Books: Life of Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen V.1.

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His step is foremost in the ha',
His sword in battle keen.

On the 7th of December the visitors left for Windsor, passing through
endless triumphal arches on the road, greeted at Leicester by seven
thousand school children.

Shortly after the Queen's return home, she and the Prince heard, with
regret, of the death of Thomas Graham, Lord Lynedoch. The veteran fell,
indeed, like a shock of corn ripe for the garner, until it had been
difficult to recognise in the feeble, nearly blind old man, upwards of
ninety, the stout soldier of Barossa and Vittoria. But he carried with him
many a memory which could never be recalled. Gallant captain though he
was, his whole life was touched with tender romance. Born only four years
after the Jacobite rebellion of '45, married in 1774, when he was
twenty-five years of age, to his beautiful wife, the Hon. Mary
Cathcart--whose sister Jane was married on the same day to John, Duke of
Athole--for eighteen years Mr. Graham lived the quiet life of a country
gentleman in Lynedoch Cottage, the most charming of cottages _ornes_,
thatch-roofed, with a conservatory as big as itself, set down in a fine
park. The river Almond flowed by, serving as a kind of boundary, and
marking the curious limit which the plague kept in its last visit to
Scotland. On a green "haugh" beneath what is known as the Burnbraes,
within a short distance of Lynedoch Cottage, may be seen the
carefully-kept double grave of two girls heroines of Scotch song, who died
there of the "pest," from which they were fleeing.

Mr. Graham was happy in his marriage, though it is said Mrs. Graham did
not relish that element in her lot which had made her the wife of a simple
commoner, while her sister, not more fair, was a duchess. Death entered on
the scene, and caused the distinctions of rank to be forgotten. The
cherished wife was laid in a quiet grave in Methven kirk-yard, and the
childless widower mourned for the desire of his heart with a grief that
refused to be comforted. By the advice of his friends, who feared for his
reason or his life, he went abroad, where he joined Lord Hood as a
volunteer. It is said he fought his first battle in a black coat, with the
hope that, being thus rendered conspicuous in any act of daring which he
might perform, he would be stricken down before the day was done. Honours,
not death, were to be his portion in his new career. A commission, rapid
promotion, the praise of his countrymen followed. He received the thanks
of both Houses of Parliament. It was on this occasion that Sheridan said
eloquently, in allusion to the soldier's services in the retreat to
Corunna, "In the hour of peril Graham was their best adviser, in the hour
of disaster Graham was their surest consolation." A peerage, which there
was none to share or inherit, a pension, the Orders of the Bath, of St.
Michael and St. George, &c. &c., were conferred upon him. It seemed only
the other day since Lord Lynedoch, hearing of her Majesty's first visit to
Scotland, hurried home from Switzerland to receive his queen. A place in
Westminster Abbey was ready for all that was mortal of him, but he had
left express injunctions that he was to be buried in Methven kirk-yard,
beside the wife of his youth, dead more than half a century before.

Most people know the history of Gainsborough's lovely picture of Mrs.
Graham, the glory of the Scotch National Gallery--that it was not brought
home till after the death of the lady, whose husband could not bear to
look on her painted likeness, and sent it, in its case, to the care of a
London merchant, in whose keeping it remained unopened, and well-nigh
forgotten, for upwards of fifty years. On Lord Lynedoch's death, the
picture came into the possession of his heir, Mr. Graham, of Redgorton,
who presented it--a noble gift--to the Scotch National Academy.

CHAPTER XVIII.
ALLIES FROM AFAR.--DEATH AND ABSENCE.--BIRTHDAY GREETINGS.

Lady Bloomfield describes a set of visitors at Windsor this year such as
have not infrequently come a long way to pay their homage to the Queen,
and to see for themselves the wonders of civilisation. The party consisted
of five Indian chiefs, two squaws, a little girl, and a half-breed,
accompanied by Mr. Catlin as interpreter. The Queen received the strangers
in the Waterloo Gallery. The elder chief made a speech with all the
dignity and self-confidence of his race. It was to the effect that he was
much pleased the Great Spirit had permitted him to cross the large lake
(the Atlantic) in safety. They had wished to see their great mother, the
Queen. England was the light of the world; its rays illuminated all
nations, and reached even to their country. They found it much larger than
they expected, and the buildings were finer than theirs, and the wigwam
(Windsor Castle) was very grand, and they were pleased to see it.
Nevertheless, they should return to their own country and be quite happy
and contented. They thanked the Great Spirit they had enough to eat and
drink. They thought the people in England must be very rich, and they
looked pleased and happy. They (the Chippewas) had served under the
English sovereigns and had fought their battles. He--the chief--had served
under ----, the greatest chief that had ever existed or had ever been
known. He had been on the field of battle when his general was killed and
had helped to bury him. He had received kindness from the English nation,
for which he thanked them; their wigwams at home had been made comfortable
with English goods. He had nothing more to say. He had finished.

These Indians had their faces tattooed and were clad in skins, with large
bunches of feathers on their heads. The men were armed with tomahawks,
clubs, wooden swords, bows, and spears. The women were in the height of
squaw-fashion, with long black hair, dresses reaching to their feet, and
quantities of coloured beads. Two war-dances were danced before the Queen,
one of the chiefs playing a sort of drum, the music being assisted by
shrieks and cries and the shaking of a rattle. The dance began by the
dancers quivering in every joint, then passed into a slow movement, which
ended in violent action.

Such an interlude was welcome in the necessary monotony of Court life to
those who do not penetrate into its inmost circle. Lady Bloomfield writes,
"Everything else changes; the life at Court never does; it is exactly the
same from day to day and year to year." And she records, as an agreeable
diversion from the set routine, the mistake of one of the pages, by which
an equerry-in-waiting, in the absence of another official, received a
wrong order about dinner. When the Queen dines in private there is a
purely Household dinner in the room appointed for the purpose. In those
days the Queen rarely dined two days consecutively in private, so that her
suite were surprised by the announcement that there were to be two
Household dinners--the one after the other. The ladies and gentlemen sat
down together in the Oak Room at eight o'clock, and had finished their
soup and fish, when a message came from the Queen to know who had given
the order that they were to dine without her. The company stared blankly
at each other, finished their dinner with what appetite they might, and
adjourned to the drawing-room, when they were told that her Majesty was
coming. One can fancy the consternation of the courtiers, who were "only
in plain evening coats," instead of Windsor uniform. Happily it occurred
to the defaulters that it would be but right to anticipate her Majesty, so
that all rushed off to the corridor to meet the Queen and the Prince, who
were much amused by the blunder.

There is a pleasant little picture of the young family at Windsor in one
of the Prince's letters this winter: "The children, in whose welfare you
take so kindly an interest, are making most favourable progress. The
eldest, "Pussy" (the Princess Royal at three years of age), is now quite a
little personage. She speaks English and French with great fluency and
choice of phrase.... The little gentleman (the Prince of Wales) is grown
much stronger than he was.... The youngest (Princess Alice) is the beauty
of the family, and is an extraordinarily good and merry child."

January, 1844, brought a severe trial to Prince Albert, and through him to
the Queen, in the sudden though not quite unexpected death of his father
at Gotha, at the comparatively early age of sixty years. Father and son
were much attached to each other, they had been parted for nearly four
years since the Prince's marriage, and the early meeting to which they had
been looking forward was denied to them.

The Queen wrote to Baron Stockmar, in the beginning of February, "Oh, if
you could be here now with us: My darling stands so alone, and his grief
is so great and touching.... He says (forgive my bad writing, but my tears
blind me) _I_ am now _all_ to him. Oh, if I can be, I shall be
only too happy; but I am so disturbed and affected myself, I fear I can be
but of little use."

"I have been with the Queen a good deal, altogether,"--Lady Lyttelton
refers to this time; "she is very affecting in her grief, which is in
truth all on the Prince's account; and every time she looks at him her
eyes fill afresh. He has suffered dreadfully, being very fond of his
father, and his separation from him and the suddenness of the event, and
his having expected to see him soon, all contribute to make him worse."

The Prince himself wrote to his trusty friend, "God will give us all
strength to bear the blow becomingly. That we were separated gives it a
peculiar poignancy; not to see him, not to be present to close his eyes,
not to help to comfort those he leaves behind, and to be comforted by them
is very hard. Here we sit together, poor Mama (the Duchess of Kent, the
late Duke of Coburg's sister), Victoria and myself, and weep, with a great
cold public around us, insensible as stone."

The Prince had one source of consolation, that of a good son who had never
caused his father pain. He had another strong solace in the reality and
worth of the new ties which were replacing the old, both in his own case
and in that of his brother. "The good Alexandrine," Prince Albert
remarked, referring to his sister-in-law, "seems to me in the whole
picture like the consoling angel." Then he goes on, "Just so is Victoria
to me, who feels and shares my grief and is the treasure on which my whole
existence rests. The relation in which we stand to each other leaves
nothing to desire. It is a union of heart and soul, and is therefore
noble; and in it the poor children shall find their cradle, so as to be
able one day to ensure a like happiness for themselves."

Lady Lyttelton describes a sermon which Archdeacon Wilberforce preached at
Windsor at this season, February, 1844. "Just before church time the Queen
told me that Archdeacon Wilberforce was going to preach, so I had my treat
most unexpectedly, mercifully I could call it, for the sermon, expressed
in his usual golden sweetness of language, was peculiarly practical and
useful to myself--I mean, ought to be. 'Hold thee still in the Lord and
abide patiently upon him,' was the text, and the peace, trust and rest
which breathed in every sentence, ought to do something to assuage any and
every _worret_, temporal and spiritual. There were some beautiful
passages on looking forward into 'the misty future,' and its misery to a
worldly view, and the contrary. The whole was rather the more striking
from its seeming to come down so gently upon the emblems of earthly sorrow
(referring to the mourning for Prince Albert's father), we are in such 'a
boundless contiguity of shade.' There was a beautiful passage--I wish you
could have heard it, because you could write it out--about growth in grace
being greatest when mind and heart are at rest, and in stillness like the
first shoot of spring which is not forwarded by the storm or hurricane,
but by the silent dews of early dawn; another upon the melancholy of human
life, 'most beautiful because most true.'"

It was judged desirable that the Prince should go to Germany for a
fortnight at Easter. It was his first separation from the Queen since
their marriage, and both felt it keenly. Lady Lyttelton wrote of her
Majesty on the occasion: "The Queen has been behaving like a pattern wife
as she is, about the Prince's tour; so feeling and so wretched and yet so
unselfish; encouraging him to go, and putting the best face on it to the
last moment.... We all feel sadly wicked and unnatural in his absence, and
I am actually counting the days on my part as her Majesty is on hers,"
adds the kindly, sympathetic woman. The Queen of the Belgians,--and later,
King Leopold, came over to console their niece by their company during
part of her solitude. But her best refreshment must have been the letters
with which couriers were constantly riding to and fro, full of a lover's
tenderness and a brother's care, from the first to the last; these
dispatches came unfailingly. They breathed "the tender green of hope,"
like the spring which was on the land at the time.

From Dover the husband wrote: "My own darling.... I have been here about
an hour and regret the lost time which I might have spent with you. Poor
child, you will, while I write, be getting ready for luncheon, and you
will find a place vacant where I sat yesterday; in your heart, however, I
hope my place will not be vacant. I, at least, have you on board with me
in spirit. I reiterate my entreaty, 'Bear up,' and do not give way to low
spirits, but try to occupy yourself as much as possible; you are even now
half a day nearer to seeing me again; by the time you get this letter you
will be a whole one--thirteen more and I am again within your arms."

From Ostend he wrote, "I occupy your old room." From Cologne, "Your
picture has been hung up everywhere, and been very prettily wreathed with
laurel, so that you will look down from the walls on my _tete-a-tete_
with Bouverie" (the Prince's equerry).... "Every step takes me farther
from you--not a cheerful thought." From Gotha, in the centre of his
kinsfolk, he told her what delight her gifts had given, and added, "Could
you have witnessed the happiness my return gave my family, you would have
been amply repaid for the sacrifice of our separation. We spoke much of
you." From Reinhardtsbrunn and Rosenau he sent the flowers he had gathered
for her. He wrote of the toys he had got for the children, the presents he
was bringing for her. At Kalenberg--one of his late father's country
seats--he broke out warmly, "Oh, how lovely and friendly is this dear old
country; how glad I should be to have my little wife beside me, that I
might share my pleasure with her."

Coburg had grown marvellously in beauty. In company with his stepmother,
brother, and sister-in-law, he went to the town church and was deeply
moved by the devotional singing, and "an admirable sermon" from the
pastor, who had confirmed the two brothers. Afterwards they rode together
to their father's last resting-place. The Prince's biographer closes the
account of this tour with a few significant words from Prince Albert's
diary, in which he noted down in the briefest form the events of each day:
"Crossed on the 11th. I arrived at six o'clock in the evening at
Windsor. Great joy."

As a surprise for the Queen's birthday this year, the Prince had privately
ordered a little picture of angels from Sir C. Eastlake, who had received
a similar commission from the Queen for a picture with which she intended
to greet the Prince.

A still more welcome surprise to Her Majesty was a miniature of Prince
Albert in armour, according to a fancy of the Queen's, by Thorburn, a
likeness which proved the best of all the portraits taken of the Prince,
the most successful in catching the outward look when it expressed most
characteristically the man within. This picture, together with that of the
angels holding a medallion bearing the inscription "_Heil und segen_"
(Health and Blessing), and all the other presents were placed in a room
"turned into a bower by dint of enormous garlands."

The Queen and the Prince's relations with artists were naturally, from the
royal couple's artistic tastes, intimate and happy. Accordingly, many
pictures not only of great personages in State ceremonies, but of family
groups in the simplicity of domestic life, survive as a proof of the
connection. Vandyck did not paint Charles I. and Henrietta Maria more
frequently than Landseer and some of his contemporaries painted her
Majesty, with her husband and children, in the bright and unclouded summer
of her life; and Vandyck, never painted his royal patrons in such easy
unaffected guise and everyday circumstances. There is such a picture of
Landseer's, well known from engravings, in which the Prince is represented
in a Highland dress returned late from shooting, seated, surrounded by the
trophies of his sport in deer, blackcock, &c. &c., and by a whole colony
of delighted dogs,--beautiful Eos conspicuous by her sobriety and reserve,
while an enraptured terrier presses forward to lick his master's hand. The
Queen, dressed for dinner and still girlish-looking in her white satin,
stands talking to the Prince. The Princess Royal, a chubby child of two or
three, is prowling childlike among the dead game, curiously making her
investigations.

Of many stories told of royal visits to studios, there are two which refer
to an _enfant terrible_, the baby son of one of the painters. This
small man having undertaken to be cicerone to his father's work, sought
specially to point out to her Majesty that two elves were likenesses of
himself and a little brother, "only, you know, we don't go about without
clothes at home," he volunteered the confidential explanation.

The same child horrified an attentive audience by declining to receive a
gracious advance made to him by the Queen, asserting with the utmost
candour, "I don't like you."

"But why don't you like me, my boy?" inquired the loving mother of other
little children, in some bewilderment.

"Because you are the Queen of England and you killed Queen Mary," the
ardent champion of the slain Queen answered boldly.

The story goes on, that after a little laughter at the anachronism, Her
Majesty took some trouble to explain to the malcontent that he was wrong,
she did not kill Queen Mary, she had been very sorry for her fate. So far
from killing her, she, Queen Victoria, was one of Queen Mary's
descendants, and it was because she came of the old Stewart line that she
reigned over both England and Scotland.

CHAPTER XIX.
ROYAL VISITORS.--THE BIRTH OP PRINCE ALFRED.--A NORTHERN RETREAT.

The year 1844 may be instanced as rich in royal visitors to England. On
the 1st of June the King of Saxony arrived and shortly after him a greater
lion, the Emperor of Russia. The King of Saxony came as an honest friend
and sightseer, entering heartily into the obligations of the latter. There
was more doubt as to the motives of the Czar of all the Russias, and
considerable wariness was needed in dealing with the northern eagle, whose
real object might be, if not to use his beak and claws on the English
nation, to employ them on some other nation after he had got an assurance
that England would not interfere with his game. Indeed, jealousy of the
French, and of the friendship between the Queen and Louis Philippe, was at
the bottom of the Emperor's sudden appearance on the scene.

The Emperor had paid England a previous visit so far back as 1816, in the
days of George, Prince Regent, when Prince Leopold and Princess Charlotte
were the young couple at Claremont. He had then won much admiration and
popularity by his strikingly handsome person, stately politeness, and
gallant devotion to the English ladies who caught his fancy. He was still
a handsome man--over six feet, with regular features, remarkable eyes, and
bushy moustaches. He wore on his arrival a cloth cloak lined with costly
fur, and a kind of cap which looked like a turban--rather a telling
costume.

But time and the man's life and character had stamped themselves on what
had once been a goodly mould. There was something oppressive in his
elaborate politeness. There was a glare, not far removed from ferocity,
in the great grey eyes, so little shaded by their lids and light eyelashes
that occasionally a portion of the white eyeball above the iris was
revealed, and there was an intangible brooding melancholy about the
autocrat whose will was still law to millions of his fellow-creatures.

The Queen received her distinguished guest in the great hall at Buckingham
Palace Shortly afterwards there was a _dejeuner_, at which some of
the Emperor's old acquaintances in the royal family and out of it, met
him--the Duchess of Gloucester, the Princess Sophia, the Duke of
Cambridge, the Duke of Wellington, &c. &c. In the evening there was a
banquet.

The Emperor followed the Queen to Windsor, where, amidst the gaieties of
the Ascot week, he was royally entertained. Two visits were paid to the
racecourse, with which the new-comer associated his name by founding the
five hundred pounds prize. There was a grand review in Windsor Park, at
which both the Emperor of Russia and the King of Saxony were present, as
well as Her Majesty and Prince Albert and the royal children. The Emperor
in a uniform of green and red, the King of Saxony in a uniform of blue and
gold, and Prince Albert in a field-marshal's uniform--all the three
wearing the insignia of the Garter--were the observed of all observers in
the martial crowd. The only incidents of the day which struck Lady
Lyttelton were "the very fine cheer on the old Duke of Wellington passing
the Queen's carriage, and the really beautiful salute of Prince Albert,
who rode by at the head of his regiment, and of course lowered his sword
in full military form to the Queen, with _such_ a look and smile as
he did it! I never saw so many pretty feelings expressed in a minute."

On the return of the Court with its guests to Buckingham Palace, the
Emperor went with Prince Albert to a fete at Chiswick, given by the Duke
of Devonshire, and attended by seven or eight hundred noble guests. The
Czar returned from it loud in the praise of the beauty of English women,
while staunchly faithful to the belles he had admired twenty-eight years
before. The same evening he accompanied the Queen to the opera, when she
took his hand and made him stand with her in the front of the box, that
the brilliant assemblage might see and welcome him.

The Emperor was an adept at saying courteous things. He remarked to the
Queen, of Windsor, which he greatly admired, "It is worthy of you,
Madame." He wished Prince Albert were his son. When the hour of
leave-taking came he found the Queen in the small drawing-room with her
children. He declared with emotion that he might at all times be relied
upon as her most devoted servant, and prayed God to bless her. He kissed
her hand and she kissed him; he embraced and blessed the children. He
besought her to go no farther with him. "I will throw myself at your
knees; pray let me lead you to your room." "But," wrote the Queen, "of
course I would not consent, and took his arm to go to the hall.... At the
top of the few steps leading to the lower hall he again took most kindly
leave, and his voice betrayed his emotion. He kissed my hand and we
embraced. When I saw him at the door I went down the steps, and from the
carriage he begged I would not stand there; but I did, and saw him drive
off with Albert to Woolwich."

The Emperor was rather suspiciously fond of declaring, "I mean what I say,
and what I promise I will perform." Some of his speeches were emphatic
enough. "I esteem England highly, but as for what the French say of me I
care not; I spit upon it." He felt awkward in evening dress; he was so
accustomed to wear military uniform that without it he said he felt as if
they had taken off his skin. To humour him, uniform was worn every evening
at Windsor during his stay. Among his camp habits was one which he had
formed in his youth and kept up to the last: it was that of sleeping every
night on clean straw stuffed into a leathern case. The first thing his
valets did on being shown their master's bedroom in Windsor Castle was to
send out for a truss of straw for the Emperor's bed. The last thing got
for him at Woolwich was the same simple stuffing for his rude mattress.

On the 15th of June, 1844, Thomas Campbell, author of the "Pleasures of
Hope," "Ye Mariners of England," &c., died at Boulogne at the age of
sixty-seven. Although he had not quite reached the threescore and ten, the
span of man's life on earth, he had long survived the authors, Scott,
Byron, &c., with whom his name is linked. He was one of many well-known
men in very different spheres who passed away in 1844. Sir Augustus
Callcott, the painter; Crockford with his house of Turf celebrity;
Beckford, the eccentric author of "Vathek," and the owner of the
art-treasures of Fonthill; Lord Sidmouth, the well-known statesman of the
"Addington Administration;" Sir Francis Burdett, who in recent times was
lodged in the Tower under a charge of high treason.

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