Watkin claimed that “the cause had once the advocacy of the great Prince-Consort, the most sagacious man of the century.”
With all these things he found time to carefully overlook the education of his children. The Prince of Wales was now thought old enough to be placed under a tutor, and one was selected–a Mr. Birch (let us hope the name was not significant), “a young, good-looking, amiable man,” who had himself taken “the highest honors at Cambridge”;–doubtless a great point those highest Cambridge honors, for the instructor of an eight-years-old boy. For all the ability and learning of his tutor, it is said that the Prince of Wales never took to the classics with desperate avidity. He was never inclined to waste his strength or dim his pleasant blue eyes over the midnight oil.
Prince Albert never gave the training of his boys up wholly to the most accomplished instructors. His was still, while he lived, the guiding, guarding spirit. The Queen was equally faithful in the discharge of her duties to her children–especially to her daughters. In her memoranda I find many admirable passages which reveal her peculiarly simple, domestic, affectionate system of home government. The religious training of her little ones she kept as much as possible in her own hands, still the cares of State and the duties of royal hospitality would interfere, and, writing of the Princess Royal, in 1844, she says: “It is a hard case for me that my occupations prevent me from being with her when she says her prayers.”
Some instructions which she gave to this child’s governess should be printed in letters of gold:
“I am quite clear that she should be taught to have great reverence for God and for religion, but that she should have the feeling of devotion and love which our heavenly Father encourages His earthly children to have for Him, and not one of fear and trembling; and that thoughts of death and an after life should not be represented in an alarming and forbidding view; and that she should be made to know as yet no difference of creeds, and not think that she can only pray on her knees, or that those who do not kneel are less fervent or devout in their prayers.”
In August of this year the Queen and Prince sailed in their favorite yacht, the _Victoria and Albert_, for Ireland, taking with them their three eldest children, the better to show the Irish people that their sovereign had not lost confidence in them for their recent bit of a rebellion, which she believed was one-half Popery and the other half potato-rot. The Irish people justified that faith. At the Cove of Cork, where the Royal party first landed, and which has been Queenstown ever since, their reception was most enthusiastic, as it was also in Dublin, so lately disaffected. The common people were especially delighted with the children, and one “stout old woman” shouted out, “Oh, Queen, dear, make one o’ thim darlints Patrick, and all Ireland will die for ye!” They afterwards got their “Patrick” in the little Duke of Connaught, but I fear were none the more disposed to die for the English Queen. Perhaps he came a little too late.
The Queen on this trip expressed the intention of creating the Prince of Wales Earl of Dublin, by way of compliment and conciliation, and perhaps she did, but still Fenianism grew and flourished In Ireland.
The passage from Belfast to Loch Ryan was very rough–a regular rebellion against, “the Queen of the Seas,” as the Emperor of France afterwards called Victoria. She records that, “Poor little Affie was knocked down and sent rolling over the deck, and was completely drenched.” The poor little fellow, Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, the bold mariner of the family, probably cried out then that he would “never, never be a sailor.”
In a letter from Balmoral, written on his thirtieth birthday, the Prince- Consort says: “Victoria is happy and cheerful–the children are well and grow apace; the Highlands are glorious.”
I do not know that the fact has anything to do with Her Majesty’s peculiar love for Scotland, but she came very near being born in that part of her dominions–the Duke of Kent having proposed a little while before her birth to take a place in Lanarkshire, belonging to a friend. Had he done so his little daughter would have been a Highland lassie. I don’t think the Queen would have objected. She said to Sir Archibald Alison, “I am more proud of my Scotch descent than of any other. When I first came into Scotland I felt as if I were coming home.”
With the occupation of Balmoral this home feeling increased: The Queen was ever impatient to seek that mountain retreat and regretful to leave it. She loved above all the outdoor life there–the rough mountaineering, the deer hunts, the climbing, the following up and fording streams, the picnics on breezy hill-sides; she loved to get out from under the dark purple shadow of royalty and nestle down among the brighter purple of the heather; she loved to go off on wild incognito expeditions and be addressed by the simple peasants without her awesome titles; even loved to be at times like the peasants in simplicity and naturalness, to feel with her “guid mon,” like a younger Mistress Anderson with her “jo John.” She seemed to enjoy all weathers at Balmoral. I am told that she used to delight in walking in the rain and wind and going out protected only by a thick water-proof, the hood drawn over her head; and that she liked nothing better than driving in a heavy snow-storm. After the return from Scotland, the Queen was to have opened the new Coal Exchange in London, but was prevented by an odd and much-belated ailment, an attack of chicken-pox. Prince Albert went in her place and took the Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales, who, Lady Lyttelton writes: “behaved very civilly and nicely.” There was an immense crowd, all shouting and cheering, and smiling kindly on the children. Some official of immense size, with a big cloak and wig, and a big voice, is described as making a pompous speech to little Albert Edward, looking down on him and addressing him as “Your Royal Highness, the pledge, and promise of a long race of Kings.” Lady Lyttelton adds: “Poor Princey did not seem to guess at all what he meant.”
Soon after this grand affair, a very _grand personage_ came not unwillingly to the end of all earthly affairs. Adelaide, Dowager Queen of England, died after a long and painful illness. She had lived a good life; she was a sweet, charitable, patient, lovable woman. The Queen and Prince-Consort were deeply grieved. The Queen wrote: “She was truly motherly in her kindness to us and our children. … Poor mama is very much cut up by this sad event. To her the Queen is a great and serious loss.”
Queen Adelaide left directions that her funeral should be as private as possible, and that her coffin should be carried by sailors–a tribute to the memory of the Sailor-King.
From an English gentleman, who has exceptional opportunities of knowing much of the private history of Royalty, I have received an anecdote of this good woman and wife, when Duchess of Clarence–something which our friend thinks does her more honor than afterwards did her title of Queen. When she was married she knew, for everybody knew, of the left-hand marriage of the Duke with the beautiful actress, Mrs. Jordan, from whom he was then separated. The Duke took his bride to Bushey Park, his residence, for the honeymoon, and himself politely conducted her to her chamber. She looked about the elegant room well pleased, but was soon struck by the picture of a very lovely woman, over the mantel. “Who is that?” she asked. The poor Duke was aghast, but he had at least the kingly quality of truth-telling, and stammered out: “That, my dear Adelaide, is a portrait of Mrs. Jordan. I humbly beg your pardon for its being here. I gave orders to have it removed, but those stupid servants have neglected to do it. I will have it done at once–only forgive me.”
The Duchess took her husband’s hand and said: “No, my dear William, you must not do it! I know what Mrs. Jordan has been to you in the past–that you have loved her–that she is the mother of your children, and I wish her portrait to remain where it is.” And it did remain. This was very noble and generous, certainly; but I cannot help thinking that the Duchess was not very much in love.
CHAPTER XXI
The Great Exhibition–Birth of the Duke of Connaught–Death of Sir Robert Peel and Louis Philippe–Prince Albert’s speech before the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts.
Early in this year of 1850, Prince Albert, though not in his usual health, began in deadly earnest on his colossal labors in behalf of the great “World’s Exhibition.” England owed that magnificent manifestation of her resources and her enterprise far more to him than to any other man. He met with much opposition from that conservative class who, from the start, denounce all new ideas and innovations, shrinking like owls from the advancing day; and that timid class who, while admitting the grandeur of the idea, feared it was premature. “The time has not come,” they said; “wait a century or two.” Some opposed it on the ground that it would bring to London a host of foreigners, with foreign ideas and perilous to English morals and religion.
In the garden of a certain grand English country-place there is a certain summer-house with a closed door, which, if a curious visitor opens, lets off some water-works, which give him a spray-douche. So the Prince received, at door after door, a dash of cold water for his “foreign enterprise.” But he persevered, letting nothing dishearten him–toiling terribly, and inspiring others to toil, till at last the site he desired for the building was granted him, and the first Crystal Palace–the first palace for the people in England–went slowly up, amid the sun-dropped shades of Hyde Park. Temporary as was that marvelous structure, destined so soon to pass away, like “the baseless fabric of a vision,” I can but think it the grandest of the monuments to the memory of the Prince- Consort, though little did he so regard it. To his poetic yet practical mind it was the universal temple of industry and art, the valhalla of the heroes of commerce, the fane of the gods of science–the caravansery of the world. That Exhibition brought together the ends of the earth,–long- estranged human brethren sat down together in pleasant communion. It was a modern Babel, finished and furnished, and where there was almost a fusion, instead of, a confusion, of tongues. The “barbarous Turk” was there, the warlike Russ, the mercenary Swiss, the passionate Italian, the voluptuous Spaniard, the gallant Frenchman,–and yet foreboding English citizens did not find themselves compelled to go armed, or to lock up their plate, or their wives and daughters. In fact, this beautiful realized dream, this accomplished fact, quickened the pulses of commerce, the genius of invention, the soul and the arm of industry, the popular zeal for knowledge, as nothing had ever done before.
To go back a little to family events:–On May 1st, 1850, Prince Albert, in writing to his step-mother at Coburg, told a bit of news very charmingly: “This morning, after rather a restless night (being Walpurgis night, that was very appropriate), and while the witches were careering on the Blocksberg, under Ernst Augustus’ mild sceptre, a little boy glided into the light of day and has been received by the sisters with _jubilates_. ‘Now we are just as many as the days of the week!’ was the cry, and a bit of a struggle arose as to who was to be Sunday. of well-bred courtesy the honor was conceded to the new-comer. Victoria is well, and so is the child.”
This Prince was called Arthur William Patrick Albert. The first name was in honor of the Duke of Wellington, on whose eighty-first birthday the boy was born; William was for the Prince of Prussia, now Emperor of Germany; Patrick was for Ireland in general, and the “stout old woman” of Dublin in particular.
This year both the Queen and the country lost a great and valued friend in Sir Robert Peel, who was killed by being thrown from his horse. There was much mourning in England among all sorts of people for this rarely noble, unennobled man. The title of Baronet he had. inherited; it is said he declined a grander title, and he certainly recorded in his will a wish that no one of his sons should accept a title on account of _his_ services to the country–which was a great thing for a man to do in England; and after his death, his wife was so proud of bearing his name that she declined a peerage offered to her–which was a greater thing for a woman to do in England.
Not long after, occurred the death of the ex-King of France, at Claremont. McCarthy sums up his character very tersely, thus: “The clever, unwise, grand, mean old man.” Louis Philippe’s meanness was in his mercenary and plotting spirit, when a rich man and a king–his grand qualities were his courage and cheerfulness, when in poverty and exile.
The Royal Family again visited Edinburgh, and stopped for a while at Holyrood–that quaint old Palace of poor Mary Stuart, whose sad, sweet memory so pervades it, like a personal atmosphere, that it seems she has only gone but for a little walk, or ride, with her four Maries, and will soon come in, laughing and talking French, and looking passing beautiful. Queen Victoria had then a romantic interest in the hapless Queen of Scots. She said to Sir Archibald Alison, “I am glad I am descended from Mary; I have nothing to do with Elizabeth.”
From Edinburgh to dear Balmoral, from whence the Prince writes: “We try to strengthen our hearts amid the stillness and solemnity of the mountains.”
The Queen’s heart especially needed strengthening, for she was dreading a blow which soon fell upon her in the death of her dearest friend, her aunt, the Queen of the Belgians. She mourned deeply and long for this lovely and gifted woman, this “angelic soul,” as Baron Stockmar called her.
On April 29, 1851, the Queen paid a private visit to the Exhibition, and wrote: “We remained two hours and a half, and I came back quite beaten, and my head bewildered from the myriads of beautiful and wonderful things which now quite dazzle one’s eyes. Such efforts have been made, and our people have shown such taste in their manufactures. All owing to this great Exhibition, and to Albert–all to _him_!”
May 1st, which was the first anniversary of little Arthur’s birth, was the great opening-day, when Princes and people took possession of that mighty crystal temple, and the “Festival of Peace” began.
The Queen’s description in her diary is an eloquent outpouring of pride and joy, and gratitude. One paragraph ends with these words: “God bless my dearest Albert. God bless my dearest country, which has shown itself so great to-day! One felt so grateful to the great God, who seemed to pervade and bless all.”
Her Majesty wrote that the scene in the Park as they drove through–the countless carriages, the vast crowd, the soldiers, the music, the tumultuous, yet happy excitement everywhere, reminded her of her coronation day; but when she entered that great glass house, over which floated in the sunny air the flags of all nations, within which were the representatives of all nations, and when she walked up to her place in the centre, conducted by the wizard who had conjured up for the world that magic structure, and when the two stood there, with a child on either hand, before the motley multitude, cheering in all languages– then, Victoria _felt her name_, and knew she had come to her real coronation, as sovereign, wife, and mother.
Shortly after this great day, Prince Albert distinguished himself by a remarkably fine speech at an immense meeting of the “Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts.” Such shoals of foreigners being then in London, the Society felt that they must be casting in their nets. Lord John Russell wrote to congratulate the Queen, who, next to the heathen, was most interested in the success of this speech. Her reply was very characteristic. After saying that she had been quite “sure that the Prince would say the right thing, from her entire confidence in his tact and judgment,” she added, “The Queen at the risk of not appearing sufficiently modest (and yet why should a Woman ever be modest about her husband’s merits?) must say that she thinks Lord John will admit now that the Prince is possessed of very extraordinary powers of mind and heart. She feels so proud of being his wife, that she cannot refrain from paying herself a tribute to his noble character.”
Ah, English husbands should be loyal beyond measure to the illustrious lady, who has set such a matchless example of wifely faith, pride and devotion. But it will be a pity if in preaching up to their wives her example, they forget the no less admirable example of the Prince-Consort.
CHAPTER XXII
Close of the Great Exhibition-Anecdote–Louis Kossuth–Napoleon III.–The writer’s first visit to England–Description of a Prorogation of Parliament.
The great Exhibition was closed about the middle of October, on a dark and rainy day. The last ceremonies were very solemn and impressive. It had not remained long enough for people to be wearied of it. The Queen, the Prince and their children seemed never to tire of visiting it, and the prospect of a sight of them was one of the greatest attractions of the place to other visitors, especially to simple country-folk–though these were sometimes disappointed at not beholding the whole party wearing crowns and trailing royal robes.
I remember a little anecdote of one of Her Majesty’s visits to the Crystal Palace. Among the American manufactures were some fine soaps, and among these a small head, done in white Castile, and so exactly like marble that the Queen doubted the soap story, and in her impulsive, investigating way was about to test it with a scratch of her shawl-pin, when the Yankee exhibitor stayed her hand, and drew forth a courteous apology by the loyal remonstrance–“Pardon, your Majesty,–_it is the head of Washington_!”
Soon after the Princes and Kings went home, there arrived in London a man whose heroism and eloquence had thrilled the hearts and filled the thoughts of the world as those of no monarch living had ever done. He was not received with royal honors, though with some generous enthusiasm, by the people. He was looked upon, in high places as that most forlorn being, an unsuccessful adventurer;–so he turned his face, his sad eyes wistful with one last hope, towards the setting sun. Alas, his own political sun had already set!
This man was Louis Kossuth. About the same time another man, without heroism, without eloquence, but with almost superhuman audacity, struck a famous political blow, in Paris, called a _coup d’état_. He exploded a secret mine, which shattered the republic and heaved him up on to an imperial throne. Of course this successful adventurer was Louis Napoleon.
I cannot find that, as the Prince-President of that poor, poetic, impracticable thing, the French Republic, much notice had been taken of him by the English Government;–but “Emperor” was a more respectable title, even worn in this way, snatched in the twinkling of an eye by a political _prestidigitateur_, and it was of greater worth–it had cost blood. So Napoleon III. was recognized by England, and at last by all great powers–royal and republican. Still, for a while, they showed a wary coldness towards the new Emperor; and he was unhappy because all the great European sovereigns hesitated to concede his equality to the extent of addressing him as “_mon frère_” (my brother). He seemed to take this so to heart that, after this solemn declaration that his empire meant peace and not war, the Queen of England put out her friendly little hand and said frankly, “mon frère”; and the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Austria followed her example; but the Czar of Russia, put his iron-gloved hand behind his back and frowned. Louis Napoleon did not forget that ever–but remembered it “excellent well” a few years later, when he was sending off his noble army to the Crimea.
I find two charming domestic bits, in letters of the Queen and Prince, written in May, 1852, from Osborne. After saying that her birthday had passed very happily and peacefully, Her Majesty adds: “I only feel that I never can be half grateful enough for so much love, devotion and happiness. My beloved Albert was, if possible, more than usually kind and good in showering gifts on me. Mama was most kind, too; and the children did everything they could to please me.”
It is pleasant to see that the dear mother and grandmother never forgot those family anniversaries, and never was forgotten.
Prince Albert writes, in a letter to the Dowager Duchess of Saxe-Coburg: “The children are well. They grow apace and develop new virtues daily, and also new naughtinesses. The virtues we try to retain, and the naughtinesses we throw away.”
This year was a memorable one for the writer of this little book, for it was that of her first visit to England,–of her first sight of London and Charles Dickens, of Westminster Abbey and the Duke of Wellington, Windsor Castle and Queen Victoria.
I had brought a letter, from one of his most esteemed American friends, to the Earl of Carlisle, and from that accomplished and amiable nobleman I received many courtesies,–chief among them a ticket, which he obtained from Her Majesty direct, to one of her reserved seats in the Peeresses’ Gallery of the House of Lords, to witness the prorogation of Parliament. I trust I may be pardoned if I quote a portion of my description of that wonderful sight,–written, ah me! so long ago:
… “I found that my seat was one most desirable both for seeing the brilliant assembly and the august ceremony; it was near the throne, yet commanded a view of every part of the splendid chamber.
“The gallery was soon filled with ladies, all in full-dress, jewels, flowers and plumes. Many of the seats of the Peers were also filled by their noble wives and fair daughters, most superbly and sweetly arrayed… Among those conspicuous for elegance and loveliness were the young Duchess of Northumberland and Lady Clementina Villiers, the famous Court beauty.
“Toward one o’clock the Peers began to come in, clad in their robes of State. Taken as a whole they are a noble and refined-looking set of men. But few eyes dwelt on any of these, when there slowly entered, at the left of the throne, a white-haired old man, pale and spare, bowed with years and honors, the hero of many battles in many lands, the conqueror of conquerors,–the Duke! Leaning on the arm of the fair Marchioness of Douro, he stood, or rather tottered, before us, the grandest ruin in England. He presently retired to don his ducal robes and join the royal party at the entrance by the Victoria tower. … The pious bishops, in their sacerdotal robes, made a goodly show before an ungodly world. The judges came in their black gowns and in all the venerable absurdity of their enormous wigs. Mr. Justice Talfourd the poet, a small, modest- looking man, was quite extinguished by his. The foreign Ministers assembled, nation after nation, making, when standing or seated together, a most peculiar and picturesque group. They shone in all colors and dazzled with stars, orders and jewel-bitted swords. …
“Next to me sat the eleven-year-old Princess Gouromma, daughter of the Rajah of Coorg. The day before she had received Christian baptism, the Queen standing as godmother. She is a pretty, bright-looking child, and was literally loaded with jewels. Opposite her sat an Indian Prince–her father, I was told. He was magnificently attired–girded about with a superb India shawl, and above his dusky brow gleamed star-like diamonds, for the least of which many a hard-run Christian would sell his soul. …
“At last, the guns announced the royal procession, and in a few moments the entire house rose silently to receive Her Majesty. The Queen was conducted by Prince Albert, and accompanied by all the great officers of State. The long train, borne by ladies, gentlemen and pages, gave a certain stateliness to the short, plump little person of the fair sovereign, and she bore herself with much dignity and grace. Prince Albert, it is evident, has been eminently handsome, but he is growing a little stout and slightly bald. Yet he is a man of right noble presence. Her Majesty is in fine preservation, and really a pretty and lovable- looking woman. I think I never saw anything sweeter than her smile of recognition, given to some of her friends in the gallery–to the little Indian Princess in especial. There is much in her face of pure womanliness and simple goodness; yet it is by no means wanting in animated intelligence. In short, after seeing her, I can well understand the loving loyalty of her people, and can heartily join in their prayer of ‘God Save the Queen!’
“Her Majesty wore a splendid tiara of brilliants, matched by bracelets, necklace and stomacher. Her soft brown hair was dressed very plainly. Her under-dress was of white satin, striped with gold; her robe was, of course, of purple velvet, trimmed with gold and ermine.”
“The Queen desired the lords to be seated, and commanded that her ‘faithful Commons’ should be summoned. When the members of. the lower House had come in, the speaker read a speech, to which, I have recorded, Her Majesty listened, in a cold, quiet manner, sitting perfectly motionless, even to her fingers and eyelids. The Iron Duke standing at her left, bent, and trembled slightly–supporting with evident difficulty the ponderous sword of State. Prince Albert, sitting tall and soldier- like, in his handsome Field-Marshal’s uniform, looked nonchalant and serene, but with a certain far-away expression in his eyes. The Earl of Derby held the crown on its gorgeous-cushion gracefully, like an accomplished waiter presenting a tray of ices. On a like occasion, some time ago, I hear the Duke of Argyle had the ill-luck to drop this crown from the cushion, when some of the costly jewels, jarred from their setting, flew about like so many bits of broken glass. But there was no need to cry, ‘Pick up the pieces!’
“After the reading of this speech, certain bills were read to Her Majesty, for her assent, which she gave each time with a gracious inclination of the head, shaking sparkles from her diamond tiara in dew- drops of light. At every token of acquiescence a personage whom I took for a herald, bowed low towards the Queen, then performed a similar obeisance towards the Commons–crying ‘_La Reine le veut!_'”
“Why he should say it in French–why he did not say “The Queen wills it,” in her own English, I don’t yet know.”
I went on: “This ceremony gone through with, the Lord Chancellor, kneeling at the foot of the throne, presented a copy of the Royal speech to the Queen (I had supposed she would bring it in her pocket), which she proceeded to read, in a manner perfectly simple, yet impressive, and in a voice singularly melodious and distinct. Finer reading I never heard anywhere; every syllable was clearly enunciated, and the emphasis fell with unerring precision, though gently, on the right word.
“The Lord Chancellor having formally announced that Parliament stood prorogued until the 20th of August, Her Majesty rose as majestically as could be expected from one more remarkable for rosy plumptitude than regal altitude; Prince Albert took his place at her side; the crown and sword bearers took theirs in front, the train-bearers theirs in the rear, and the royal procession swept slowly forth, the brilliant house broke up and followed, and so the splendid pageant passed away–faded like a piece of fairy enchantment.” That’s the way they do it,–except that nowadays the Queen does not read her own speech.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Death of the Duke of Wellington–Birth of the Duke of Albany–The Crimean War–Slanders upon Prince Albert–The Prince of Wales takes a place for the first time upon the Throne–Incidents of Domestic Life–Prince Albert visits the Emperor of France–Incidents of the War.
At Balmoral the following autumn, the Queen heard of the death of her most illustrious subject–the Duke of Wellington, and green are those “Leaves” in the journal of her “life in the Highlands,” devoted to his memory. She wrote of him as a sovereign seldom writes of a subject,– glowingly, gratefully, tenderly. “One cannot think of this country, without ‘the Duke,’ our immortal hero”–she said.
There was a glorious state and popular funeral for the grand old man, who was laid away with many honors and many tears in the crypt of St. Paul’s Cathedral, where his brother hero, Nelson, was waiting to receive him.
When early in 1853, the news came to Windsor Castle that the French Emperor had selected a bride, not for her wealth, or high birth, or royal connections, but for her beauty, and grace, and because he loved her, Victoria and Albert, as truly lovers as when they entered the old castle gates, as bride and bridegroom, felt more than ever friendly to him, and desirous that he should have a fair field, if no favor, to show what he could do for France. I am afraid they half forgot the _coup d’état_, and the widows, orphans and exiles it had made.
In April, the Queen’s fourth son, who was destined to “carry weight” in the shape of names,–Leopold George Duncan Albert–now Duke of Albany, was born in Buckingham Palace.
During this year “the red planet Mars” was in the ascendant. The ugly Eastern Trouble, which finally culminated in the Crimean War, began to loom in the horizon, and England to stir herself ominously with military preparations. Drilling and mustering and mock combats were the order of the day, and the sound of the big drum was heard in the land. They had a grand battle-rehearsal at Chobham, and the Queen and Prince went there on horseback; she wearing a military riding-habit, and accompanied by the Duke of Coburg and her cousin George, King of Hanover.
The weather was genuine “Queen’s weather,” bright and warm; but Prince Albert, who returned a few days later, to rough it, in a season of regular camp-life, was almost drowned out of his tent by storms. In fact, the warrior bold went home with a bad cold, which ended in an attack of measles. There was enough of this disease to go through the family, Queen and all. Even the guests took it, the Crown Prince of Hanover and the Duke and Duchess of Coburg, who on going home gave it to the Duke of Brabant and the Count of Flanders. I suppose there never was known such a royal run of measles.
This year the Queen and Prince went again to Ireland, to attend the Dublin Industrial Exhibition, and were received with undiminished enthusiasm. It is remarkable that in Ireland the Queen was not once shot at, or struck in the face, or insulted in any way, as in her own capital. All the most chivalric feeling of that mercurial, but generous people, was called out by the sight of her frank and smiling face. She trusted them, and they proved worthy of the trust.
After their return to Balmoral, the Prince wrote: “We should be happy here were it not for that horrible Eastern complication. A European war would be a terrible calamity. It will not do to give up all hope; still, what we have is small.”
It daily grew smaller, as the war-clouds thickened and darkened in the political sky. During those troublous times, when some men’s hearts were failing them for fear, and some men’s were madly panting for the fray, asking nothing better than to see the Lion of England pitted against the Bear of Russia, the Prince was in some quarters most violently and viciously assailed, as a designing, dangerous “influence behind the throne”–treacherous to England, and so to England’s Queen. So industriously was this monstrous slander spread abroad, that the story went, and by some simple souls was believed, that “the blameless Prince” had been arrested for high treason, and lodged in the Tower! Some had it that he had gone in through the old Traitors’ Grate, and that they were furbishing up the old axe and block for his handsome head! Then the rumor ran that the Queen had also been arrested, and was to be consigned to the grim old fortress, or that she insisted on going with her husband and sharing his dungeon. Thousands of English. people actually assembled about the Tower to see them brought in,–and yet this was not on All- Fools’ Day.
Poor Baron Stockmar was also suspected of dark political intrigues and practices detrimental to the peace and honor of England. He was, in fact, accused of being a spy and a conspirator–which was absurdity itself. He was, it seems to me, a high-minded, kindly old man, a political philosopher and moralist–rather opinionated always, and at times a little patronizing towards his royal pupils; but if they did not object to this, it was no concern of other people. He certainly had a shrewd, as well as a philosophic mind–was a sagacious “clerk of the weather” in European politics,–and I suppose a better friend man or woman never had than the Prince and the Queen found in this much distrusted old German Baron.
Though Prince Albert wrote at this time about having “a world of torment,” he really took matters very patiently and philosophically. In the devotion of his wife, in the affection of his children, in his beloved organ, “the only instrument,” he said, “for expressing one’s feelings,” he found consolation and peace. He wrote,–“Victoria has taken the whole affair greatly to heart, and is excessively indignant at the attacks.” But a triumphant refutation, in both Houses of Parliament, of all these slanders, consoled her much; and on the anniversary of her marriage she was able to write–“This blessed day is full of joyful and tender emotions. Fourteen happy years have passed, and I confidently trust many more will pass, and find us in old age, as we are now, happily and devotedly united! Trials we must have; but what are they if we are together?”
In March, 1854, the Queen and Prince went to Osborne to visit the magnificent fleet of vessels which had been assembled at Spithead. Her Majesty wrote to Lord Aberdeen–“We are just starting to see the fleet, which is to sail at once for its important destination. It will be a solemn moment! Many a heart will be very heavy, and many a prayer, including our own, will be offered up for its safety and glory!”
Ah! when those beautiful ships went sailing away, with their white sails spread, and the royal colors flying, death sat “up aloft,” instead of the “sweet little cherub” popularly supposed to be perched there, and winds from the long burial-trenches of the battle-field played among the shrouds.
King Frederick William of Prussia seemed to think that he could put an end to this little unpleasantness, and wrote a long letter to the Queen of England, paternally advising her to make some concessions to the Emperor of Russia, which concessions she thought would be weak and unworthy. Her reply reveals her characteristic high courage. One quotation, which she makes from Shakspeare, is admirable:
“Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear’t, that the opposed may beware,
of thee.”
Still, as we look back, it does seem as though with the wit of the Queen, the wisdom of Prince Albert, the philosophy of Baron Stockmar,–the philanthropy of Exeter Hall, and the piety of the Bench of Bishops, some sort of peaceful arrangement might have been effected, and the Crimean war left out of history. But then we should not have had the touching picture of the lion and the unicorn charging on the enemy together, not for England or France, but all for poor Turkey; and Mr. Tennyson could not have written his “Charge of the Light Brigade,” which would have been a great loss to elocutionists. There were in Parliament a few poor- spirited economists and soft-hearted humanitarians who would fain have prevented that mighty drain of treasure and of the best blood of England- holding, with John Bright, that this war was “neither just nor necessary”; but they were “whistling against the wind.” There was one rich English quaker, with a heart like a tender woman’s and a face like a cherub’s, who actually went over to Russia to labor with “friend Nicholas” against this war. All in vain! the Czar was deeply moved, of course, but would not give in, or give up.
On the 3d of March the Queen went to Parliament to receive the address of both Houses in answer to her message which announced the opening of the war. On this important occasion the young Prince of Wales took a place for the first time with his mother and father on the throne. He looked taller and graver than usual. His heart glowed with martial fire. His voice, too, if he had been allowed to speak, would have been all for war. A few days before this, the Queen, after seeing off the first division of troops for the Baltic, had so felt the soldier-blood of her father tingling in her veins, that she wrote: “I am very enthusiastic about my dear army and navy, and I wish I had two sons in both now.” But in later years the widowed Queen is said to have been not eager to have any of her sons, _his_ sons, peril their lives in battle.
Though the Prince of Wales now had assigned to him a more honorable place on the British throne than the British Constitution permitted his father, to occupy, he was still perfectly amenable to that father’s authority.
An English gentleman lately told me of an instance of the wise exercise of that authority. The Prince-Consort and his son were riding across a London toll-bridge, the keeper of which, on receiving his toll, respectfully saluted them. Prince Albert courteously inclined his head, touching his hat, but Prince Albert Edward dashed carelessly on, yet only to return a minute after, laughing and blushing, to obey his father’s command–“My son, go back and return that man’s salute.”
The Queen was so enthusiastic that she with pleasure saw launched– indeed, christened herself–a war-vessel bearing the name and likeness of her “dearest Albert”–that humane, amiable, peace-loving man! There was something incongruous in it, as there is in all associations between war and good peace-lovers and Christ-lovers.
Amid these wars and rumors of wars, it is comforting to read in that admirable and most comprehensive work, “The Life of His Royal Highness, the Prince-Consort, by Sir Theodore Martin, K.C.B.,” of pleasant little domestic events, like a children’s May-day ball at Buckingham Palace, given on Prince Arthur’s birthday, when two hundred children were made happy and made others happier. Then there were great times at Osborne for the Royal children on their mother’s birthday, when a charming house–the Swiss cottage–and its grounds, were made over to them, to have and to hold, as their very own. It was not wholly for a play-house and play- ground, but partly as a means of instruction in many things. In the perfectly-appointed kitchen of the cottage the little Princesses learned to perform many domestic tasks, and to cook different kinds of plain dishes as well as cakes and tarts–in short, to perform the ordinary duties of housekeepers; while in the grounds and gardens the young Princes used to work two or three hours a day under the direction of a gardener, getting regular certificates of labor performed, which they presented to their father, who always paid them as he would have paid any laborer for the same amount and quality of work–never more, never less. Each boy had his own hoe and spade, which not a Princeling among them all considered it _infra-dig._ to use. The two eldest boys, Albert Edward and Alfred, also constructed under their father’s directions a small fortress perfect in all its details. All the work on this military structure, even to the making of the bricks, was done by the Princes. The little Princesses also worked in the gardens, each having her own plot, marked with her own name, from Victoria to Beatrice. There was a museum of natural history attached to the cottage, and we can easily imagine the wonderful specimens of entomology and ornithology there to be found. Ah! have any of the grown-up Royal Highnesses ever known the comfort and fun in their grand palaces that they had in the merry old Swiss cottage days?
In the autumn of 1854 Prince Albert went over to Boulogne for a little friendly visit to England’s chief ally, taking with him little Arthur. He seems to have found the French Emperor a little stiff and cold at first, as he wrote to the Queen, “The Emperor thaws more and more.” In the sunshine of that genial presence he had to thaw. The Prince adds: “He told me one of the deepest impressions ever made upon him was when he arrived in London shortly after King William’s death and saw you at the age of eighteen going to open Parliament for the first time.”
The Prince made a deep impression on the Emperor. Two men could not be more unlike. The character of the one was crystal clear, and deeper than it appeared–the character of the other was murky and mysterious, and shallower than it seemed.
This must have been a season of great anxiety and sadness for the Queen. The guns of Alma and Sebastopol echoed solemnly among her beloved mountains. In her journal there is this year only one Balmoral entry–not the account of any Highland expedition or festivity, but the mention of an eloquent sermon by the Rev. Norman McLeod, and of his prayer, which she says was “very touching,” and added, “His allusions to us were so simple, saying after his mention of us, ‘Bless their children.’ It gave me a lump in my throat, as also when he prayed for the dying, the wounded, the widow, and the orphan.”
There came a few months later a ghastly ally of the Russians into the fight–cholera–which, joined to the two terrible winter months, “Generals January and February,” as the Czar called them, made sad havoc in the English and French forces, but did not redeem the fortunes of the Russians. Much mal-administration in regard to army supplies brought terrible hardships upon the English troops, and accomplished the impossible in revealing in them new qualities of bravery and heroic endurance.
It was an awful war, and it lasted as long as, and a little longer than, the Czar, who died in March, 1855. “of pulmonary apoplexy,” it was announced, though the rumor ran, that, resolved not to survive Sebastopol, he had taken his own unhappy life. With his death the war was virtually ended, and his son Alexander made peace as soon as he decently could with the triumphant enemies of his father.
Through all this distressful time the Queen and the Prince-Consort manifested the deepest sympathy for, as well as pride in, the English soldiers. They had an intense pity for the poor men in the trenches, badly clad and half starved, grand, patient, ill-used, uncomplaining fellows!
“My heart bleeds to think of it,” wrote the Prince, of the army administration. He corresponded with Florence Nightingale, and encouraged her in her brave and saintly mission. When the sick and wounded began to arrive, in England both he and the Queen were faithful in visiting them in the hospitals, and Her Majesty had a peculiar sad joy in rewarding the bravest of the brave with the gift of the Crimean medal. In a private letter she gives a description of the touching scene. She says:
“From the highest Prince of the blood to the lowest private, all received the same distinction for the bravest conduct in the severest actions…. Noble fellows! I own I feel for them as though they were my own children…. 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 that they may not receive the identical ones put into their hands by me. Several came by in a sadly mutilated state.”
One of these heroes, young Sir Thomas Trowbridge, who had had one leg and the foot of the other carried away by a round shot at Inkermann, was dragged in a Bath-chair to the Queen, who, when she gave him his medal, offered to make him one of her _Aides-de-Camp_, to which the gallant and loyal soldier replied, “I am amply repaid for everything.” Poor fellow! I wonder if he continued to say that all his mutilated life?
Whenever during this war there was a hitch, or halt, in the victorious march of English arms, any disaster or disgrace in the Crimea, the attacks upon the Prince-Consort were renewed,–there were even threats of impeachment;–but when the “cruel war was over,” the calumnies were over also. They were always as absurd as unfounded. Aside from his manly sense of honor the Prince had by that time, at least, ten good reasons for being loyal to England–an English wife and nine English children.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Emperor and Empress of France visit Windsor–They are entertained by the City of London–Scene at the Opera–The Queen returns the Emperor’s call–Splendor of the Imperial Hospitality.
The Queen’s kind heart was really pained by the sudden death of the Czar, her sometime friend and “brother”–whose visit to Windsor was brought by the startling event vividly to her mind–yet she turned from his august shade to welcome one of his living conquerors, the Emperor Napoleon, who, with his beautiful wife, came this spring to visit her and the Prince. She had had prepared for the visitors the most splendid suite of apartments–among them the very bedroom once occupied by the Emperor Nicholas. It was the best “spare room” of the Castle, and the one generally allotted to first-class monarchs–Louis Philippe had occupied it. What stuff for ghosts for the bedside of Louis Napoleon did he and the Czar supply! A few days before the Emperor and Empress arrived, the Queen had a visit from the poor ex-Queen, Marie Amélie. There is a touching entry in Her Majesty’s diary, regarding this visit. By the way, I would state that whenever I quote from Her Majesty’s diary, it is through the medium of Sir Theodore Martin’s book, and by his kind permission.
The Queen wrote: “It made us both so sad to see her drive away in a plain coach, with miserable post-horses, and to think that this was the Queen of the French, and that six years ago her husband was surrounded by the same pomp and grandeur which three days hence would surround his successor.”
There is something exquisitely tender and pitiful in this. Most people, royal or republican, would “consider it not so deeply.” The world has grown so familiar with the see-saw of French royalty, that a fall or a flight, exile or abdication moves it but little. In the old _guillotine_ times, there _were_ sensations.
England’s great ally, and his lovely wife, Eugénie,–every inch an Empress,–were received with tremendous enthusiasm. Their passage through London was one long ovation. The Times of that date gives allowing account of the crowds and the excitement. It states also, that as they were passing King Street, the Emperor “was observed to draw the attention of the Empress to the house which he had occupied in former days,”– respectable lodgings, doubtless, but how different from the Tuileries!
The Queen gives an interesting account of what seemed a long, and was an impatient waiting for her guests, whom the Prince-Consort had gone to meet. At length, they saw “the advanced guard of the escort–then the cheers of the crowd broke forth. The outriders appeared–the doors opened, I stepped out, the children close behind me; the band struck up ‘_Partant pour la Syrie_,’ the trumpets sounded, and the open carriage, with the Emperor and Empress, Albert sitting opposite them, drove up and they got out… I advanced and embraced the Emperor, who received two salutes on either cheek from me–having first kissed my hand.” The English Queen did not do things by halves, any more than the English people. She then embraced the Empress, whom she describes as “very gentle and graceful, but evidently very nervous.” The children were then presented, “Vicky, with alarmed eyes, making very low curtsies,” and Bertie having the honor of an embrace from the Emperor. Then they all went up-stairs, Prince. Albert conducting the Empress, who at first modestly declined to precede the Queen. Her Majesty followed on the arm of the Emperor, who proudly informed her that he had once been in her service as special constable against those unstable enemies, the Chartists.
The Queen and Prince soon came to greatly like the Emperor and admire the Empress. The Queen wrote of the former: “He is very quiet and amiable, and easy to get on with… Nothing can be more civil and well-bred than the Emperor’s manner–so full of tact.”
Of Eugenie she wrote: “She is full of courage and spirit, and yet so gentle, with such innocence; … with all her great liveliness, she has the prettiest and most modest manner.” Later, Her Majesty, with a rare generosity, showing that there was not room in her large heart even, for any petty feeling, wrote in her private diary, of that beautiful and brilliant woman: “I am delighted to see how much Albert likes and admires her.”
There was a State-ball at Windsor, at which Eugénie shone resplendent. The Queen danced with the Emperor–and with her imaginative mind, found cause for wondering reflection in the little circumstance, for she says: “How strange to think that I, the granddaughter of George III., should dance with the Emperor Napoleon III.–nephew of England’s greatest enemy, now my dearest and most intimate ally–in the _Waterloo Room_, and this ally only six years ago, living in this country an exile, poor and unthought of!”
The Queen, of course, invested the Emperor with the Order of the Garter. It has been in its time bestowed on monarchs less worthy the honor. It is true, he did not come very heroically by his imperial crown–but when crowns are lying about loose, who can blame a man for helping himself?
The city gave the Emperor and Empress a great reception and banquet at Guildhall, and in the evening there was a memorable visit to the opera. The imperial and royal party drove from Buckingham Palace through a dense crowd and illuminated streets. Arrived at the royal box, the Queen took the Emperor by the hand, and smiling her sweetest–which is saying a good deal–presented him to the audience. Immense enthusiasm! Then Prince Albert led forward the lovely Empress, and the enthusiasm was unbounded. It must be that this still beautiful, though sorrowful woman, on whose head a fierce tempest of misfortune has beaten–the most piteous, discrowned, blanched head since Marie Antoinette–sometimes remembers those happy and glorious days, and that the two august widows talk over them together.
At last came the hour of farewells, and the Emperor departed with his pretty, tearful wife–the band playing his mother’s air, _Partant pour la Syrie_, and his heart full of pride and gratitude. In a letter which he addressed to the Queen, soon after reaching home, is revealed one cause of his gratitude. After saying many pleasant things about the kind and gracious reception which had been accorded him, and the impression which the sight of the happy home-life of Windsor had made upon him, he says: “Your Majesty has also touched me to the heart by the delicacy of the consideration shown to the Empress; for nothing pleases more than to see the person one loves become the object of such flattering attention.”
That summer there appeared among the royal children at Osborne a sudden illness, which soon put on royal livery, and was recognized as scarlet fever. There was, of course, great alarm–but nothing very serious came of it. The two elder children escaped the infection, and were allowed to go to Paris with their parents, who in July returned the visit of the Emperor and Empress. They went in their yacht to Boulogne, where the Emperor met them and escorted them to the railway on horseback. He looked best, almost handsome, on horseback. Arrived at Paris, they found the whole city decorated, as only the French know how to decorate, and gay, enthusiastic crowds cheering, as only the French know how to cheer. They drove through splendid boulevards, through the Bois de Boulogne, over the bridge, to the Palace of St. Cloud–and everywhere there were the imperial troops, artillery, cavalry and zouaves, their bands playing “God Save the Queen.” Those only who knew Paris under the Empire, can realize what that reception was, and how magnificent were the _fêtes_ and how grand the reviews of the next ten days. Of the arrival at St. Cloud the Queen writes: “In all the blaze of light from lamps and torches, amidst the roar of cannon and bands and drums and cheers, we reached the palace. The Empress, with the Princess Mathilde and the ladies, received us at the door, and took us up a beautiful staircase, lined with the splendid _Cent-Guardes,_ who are magnificent men, very like our Life Guards… We went through the rooms at once to our own, which are charming… I felt quite bewildered, but enchanted, everything is so beautiful.”
This palace we know was burned during the siege. The last time I visited the ruins, I stood for some minutes gazing through a rusty grating into the noble vestibule, through which so many royal visitors had passed. Its blackened walls and broken and prostrate marbles are overspread by a wild natural growth–a green shroud wrapping the ghastly ruin;–or rather, it was like an incursion of a mob of rough vegetation, for there were neither delicate ferns, nor poetic ivy, but democratic grass and republican groundsel and communistic thistles and nettles. In place of the splendid _Cent-Guardes_ stood tall, impudent weeds; in place of courtiers, the supple and bending briar; while up the steps, which the Queen and Empress and their ladies ascended that night, pert little _grisettes_ of _marguerites_ were climbing.
So perfect was the hospitality of the Emperor that they had things as English as possible at the Palace-even providing an English chaplain for Sunday morning. In the afternoon, however, he backslid into French irreligion and natural depravity, and they all went to enjoy the fresh air, the sight of the trees, the flowers and the children in the Bois de Boulogne. The next day they went into the city to the _Exposition des Beaux Arts,_ and to the _Elysée_ for lunch and a reception–then they all drove to the lovely _Sainte Chapelle_ and the _Palais de Justice_. There the Emperor pointed out the old _Conciergerie_, and said–“There is where I was imprisoned.” Doubtless he thought that was a more interesting historical fact than the imprisonment of poor Marie Antoinette, in the same grim building. There was also a visit to the Italian opera, where a very pretty surprise awaited the guests. At the close of the ballet, the scene suddenly changed to a view of Windsor–including the arrival of the Emperor and Empress. “_God Save the Queen_” was sung superbly, and rapturously applauded. One day the Queen, Prince, and Princess Royal, dressed very plainly, took a hired carriage and had a long _incognito_ drive through Paris. They enjoyed this “lark” immensely. Then there was a grand ball at the _Hotel de Ville_, and a grand review on the _Champ de Mars_, and a visit by torchlight to the tomb of _the_ Napoleon, under the dome of the _Invalides_, with the accompaniment of solemn organ- playing within the church, and a grand midsummer storm outside, with thunder and lightning. The French do so well understand how to manage these things!
The grandest thing of all was a State ball in Versailles;–that magnificent but mournful, almost monumental pile, being gaily decorated and illuminated–almost transformed out of its tragic traditions. What a charming picture of her hostess the Queen gives us:
“The Empress met us at the top of the staircase, looking like a fairy queen, or nymph, in a white dress, trimmed with grass and diamonds,–a beautiful _tour de corsage_ of diamonds round the top of her dress;–the same round her waist, and a corresponding _coiffure_, with her Spanish and Portuguese orders.”
She must have been a lovely vision. The Emperor thought so, for (according to the Queen) forgetting that it is not “good form” for a man to admire or compliment his own wife, he exclaimed, as she appeared: “_Comme tu es belle! _” (“How beautiful you are!”)
I am afraid he was not always so polite. During her first season at the Tuileries, which she called “a beautiful prison,” and which is now as much a thing of the past as the Bastile, she often in her gay, impulsive way offended against the stern laws of Court etiquette, and was reproved for a lack of dignity. Once at a reception she suddenly perceived a little way down the line an old school-friend, and, hurrying forward, kissed her affectionately. It was nice for the young lady, but the Emperor frowned and said, in that cold marital tone which cuts like an east wind: “Madame, you forget that you are the Empress!”
In a letter from the Prince to his uncle Leopold I find this suggestive sentence in reference to the ball at Versailles: “Victoria made her toilette in Marie Antoinette’s boudoir.” It would almost seem the English Queen might have feared to see in her dressing-glass a vision of the French Queen’s proud young head wearing a diadem as brilliant as her own, or perhaps that cruel crown of silver–her terror-whitened hair.
The parting was sad. The Empress “could not bring herself to face it”; so the Queen went to her room with the Emperor, who said: “Eugénie, here is the Queen.” “Then,” adds Her Majesty, “she came and gave me a beautiful fan and a rose and heliotrope from the garden, and Vicky a bracelet set with rubies and diamonds containing her hair, with which Vicky was delighted.”
The Emperor went with them all the way to Boulogne and saw them on board their yacht; then came embracings and _adieux_, and all was over.
The next morning early they reached Osborne and were received at the beach by Prince Alfred and his little brothers, to whom Albert Edward, big with the wonders of Paris, was like a hero out of a fairy book. Near the house waited the sisters, Helena and Louise, and in the house the invalid–“poor, dear Alice!”–for whom the joy of that return was almost too much.
CHAPTER XXV.
Betrothal of the Princess Royal–Birth of the Prince Imperial of France– More visitors and visitings–The Emperor And Empress of Mexico–Marriage of the Princess Royal–The attendant festivities.
At Balmoral, where they took possession of the new Castle, the Queen and Prince received the news of the approaching fall of Sebastopol, for it was not down yet. It finally fell amid a scene of awful conflagration and explosions–the work of the desperate Russians themselves.
The peace-rejoicings did not come till later, but in the new house at Balmoral there was a new joy, though one not quite unmixed with sadness, in the love and happy betrothal of the Princess Victoria. In her journal the Queen tells the old, old story very quietly: “Our dear Victoria was this day engaged to Prince Frederick William of Prussia. He had already spoken to us of his wishes, but were uncertain, on account of her extreme youth, whether he should speak to her or wait till he should come back again. However, we felt it was better he should do so, and, during our ride up Craig-na-Ban this afternoon; he picked a piece of white heather (the emblem of good luck), which he gave to her.” This it seems broke the ice, and so the poetic Prince (all German Princes, except perhaps Bismarck, are poetic and romantic) told his love and offered his hand, which was not rejected. Then came a few weeks of courtship, doubtless as bright and sweet to the royal pair of lovers as was a similar season to Robert Burns and “Highland Mary”–for love levels up and levels down– and then young Fritz returned to Germany, leaving behind him a fond heart and a tearful little face round and fair.
From this time till the marriage of the Princess Royal, which was not till after her seventeenth birthday in 1858, the Prince-Consort devoted himself more and more to the education of this beloved daughter–in history, art, literature, and religion. He conversed much and most seriously with her in preparation for her confirmation. He found that this work of mental and moral development was “its own exceeding great reward.”
The character of the Princess Royal seems to have been in some respects like that of the Princess Charlotte of Wales. She was as high-spirited, strong-willed, gay, free, and fearless; but with infinitely better and purer domestic and social influences, she grew up into a nobler and more gracious young womanhood. Intellectually and morally, she was her father’s creation; intellectually and morally, poor Princess Charlotte was worse than fatherless.
But I must hurry on with the hurrying years. The Prince, writing to Baron Stockmar in March, 1856, says: “The telegraph has just brought the news of the Empress having been safely delivered of a son. Great will be the rejoicing in the Tuileries.”
This baby born in the purple was the Prince Imperial, whose fate beggars tragedy; who went to gather laurels on an African desert and fell a victim to a savage ambuscade–his beautiful body stuck almost as full of cruel darts as that of the martyred young St. Sebastian.
On March 21st the long-delayed treaty of peace was signed. After all the waste, the agony, the bloodshed, the Prince wrote: “It is not such as we could have wished.” But he had learned to bear these little disappointments.
Prince Alfred began his studies for the navy. Fritz of Prussia came over on a visit to his betrothed, and his father and mother soon followed– coming to get better acquainted with their daughter-in-law to be. Then into the royal circle there came another royal guest, all unbidden–the king whose name is Death. The Prince of Leiningen–the Queen’s half- brother in blood, but whole brother in heart–died, to her great grief; and soon after there passed away her beloved aunt, the Duchess of Gloucester, a good and amiable woman, and the last of the fifteen children of George the Third and Queen Charlotte. But here life balanced death, for on April 14th another daughter was born in Buckingham Palace. The Prince in a letter to his step-mother speaks of the baby as “thriving famously, and prettier than babies usually are.” He adds, “Mama–Aunt, Vicky and her bridegroom are to be the little one’s sponsors, and she is to receive the historical, romantic, euphonious, and melodious names of Beatrice Mary Victoria Feodora.”
That summer there came two very interesting royal visitors to Windsor– the young Princess Charlotte of Belgium and her betrothed husband, the Archduke Maximilian of Austria. Prince Albert wrote of the young girl: “Charlotte’s whole being seems to me to have been warmed and unfolded by the love which is kindled in her heart.” To his uncle Leopold he wrote:” I wish you joy at having got such a husband for dear Charlotte, as I am sure he is quite worthy of her and will make her happy.”
Just ten years from that time the Emperor Maximilian, standing before a file of Mexican soldiers at Queretaro, took out his watch, which he would never more need, and, pressing a spring, revealed in its case a miniature of the lovely Empress Charlotte, which he kissed tenderly. Then, handing the watch to the priest at his side, he said: “Carry this souvenir to my dear wife in Europe, and if she ever be able to understand you, say that my eyes closed with the impression of her image, which I shall carry with me above.”
She never did understand. She lives in a phantom Court, believing herself still Empress of Mexico, and that the Emperor will soon come home from the wars to her and the throne.
There was this summer a memorable show in Hyde Park, when Queen Victoria on horseback, in her becoming military dress, pinned with her own hands on to the coats of a large number of heroes of the great war the coveted Victoria Cross. Ah! they were proud and she was prouder. She is a true soldier’s daughter; her heart always thrills at deeds of valor and warms at sight of a hero, however humble.
The Prince went over to his cousin Charlotte’s wedding, and the Queen, compelled to stay behind, wrote to King Leopold that her letting her husband, go without her was a great proof of her love for her uncle. “You cannot think,” she said, “how completely forlorn I feel when he is away, or how I count the hours till he returns. All the children are as nothing when he is away. It seems as if the whole life of the house and home were gone.”
Again, how like a loving Scotch peasant wife:
“There’s na luck about the house,
There’s na luck at a’–
There’s little pleasure in the house, When my guid mon’s awa’.”
In August the Emperor and Empress made a flying visit in their yacht to Osborne and talked over the latest political events, the new phases of affairs, and, doubtless, the new babies; and, a little later, the Queen and Prince ran over to Cherbourg in their yacht, taking six of the children. There was a perfect nursery of the little ones, “rocked in the cradle of the deep.” This was such a complete “surprise party,” that the Emperor and Empress away in Paris, knew nothing about it. They all took a pleasant little excursion into the lovely country of Normandy in _chars-à-bancs_, with bells on the post-horses, doubtless, and everything gay and delightful and novel to the children,–especially French sunshine.
This year the Balmoral stay was greatly saddened by the news of the Sepoy rebellion, of the tragedies of Cawnpore, and the unspeakable atrocities of Nana Sahib. Young people nowadays know little about that ghastly war, except as connected with the pretty poetical story of the relief of Lucknow, and Jessie Brown; but, at the time, it was an awfully real thing, and not in the least poetical or romantic.
The marriage of the Princess Royal was fixed for January 25, 1858. Her father wrote from Balmoral hi the autumn; “Vicky suffers under the feeling that every spot she visits she has to greet for the last time as home… The departure from here will, be a great trial to us all, especially to Vicky, who leaves it for good and all; and the good, simple Highlanders, who are very fond of us, are constantly saying to her, and often with tears, ‘I suppose we shall never see you again?’ which naturally makes her feel more keenly.”
At last the wedding day approached and the royal guests began to arrive at Buckingham Palace, and they poured in till on fair days a King or Queen, a Prince or Princess looked out of nearly every window; and when there was a fog, collisions of crowned heads occurred in the corridors. On the day the Court left Windsor the Queen wrote: “Went to look at the rooms prepared for Vicky’s honeymoon; very pretty… We took a short walk with Vicky, who was dreadfully upset at this real break in her life; the real separation from her childhood.”
These be little things perhaps, but beautiful little human things, showing the warm love and tender sympathy which united this family, supposed to be lifted high and dry above ordinary humanity, among the arid and icy grandeurs of royalty.
There was a gay little ball one evening with Highnesses and Serenities dancing and whirling and chasséing, and a “_grande chaine_” of half of the sovereigns of Europe–all looking very much like other people. The Queen wrote: “Ernest (Duke of Coburg) said it seemed like a dream to see Vicky dance as a bride, just as I did eighteen years ago, and I still (so he said) looking very young. In 1840, poor dear papa (late Duke of Coburg) danced with me as Ernest danced with Vicky.”
Afterwards there was a grand ball, attended by over a thousand of the elect, and for the multitude there were dramatic and musical entertainments. At Her Majesty’s Theatre one night the famous tragedian, Mr. Phelps, and the great actress, Miss Helen Faucit, in the tragedy of _Macbeth_, froze the blue blood of a whole tier of royal personages and made them realize what crowns were worth, and how little they had earned theirs, by showing what men and women will go through with to secure one. The Emperor and Empress of France were not among the guests. They had been a little upset by an event more tragic than are most marriages–the attempt of Orsini to blow up their carriage, by the explosion of hand-grenades near the entrance of the Italian Opera. They had been only slightly hurt, but some eighty innocent people in the crowd had been either killed or wounded. The white dress of the Empress was sprinkled with blood, yet she went to her box and sat out the performance. What nerve these imperial people have!
The Queen’s account of this glad, sad time of the marriage is very natural, moving and maternal. First, there was the domestic and Court sensation of the arrival of the bridegroom, Prince “Fritz,” whom the Prince-Consort had gone to meet, and all the Court awaited. “I met him,” says the Queen, “at the bottom of the staircase, very warmly; he was pale and nervous. At the top of the staircase Vicky received him, with Alice.” That afternoon all the royal people witnessed a grand dramatic performance of “Taming the Horse,” with Mr. Rarey as “leading man.” In the evening they went to the opera. The next day, Sunday, the presents were shown–a marvelous collection of jewels, plate, lace and India shawls, and they had service and listened to a sermon. It is wonderful what these great people can get through with! Coming in from a walk they found a lot of new presents added to the great pile. The Queen writes: “Dear Vicky gave me a brooch, a very pretty one, containing her hair, and clasping me in her arms, said,’ I hope to be worthy to be your child.'”
From all I hear I should say that fond hope has been realized in a noble and beneficent life. The Crown Princess of Germany is a woman greatly loved and honored.
On the wedding day the Queen wrote: “The second most eventful day of my life, as regards feelings; I felt as if I were being married over again myself… While dressing, dearest Vicky came in to see me, looking well and composed.”
The Princess Royal, like her mother, was married in the Chapel of St. James’ Palace, and things went on very much as on that memorable wedding day–always spoken of by the Queen as “blessed.” She now could describe more as a spectator the shouting, the bell-ringing, the cheering and trumpetings, and the brave sight of the procession. Prince Albert and King Leopold and “the two eldest boys went first. Then the three girls (Alice, Helena and Louise), in pink satin, lace and flowers.” There were eight bridesmaids in “white tulle, with wreaths and bouquets of roses and white heather.” That was a pretty idea, using the simple betrothal flower of the Prince and Princess-for “luck.”
The Queen speaks of “Mama looking so handsome in violet velvet; trimmed with ermine.” Ah, the young Victoria was the only daughter of _her_ Victoria, who as a bride was to receive on her brow that grandmother’s kiss–dearer and holier than any priestly benediction. I like to read that immediately after the ceremony the bride “kissed her grandmama.”
After the wedding breakfast at the Palace the bridal pair, Victoria and Frederick William, drove away just as eighteen years before Victoria and Albert had driven away–the same state, the same popular excitement, in kind if not in degree, and, let us trust, a like amount of love and joy. But this happy pair did not drive all the way to Windsor. The waiting train, the iron horse snorting with impatience, showed how the world had moved on since that other wedding; but the perennial Eton boys were on hand for these lovers also, wearing the same tall hats and short jackets, cheering in the same mad way, so that the Queen herself would hardly have suspected them to be the other boys’ sons, or younger brothers. They “scored one” above their honored predecessors by dragging the carriage from the Windsor station to the Castle.
The Court soon followed to Windsor with thirty-five of the royal guests, and there were banquets and more investings, till it would seem that the Queen’s stock of jeweled garters must be running low. Then back to town for more presents and operas and plays, and addresses of congratulation, and at last came the dismal morning of separation. The day before, the Queen had written: “The last day of our dear child being with us, which is incredible, and makes me feel at times quite sick at heart.” She records that that poor child exclaimed, “I think it will kill me to take leave of dear papa!”
The next morning, she writes,” Vicky came with a very sad face to my room. Here we embraced each other tenderly, and our tears flowed fast.”
Then there were leave-takings from the loving grandmama and the younger brothers and sisters (“Bertie” and Alfred going with their father to Gravesend, to see the bridal party embarked), and hardest of all, the parting of the child from the mother.
To quote again: “A dreadful moment and a dreadful day! Such sickness came over me–real heart-ache,–when I thought of our dearest child being gone, and for so long… It began to snow before Vicky went, and continued to do so without intermission all day.”
In spite of the dreary weather, I am told that thousands of London people were assembled in the streets to catch a last glimpse of the popular Princess Royal. They could hardly recognize her pleasant, rosy, child- like face–it was so sad, so swollen with weeping. They did not then look with much favor on the handsome Prussian Prince at her side–and one loyal Briton shouted out, “If he doesn’t treat you well, come back to us!” That made her laugh. I believe he did treat her well, and that she has been always happy as a wife, though for a time she is said to have fretted against the restraints of German Court etiquette, which bristled all round her. She found that the straight and narrow ways of that princely paradise were not hedged with roses, as at home, but with briars. Some she respected, and some she bravely broke through.
The little bride was most warmly received in her new home, and about the anniversary of her own marriage-day, the Queen had the happiness of receiving from her new son this laconic telegram: “The whole royal family is enchanted with my wife. F. W.”
Afterwards, in writing to her uncle, of her daughter’s success at the Prussian Court, and of her happiness, the Queen says: “But her heart often yearns for home and those she loves dearly–above all, her dear papa, for whom she has _un culte_ (a worship) which is touching and delightful to see.”
Her father returned this “worship” by tenderness and devotion unfailing and unwearying. His letters to the Crown Princess are perhaps the sweetest and noblest, most thoughtful and finished of his writings. They show that he respected as well as loved his correspondent, of whom, indeed, he had spoken to her husband as one having “a man’s head and a child’s heart.” His letters to his uncle and the Baron are full of his joy, intellectual and affectional, in this his first-born daughter; but the last-born was not forgotten. In one letter he writes: “Little Beatrice is an extremely attractive, pretty, intelligent child; indeed, the most amusing baby we have had.” Again–“Beatrice on her first birthday looks charming, with a new light-blue cap. Her table of birthday gifts has given her the greatest pleasure; especially a lamb.”
I know these are little, common domestic bits–that is just why I cull them out of grave letters, full of great affairs of State.
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.”