loquacity, or with the sharp remarks of Lady Flora Hastings, one of her maids
of honour, who had no love for the Baroness. The subject lent itself to

satire; for the pastor's daughter, with all her airs of stiff superiority, had
habits which betrayed her origin. Her passion for caraway seeds, for instance,

was uncontrollable. Little bags of them came over to her from Hanover, and she
sprinkled them on her bread and butter, her cabbage, and even her roast beef.

Lady Flora could not resist a caustic observation; it was repeated to the
Baroness, who pursed her lips in fury, and so the mischief grew.

[*] Greville, IV, 21; and August 15, 1839 (unpublished). "The cause of the
Queen's alienation from the Duchess and hatred of Conroy, the Duke [of

Wellington] said, was unquestionably owing to her having witnessed some
familiarities between them. What she had seen she repeated to Baroness Spaeth,

and Spaeth not only did not hold her tongue, but (he thinks) remonstrated with
the Duchess herself on the subject. The consequence was that they got rid of

Spaeth, and they would have got rid of Lehzen, too, if they had been able, but
Lehzen, who knew very well what was going on, was prudent enough not to commit

herself, and who was, besides, powerfully protected by George IV and William
IV, so that they did not dare to attempt to expel her."

V
The King had prayed that he might live till his niece was of age; and a few

days before her eighteenth birthday--the date of her legal majority--a sudden
attack of illness very nearly carried him off. He recovered, however, and the

Princess was able to go through her birthday festivities--a state ball and a
drawing-room--with unperturbed enjoyment. "Count Zichy," she noted in her

diary, "is very good-looking in uniform, but not in plain clothes. Count
Waldstein looks remarkably well in his pretty Hungarian uniform." With the

latter young gentleman she wished to dance, but there was an insurmountable
difficulty. "He could not dance quadrilles, and, as in my station I

unfortunately cannot valse and gallop, I could not dance with him." Her
birthday present from the King was of a pleasing nature, but it led to a

painful domestic scene. In spite of the anger of her Belgian uncle, she had
remained upon good terms with her English one. He had always been very kind to

her, and the fact that he had quarrelled with her mother did not appear to be
a reason for disliking him. He was, she said, "odd, very odd and singular,"

but "his intentions were often ill interpreted." He now wrote her a letter,
offering her an allowance of L10,000 a year, which he proposed should be at

her own disposal, and independent of her mother. Lord Conyngham, the Lord
Chamberlain, was instructed to deliver the letter into the Princess's own

hands. When he arrived at Kensington, he was ushered into the presence of the
Duchess and the Princess, and, when he produced the letter, the Duchess put

out her hand to take it. Lord Conyngham begged her Royal Highness's pardon,
and repeated the King's commands. Thereupon the Duchess drew back, and the

Princess took the letter. She immediately wrote to her uncle, accepting his
kind proposal. The Duchess was much displeased; L4000 a year, she said, would

be quite enough for Victoria; as for the remaining L6000, it would be only
proper that she should have that herself.

King William had thrown off his illness, and returned to his normal life. Once
more the royal circle at Windsor--their Majesties, the elder Princesses, and

some unfortunate Ambassadress or Minister's wife--might be seen ranged for
hours round a mahogany table, while the Queen netted a purse, and the King

slept, occasionally waking from his slumbers to observe "Exactly so, ma'am,
exactly so!" But this recovery was of short duration. The old man suddenly

collapsed; with no specific symptoms besides an extremeweakness, he yet
showed no power of rallying; and it was clear to everyone that his death was

now close at hand.
All eyes, all thoughts, turned towards the Princess Victoria; but she still

remained, shut away in the seclusion of Kensington, a small, unknown figure,
lost in the large shadow of her mother's domination. The preceding year had in

fact been an important one in her development. The soft tendrils of her mind
had for the first time begun to stretch out towards unchildish things. In this

King Leopold encouraged her. After his return to Brussels, he had resumed his
correspondance in a more serious strain; he discussed the details of foreign

politics; he laid down the duties of kingship; he pointed out the iniquitous
foolishness of the newspaper press. On the latter subject, indeed, he wrote

with some asperity. "If all the editors," he said, "of the papers in the
countries where the liberty of the press exists were to be assembled, we

should have a crew to which you would NOT confide a dog that you would value,
still less your honour and reputation." On the functions of a monarch, his

views were unexceptionable. "The business of the highest in a State," he
wrote, "is certainly, in my opinion, to act with great impartiality and a

spirit of justice for the good of all." At the same time the Princess's tastes
were opening out. Though she was still passionately devoted to riding and

dancing, she now began to have a genuine love of music as well, and to drink
in the roulades and arias of the Italian opera with high enthusiasm. She even

enjoyed readingpoetry--at any rate, the poetry of Sir Walter Scott.
When King Leopold learnt that King William's death was approaching, he wrote

several long letters of excellent advice to his niece. "In every letter I
shall write to you," he said, "I mean to repeat to you, as a FUNDAMENTAL RULE,

TO BE FIRM, AND COURAGEOUS, AND HONEST, AS YOU HAVE BEEN TILL NOW." For the
rest, in the crisis that was approaching, she was not to be alarmed, but to

trust in her "good natural sense and the TRUTH" of her character; she was to
do nothing in a hurry; to hurt no one's amour-propre, and to continue her

confidence in the Whig administration! Not content with letters, however, King
Leopold determined that the Princess should not lack personal guidance, and

sent over to her aid the trusted friend whom, twenty years before, he had
taken to his heart by the death-bed at Claremont. Thus, once again, as if in

accordance with some preordained destiny, the figure of Stockmar is
discernible--inevitably present at a momentous hour.

On June 18, the King was visibly sinking. The Archbishop of Canterbury was by
his side, with all the comforts of the church. Nor did the holy words fall

upon a rebellious spirit; for many years his Majesty had been a devout
believer. "When I was a young man," he once explained at a public banquet, "as

well as I can remember, I believed in nothing but pleasure and folly--nothing
at all. But when I went to sea, got into a gale, and saw the wonders of the

mighty deep, then I believed; and I have been a sincere Christian ever since."
It was the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, and the dying man remembered

it. He should be glad to live, he said, over that day; he would never see
another sunset. "I hope your Majesty may live to see many," said Dr. Chambers.

"Oh! that's quite another thing, that's quite another thing," was the answer.
One other sunset he did live to see; and he died in the early hours of the

following morning. It was on June 20, 1837.
When all was over, the Archbishop and the Lord Chamberlain ordered a carriage,

and drove post-haste from Windsor to Kensington. They arrived at the Palace at
five o'clock, and it was only with considerable difficulty that they gained

admittance. At six the Duchess woke up her daughter, and told her that the
Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham were there, and wished to see her.

She got out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and went, alone, into the room
where the messengers were standing. Lord Conyngham fell on his knees, and

officially announced the death of the King; the Archbishop added some personal
details. Looking at the bending, murmuring dignitaries before her, she knew

that she was Queen of England. "Since it has pleased Providence," she wrote
that day in her journal, "to place me in this station, I shall do my utmost to

fulfil my duty towards my country; I am very young, and perhaps in many,
though not in all things, inexperienced, but I am sure, that very few have

more real good will and more real desire to do what is fit and right than I
have." But there was scant time for resolutions and reflections. At once,

affairs were thick upon her. Stockmar came to breakfast, and gave some good
advice. She wrote a letter to her uncle Leopold, and a hurried note to her

sister Feodora. A letter came from the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne,
announcing his approaching arrival. He came at nine, in full court dress, and

kissed her hand. She saw him alone, and repeated to him the lesson which, no
doubt, the faithful Stockmar had taught her at breakfast. "It has long been my

intention to retain your Lordship and the rest of the present Ministry at the
head of affairs;" whereupon Lord Melbourne again kissed her hand and shortly

after left her. She then wrote a letter of condolence to Queen Adelaide. At
eleven, Lord Melbourne came again; and at half-past eleven she went downstairs

into the red saloon to hold her first Council. The great assembly of lords and
notables, bishops, generals, and Ministers of State, saw the doors thrown open

and a very short, very slim girl in deep plain mourning come into the room
alone and move forward to her seat with extraordinarydignity and grace; they

saw a countenance, not beautiful, but prepossessing--fair hair, blue prominent
eyes, a small curved nose, an open mouth revealing the upper teeth, a tiny

chin, a clear complexion, and, over all, the strangely mingled signs of
innocence, of gravity, of youth, and of composure; they heard a high

unwavering voice reading aloud with perfect clarity; and then, the ceremony
was over, they saw the small figure rise and, with the same consummate grace,

the same amazingdignity, pass out from among them, as she had come in, alone.
CHAPTER III. LORD MELBOURNE

I
The new queen was almost entirely unknown to her subjects. In her public

appearances her mother had invariably dominated the scene. Her private life
had been that of a novice in a convent: hardly a human being from the outside

world had ever spoken to her; and no human being at all, except her mother and
the Baroness Lehzen, had ever been alone with her in a room. Thus it was not

only the public at large that was in ignorance of everything concerning her;
the inner circles of statesmen and officials and high-born ladies were equally

in the dark. When she suddenly emerged from this deep obscurity, the
impression that she created was immediate and profound. Her bearing at her

first Council filled the whole gathering with astonishment and admiration; the
Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, even the savage Croker, even the cold and

caustic Greville--all were completely carried away. Everything that was
reported of her subsequent proceedings seemed to be of no less happy augury.