Chapter XVI: Part 16

“There were Turks in fezes and turbans, surtouts literally covered with gold lace, and in long robes of gorgeous colors; Hungarian magnates in blue velvet tunics bejewelled all over, crimson pantaloons fringed with gold, and felt hats with diamond aigrettes and clusters of feathers; Japanese dignitaries in cloth of gold, with light blue petticoats, scarlet breeches, white stockings, patent leather shoes, and spiked hats fringed with gold or silver lace; Tunisians in green and gold, with diamond ornaments in front of their crimson fezes; Austrian uhlans in their well-known and picturesque uniforms; Persians wearing the tall national head-dress; and Siamese in their flat hats, short brocaded tunics, and baggy satin breeches.

“There were, moreover, the members of the Council of State, senators, deputies, and prefects in their elaborately embroidered costumes; with the lord mayors of London and Dublin, aldermen, sheriffs, councilmen, masters of arts, and doctors of divinity. Beyond these were endless varieties of French, Russian, German, Italian, Dutch, and British military and naval uniforms.

“Stars, crosses, and ribbons of every order under the sun, met the eye in all directions.”

The proceedings were opened with Gluck’s overture to “Iphigenie en Aulide.”

At its conclusion M. Rouher, vice-president of the Exposition, addressed the emperor at considerable length.

The emperor thus replied:—

“Gentlemen, after an interval of twelve years I have come for the second time to distribute rewards to those who have most distinguished themselves in those works which enrich nations, embellish life, and soften manners. The poets of antiquity sang the praises of those great games in which the various nations of Greece assembled to contend for the prize of the race. What would they say to-day were they to be present at these Olympic games of the world, in which all nations, contesting by intellect, seem to launch themselves simultaneously in the infinite career of progress towards an ideal incessantly approached, without ever being able to be attained? From all parts of the earth the representatives of science, of art, and of industry have hastened to vie with each other, and we may say that peoples and kings have both come to do honor to the efforts of labor, and to crown them by their presence with the idea of conciliation and peace. The Exhibition of 1867 may be justly termed ‘universal,’ for it unites the elements of all the riches of the globe.

“Side by side with the latest improvements of modern art appear the products of the remotest ages, so that they represent, at one and the same time, the genius of all nations and all ages.

“It is universal, for in addition to the marvels luxury brings forth for the few, it displays also that which is demanded by the necessities of the many.

“The interests of the laboring classes have never aroused more lively solicitude. Their moral and material wants, their education, the conditions of life at a cheap rate, the most productive combinations of association, have been the object of patient inquiries and serious study. Thus all improvements go forward. If science, by turning matter to account, liberates labor, the cultivation of the mind, by subduing vices, prejudices, and vulgar passions, also liberates humanity.

“Let us congratulate ourselves, gentlemen, upon having received among us the majority of the sovereigns and princes of Europe, and so many distinguished visitors. Let us be proud of having shown to them France as she is,—great, prosperous, and free. One must be destitute of all patriotic faith to doubt her greatness; must close one’s eyes to evidence to deny her prosperity; must misunderstand her institutions, tolerant sometimes even of license, not to behold in them liberty. I thank the imperial commission, the members of the jury and the different committees, for the intelligent zeal they have displayed in the accomplishment of their tasks. I thank them also in the name of the Prince Imperial, whom, notwithstanding his tender age, I have been happy to associate in this great undertaking of which he will retain the remembrance. I hope the Exhibition of 1867 will mark a new era of harmony and progress. Assured that Providence blesses the efforts of all who, like ourselves, desire good, I believe in the definitive triumph of the great principles of morality and justice, which, while satisfying all legitimate desires, are alone able to consolidate thrones, to elevate nations, and to ennoble humanity.”

The names of the exhibitors to whom the chief prizes—gold or silver medals—had been awarded were then read. They had been marshalled in procession, two and two, under the distinctive banners of the various groups into which the Exhibition was divided. The whole number was about nine hundred. One by one, as each name was called, the exhibitors ascended the steps of the throne, and received from the hands of the emperor the ribbon belonging to the decoration of the Legion of Honor. At the close of the distribution, the imperial party, leaving their seats on the throne, and headed by the Corps Diplomatique, passed entirely round the hall, amid the most enthusiastic plaudits, while the orchestra of twelve hundred pieces played the chorus of Handel’s oratorio of “Judas Maccabeus,”—“See! the Conquering Hero comes.”

In the matter of dress, if in no other, the name of the Empress Eugénie will be historical. It was within her province to decide what fashions should prevail in France, in Europe, in America, and in some parts of Asia; and the marvellous _modes_ she introduced among the ladies of all countries have immortalized her. Her own costumes were of the most elaborate construction, and were changed with the greatest frequency. She displayed three or four dresses in the course of each day, and even the most expensive were never worn more than twice. Many writers derived their income from describing in the journals of the day these successive “creations” of the Paris milliner and dressmaker.

She accumulated a collection of fans, furs, laces, and jewels that probably surpassed any other in existence.

During the period that elapsed between her marriage and her flight she received twenty thousand dollars pin-money every month, which sum she never failed to spend to the last cent.

Never in modern times have the fashions been more elaborate and extravagant than while this “queen of fashion” occupied the palaces of France.

Eugénie was fitted by nature to play the part of Lady Bountiful and dwell in the House Beautiful. The city of Paris voted her a large sum for the purchase of jewels; she accepted the money, but requested permission to devote it to founding an institution for the education of young girls of the working classes. She further bestowed in charity twenty thousand dollars of a present of fifty thousand given her at the same time by the emperor; and her reign was marked by many other striking gifts to charitable and scientific objects.

The empress was partial to colored servitors. At one time she had a Nubian page, and on his death took a young Abyssinian into her service, whose daily duty it was to stand immediately behind her chair at dinner, in front of the line of tall, fresh-colored, clean-shaven, powdered lacqueys, in green, scarlet, and gold liveries, who encircled the imperial dining-table.

The empress gave also a great number of splendid and costly entertainments at the Tuileries, Compiègne, Fontainebleau, and elsewhere. State balls were numerous, especially during the latter years of the Empire. These took place usually at the Tuileries. The invitations, having been drawn up by the high chamberlain from a carefully prepared list of some ten thousand persons, were distributed by mounted servants in the imperial livery of green and gold.

The guests arrived at the vast marble vestibule, and, ascending the grand staircase, were received on the landing by a splendidly attired official, who took from them their cards of invitation. The ball took place in the _Salle des Marcheaux_, the largest and most splendidly decorated _salon_ in the palace, and at its conclusion supper was served in the _Galerie de Diane_. All the old forms of etiquette in vogue at the court of Louis XIV. were revived; and had the _Grand Monarque_ been present at a ball in the Tuileries Palace, he would no doubt have felt as much at home, as far as all forms and ceremonies were concerned, as in his own _Galerie des Glaces_, at Versailles.

Twice during the absence of the emperor, once in 1865, when he was in Algeria, and again in 1870, during the Franco-Prussian War, Eugénie was left the nominal head of the state, with the title of Empress-Regent. At the opening of the Suez Canal, in 1869, she was present in the yacht _l’Aigle_, and took a chief part in the celebration. The _Aigle_ formed one of the “inauguration fleet” of forty-five vessels, and took the lead in making the passage to the Red Sea, where, with the empress on board, it arrived on the 22d of November, returning the next day to the Mediterranean.

“It was mid-afternoon on such a May day as is seen only under Parisian skies. But the invitation of the sky could not alone account for the multitudes thronging the leafy park, the blooming _parterres_ of the gardens, and the broad ways of the _Champs Élysées_. The court was about to set out for St. Cloud, and the pleasure-loving Parisians were to be treated to a spectacle.

“Gorgeous lines of soldiery formed in statuesque ranks along the pebbly walks and hot asphalt ways facing the palace. Save for the waving plumes, the glistening wall rested immobile and silent as the granite sphinxes whose solemn eyes blinked sleepily under the ardent sunshine. There was just the perception of a movement in the shining cuirasses as the swelling notes of a cavalry bugle echoed and re-echoed in sonorous blasts through the crowded aisles of the park and died away far over the turrets of the palace. The Imperial Guards, flaming in scarlet and glittering casques, formed in serried ranks from the Rivoli gates and the _Place du Carrousel_ to the borders of the Seine. Outriders in the magenta and gold of the line dashed in excited movement along the gravelled roadways, adjusting the obstacles, for the imperial advent. Squadrons of the guards formed on each side of the wide way through which the procession was to pass to the _Champs Élysées_. On a signal from the trumpets, they divided, facing their horses inward, and waited immovable as the Egyptian figures at the golden gate. A thin column of smoke curled upward from the Arch of the Carrousel, a loud, cracking detonation of artillery announced that majesty was about to leave the palace, another that majesty was in the vestibule, and the long line of fire made by the red-breeched troopers moved, as with one impulse, into an attitude of respectful attention.” From the central porch of the Tuileries, as the guards came to a salute, a short, stout figure, clad in a gentleman’s walking-dress, appeared, and slowly descended the velvet-carpeted steps. To the salutations of the soldiers and the populace he slightly raised his hat. The crowd in the rear broke into shouts of “_Vive l’Empereur!_” Halting, as the lackeys held the door of the landau open, the emperor half turned.

A lady, tall, slight, and graceful, appeared in the group at the door-way. She was speaking with animation to the chamberlain, with her face to the multitude. Her black eyes were full of life and vivacity, and her hair, coiled in great masses over her shapely head, shone like burnished copper as the sunbeams fall upon it. “She tripped lightly down the broad steps, a sunshade in her right hand serving as a walking-cane, while with her left she upheld with charming daintiness a robe of silver-gray color. As the outlines of her figure became distinct upon the crimson carpet, a tumultuous cry of ‘_Vive l’Impératrice!_’ resounded far back in the shrubberies of the garden. The lady bowed with gracious recognition, and, giving her hand to the emperor, stepped into the landau. At the same moment a graceful youth of fourteen, mounted on a jet-black pony, shot out from the entrance of the Carrousel, and riding close to the carriage, reined in suddenly, and raising his hat, brought it down to the saddle as he bent to the occupants. ‘_Vive le Prince Impérial!_’ shouted the crowd; and the emperor, empress, and prince bowed gravely in response.

“The trumpets broke into another long blast, the postilions touched their horses; majesty was _en route_, the prince riding beside the imperial carriage, the troopers falling into groups of four.

“Who of all that crowd, filling the palace gardens and thronging the banks of the Seine, would have then told _Cæsar_ that he should never again pass those fateful portals in state?

“The Parisians afterwards recalled the event as the Romans had the journey of the great Julius from the tearful pleadings of Calpurnia to the base of Pompey’s statue. But there was nothing of the Ides of March in the emperor’s reception on the present occasion. The acclamations of the multitude were spontaneous and hearty, and all hats flew off when the benignant smiles of Eugénie supplemented the gracious inclinations of Napoleon.”

On the 15th of July, 1870, Louis Napoleon declared war with Prussia. The numerous vicissitudes of his eventful life may have suggested to him the possibility that the war, if long protracted, might prove unfavorable to his hopes; but no seer could have predicted to him that, in seven weeks from that day, he would be defeated, dethroned, and a prisoner in the hands of the one man among all the crowned heads of Europe whom he most hated, and that all the hopes which he had cherished of the perpetuation of a Bonaparte dynasty in France would be at an end.

We cannot, in this short sketch, attempt to portray the progress of this war, which, in its rapid movement, its terrible destructiveness, and its stupendous results, is without a parallel in history. Suffice it that, with the defeat of the French army at Sedan, the star fell. An empire which had progressed through nearly twenty years, ran out in a moment like a reel of thread. Napoleon was sent as state prisoner to Wilhelmshöhe, the Germans entered France, marched to Paris, and William, king of Prussia, slept in the palace of the _Grand Monarque_.

And now occurred one of those strange anomalies which the history of France so often presents.

It is the 18th of January, 1871. The grand gallery of Versailles is filled with an eager, anxious throng. But it is not such a throng as has been wont to gather here. Where are the cavaliers, with their red-heeled boots and slashed doublets, and the _grandes dames_, with their lofty plumes and flashing jewels?

The top-boot, the clanking spur, the sword, and sabre-tache, these are the accoutrements of this band of stern, martial men who now stand beneath Le Brun’s gorgeous frescoes. At one end of the gallery a throne is erected, and its presence reminds us of that silver throne erected here in 1685, at whose foot the Doge of Genoa bowed in homage, and upon whose summit, the personification of pompous pride and royal prerogative, stood King Louis XIV. But no king or emperor of France stands upon the throne of the Versailles gallery on this 18th day of January, 1871. A king is there, it is true, but he is William, king of Prussia, who is this day to be proclaimed Emperor of Germany. It seems like fate, like an avenging Nemesis, that in this palace of Versailles, whose marble portals bear the inscription, “To all the glories of France,”—in this _Grande Galerie des Glaces_, the scene of so many glories, and triumphs of the houses of Bourbon and of Bonaparte,—the crown of United Germany should be placed, with mighty shout and loud acclaim, upon the head of that stern old warrior, William I. of Hohenzollern.

The last four weeks of her abode in France the Empress Eugénie spent at the Tuileries. Those were days of confusion and distress. The series of defeats which culminated at Sedan had already begun, and a proclamation had appeared declaring Paris in a state of siege. Still the empress was hopeful. “She thought with a lady’s romantic ideas about military possibilities,” says a narrator, “that everything could be retrieved by a _grand coup_.”

But then came the news of the emperor’s surrender at Sedan. Eugénie was up all night; council after council was held, as new reports and scraps of information arrived. Finally it was decided that she should ride on horseback through the streets of Paris, and herself proclaim to the unpopular legislature its dissolution. This resolution, however, was never carried into effect, for lack of a riding-dress! A plain, black habit, with the cross of the Legion of Honor pinned upon her breast, was what she had decided to wear. Was it a fatality that out of the three hundred and sixty dresses then hanging in their wardrobes at the Tuileries, the needed one was missing? A few days before there had been a general stampede of servants, who had gone off, carrying great quantities of imperial property, and the dark riding-dress, which the empress now sought, had probably been among the spoils of her domestics. There was only one habit to be found, and that was neither black nor plain. It was a dress of gorgeous green, embroidered with gold, and designed to be worn with a three-cornered Louis XV. hat, the costume of the imperial hunt at Fontainebleau. This was pronounced, with evident justice, to be too theatrical, and the enterprise was consequently abandoned.

“What grotesque mischances mar great destinies and shift potent purposes!” The lack of a spur by the messenger whom Louis XVI. had sent to call M. de Machault to the post of prime minister, delayed his departure, and thus—by giving Madame Adelaide time to write, in favor of her friend the Count de Maurepas, to that feeblest of monarchs who, not being able to withstand the strongly worded appeal of his strong-minded aunt, recalled his messenger as he was mounting his horse,—caused an entire change in the policy of the ministry of the kingdom.

And now “the lack of a petticoat—on the testimony of Thiers himself, who spoke of it afterward—brought about the expulsion of a dynasty; for had the woman, pathetic in her misfortune, ridden out among the multitude, like Elizabeth to Tilbury fort, the chivalrous sentiment of Paris would have acclaimed her, and the history of a people would have been written in less lurid colors.”

Upon the fourth of September, the mob so long feared made its appearance. The infuriated insurgents to the number of one hundred and fifty thousand crowded the Tuileries gardens, the _Place de la Concorde_, and the _Champs Élysées_, shouting, “Down with the Empire! down with Bonaparte! death to the man of December!”

At two o’clock in the afternoon, Signor Nigra, the Italian ambassador, entered the empress’ apartment, to tell her that the time for flight had come. “You have not an instant to lose,” he said. “The revolutionists are entering the palace by the _Place du Carrousel_.”

And now for the first time Eugénie’s courage wavered; but she mastered her emotion, and giving her hand to the ambassador, with a melancholy flash of her old imperial grandeur, said calmly, “I will take leave of our friends.”

“The door of the white drawing-room was thrown open, and the empress appeared for a moment on the threshold—an inexpressibly touching figure, in her simple black dress and white collar. She made a courtesy and waved her hand, trying hard to smile, while many—not all of them women—were sobbing aloud. Then, with gentle persuasion, Prince Richard Metternich, the Austrian ambassador, drew her back, and the door was closed again.”

Through the magnificent galleries of the Louvre, hung with the masterpieces of Rubens, Van Dyke, Leonardo, Poussin, Claude, and the imperishable dynasties of art, fled the Empress Eugénie and her few faithful followers.

The square of St. Germain L’Auxerrois was empty. A cab stood by the curb. The veiled empress and Madame Carette, her lady-in-waiting, escorted by Signor Nigra, Prince Metternich, and M. Ferdinand de Lesseps, approached it.

Sinking back upon the cushions, Eugénie for an instant raised her veil to catch a last glimpse of the Louvre. As her eye rested on that fatal colonnade, where Catherine de’ Medici and the king had stood on the night of St. Bartholomew, a little ragamuffin, seated on the stone foundation of the golden railing, started up, shouting, “There is the empress!”

A group of artisans, lounging at the corner, vaguely caught the cry and came forward. But M. Ferdinand de Lesseps, with admirable presence of mind, caught the urchin, whirled him round and sent him sprawling in the roadway, saying furiously:—

“Ah, you are crying ‘_Vive l’Empereur_,’ are you? That will teach you to hurrah for the Bonapartes, when the Republic is proclaimed.”

The group on the sidewalk approved this laudable sentiment. M. de Lesseps sprang inside, with the empress. The cab was whirled away; and thus ended for Eugénie de Montijo the empty dream of greatness, by which she had been so long beguiled.

Leaving Paris, she embarked on board the yacht _Gazelle_, and was conveyed to England, where Victoria and the royal family received her with great kindness, and placed at her disposal the beautiful country residence of Camden Place, Chiselhurst. Here she was joined by the Prince Imperial, and later by Louis Napoleon.

“Camden Place, Chiselhurst, 1871. A gentleman sixty-three years of age, a lady, and a youth of fifteen are resting in the pleasure grounds of an English rural mansion. This does not seem much. But this gentleman is he who, a twelvemonth since, was emperor of the French nation, and the most powerful monarch in Europe. He is a student and a writer—as well as an actor—of history, which must have taught him the value of an imperial title. Can he think it worth the pursuit or possession, having once sat upon a throne which was perhaps not so agreeable as his present seat on the Chiselhurst garden-chair? If he desires, for himself or for his son, to leave Camden Place, or a similar abode, and go back to the Tuileries Palace, we can only say it is a matter of taste.”

But Louis Napoleon was not destined to behold again the Tuileries Palace. On the 9th of January, 1873, he died, consoled by the presence of the empress, but not of the Prince Imperial, who, summoned from Woolwich, arrived too late to see him alive.

All the hopes and affections of the widowed empress then centred in her son, and his recent fate cannot but be remembered. He joined the expedition to Zululand, and on the first of June, 1879, perished by the javelins of the savages while scouting with a few companions. On the 10th of July, the body arrived in England, and on the 12th the final ceremony took place at Chiselhurst. It was a soldier’s funeral, but there was no glare and glitter of martial splendor.

Mind rather than matter was pre-eminent in giving voice to the public sorrow. At the head of the military pageant, whose every feature was pervaded with a genuine pathos, marched the cadets of the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, with arms reversed; then, to the solemn strains of the “Dead March,” the Royal Artillery Band; then the cross before the gun; and then the gun, drawn by six dark-brown horses by whose sides rode mounted artillerymen. The coffin above the gun was wrapped in the English and French flags. The sword of the prince, his belt, and sabre-tache were placed upon it; while on a cushion were the great cross and ribbon of the Legion of Honor.

By the side of the coffin walked the pall-bearers, the Duke of Cambridge, the Duke of Connaught, the Crown Prince of Sweden and Norway, and M. Rouher on the left. The Duke of Edinburgh, the Prince of Wales, Prince Leopold, and the Duke of Bassano on the right. Behind the coffin came the prince’s favorite horse, “Stag,” caparisoned in the white and silver starred trappings of the imperial stable, and led by M. Gamble, the faithful retainer who had attended the baptism of the prince, and who now followed his coffin. Next came the chief mourners, Prince Napoleon and his sons, Prince Victor and Prince Louis; Prince Lucien Bonaparte, Prince Joachim Murat, Prince Napoleon Charles Bonaparte, and Prince Louis Murat.

After these came the great officers of the imperial crown, and many personages of princely rank not related by kindred.

So mournful a ceremony was not regarded in the light of a spectacle, and even the elements accorded with the nature of the scene. There was no sun to flash from the polished helmets of the Lancers, or linger on the gold of the splendidly mounted Horse-Artillery.

“It was an unusual and impressive sight to see that strangely and variously composed line of soldiers on horseback, and priests and mourners on foot, moving slowly along the serpentine road across the great, uneven plain of the common, with thousands of spectators stationary on either hand.”

To those who thought of the widowed, childless empress in her lonely house, and knew that the chief mourners were princes, and that the queen was watching the procession from her black tribune, unless she had left it to console the sorrowing mother, the sight was much more than impressive.

“The tragic elements which prevailed at the death of the prince, the inexpressible desolation of the imperial mother, the lessons of mutability in human affairs which the case enforced upon the mind, the remembrance of the virtues of the departed young man, and the tale of broken hopes, baffled aspirations, and defeated purposes, which the circumstances so clearly exhibited, preoccupied the thoughts and feelings of the mourners, and shut off for the time being all interest in the mere external traits of the scene. The realities to which it pointed stood out so clearly from the outward semblances in which they were pictured, that the latter were forgotten, and the overpowering force of the former were exclusively recognized.

“Seldom in recent times has any public ceremonial so closely touched the hearts of those who took part in it.”

And now in the little Roman Catholic church at Chiselhurst, by the side of the emperor his father, lies all that was mortal of Napoleon Eugène Louis Jean Joseph, Prince Imperial.

_Requiescat in pace._

Under the elms at Chiselhurst, at the close of a mild spring afternoon, we may see a lady walking. Her figure, once so straight and graceful, is slightly bowed with age, and her fast-whitening hair is covered by a widow’s cap. And as she turns toward us her sad face, still retaining the traces of its former loveliness, we recognize her whom we have seen seated, amid the pomp and pageantry of a court, upon the throne at the Tuileries Palace, and flying with her scanty escort through the galleries of the Louvre,—Eugénie de Montijo, Comtesse de Téba, the once brilliant empress of the French.

QUEEN VICTORIA.

A.D. 1819.

“Broad based upon her people’s will,
And compassed by the inviolate sea.”
TENNYSON, _To the Queen_.

FIFTY years a queen! and still seated upon her ancestral throne. This is the remarkable record of England’s present sovereign. This fact alone would make the reign of Queen Victoria illustrious. But more than this, she has reigned during one half of this marvellous nineteenth century—a period phenomenal among the centuries of history.

Although the Victorian Era has not produced a Shakespeare, a Homer, a Dante, or a Milton, it will be remembered as an epoch of astounding progress, not only in England and Europe, but throughout the civilized world.

The unprecedented onrush of the mighty waves of enlightened civilization, bearing to all lands the blessings of Christian liberty; the flashing and dazzling lights of wonderful inventions and results of scientific researches, which have belted the world with gleaming bands of iron, chained the lightning at man’s bidding, caught and imprisoned the waves of sound, unlocked the secrets of the earth, and almost annihilated space and time,—these are some of the marvellous achievements of the nineteenth century which make the history of the past one hundred years read like the story of the most amazing transformations ever invented by the imagination in Oriental fairy tales or attributed to the weird magicians of the Arabian Nights.

Telegraphs, railroads, telephones, electric lights, phonographs, photography, the discovery of petroleum, the improved use of steam, the invention of Bessemer steel, and the practical use of gaslight for the illumination of cities, are all numbered among the inventions and discoveries of the nineteenth century.

But more wonderful still, perhaps, is the rise of the mighty Republic of the United States, which, though beginning in the eighteenth century as an independent power, has, in the short space of a little more than one hundred years, taken the foremost place in the rank of nations, and stands to-day _the miracle of the nineteenth century_.

To have reigned for fifty years, the sovereign of one of the greatest powers of the world, during such a time of human progress and religious liberty, will make the Victorian Age shine forth in the pages of history as one of the most resplendent epochs in the annals of the world.

Alexandrina Victoria, called by her German relations “the little Mayflower,” was born on the 24th of May, 1819. She was the granddaughter of George III. of England; her father being Edward, Duke of Kent, fourth son of that monarch.

Her mother was Victoria, the sister of the Duke of Saxe-Coburg, and widow of the Prince of Leiningen. The baby Princess Victoria was left fatherless at the age of eight months, and an establishment was formed for the future queen at Kensington Palace, under the superintendence of her mother, the Duchess of Kent. The education of Victoria was carefully watched, although she was not allowed to know that she was heir to the throne, until she was twelve years old. At this time it was thought best to make known to the little princess her future prospects; and her tutor, Dr. Davys, gave her a lesson in tracing out the genealogy of English royalty. At length the young princess exclaimed, with some astonishment, “Mamma, I cannot see who is to come after Uncle William, unless it is myself.”

Upon being told that this was the fact, she said in an unusually thoughtful manner for one so young:—

“It is a very solemn thing. Many a child would boast, but they don’t know the difficulty. There is splendor, but there is responsibility;” then, with an expressive gesture, she earnestly continued, “_I will be good._” And the verdict of fifty years of sovereignty has been, “Good mother, queen, and wife.”

At five o’clock, on the morning of the 21st of June, 1837, the Princess Victoria, then a young girl of eighteen, was awakened from her slumbers and saluted as queen. Hastily throwing over her night-robes a loose wrapper, and with slippers on her bare feet, and hair in unregarded disorder, she was ushered into an apartment where stood the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham, who had just arrived at Kensington, and demanded to see the “Queen” immediately. State business will not wait for ladies’ toilets, and the _déshabillé_ of the young princess was rather impressive than unbecoming, as the grave elderly men bent the knee before her and addressed her as “Your Majesty.” The king was dead, and Victoria was queen. Even as the royal salutation fell upon her youthful ears, the fair young girl seemed in a moment to don a new garment of dignity and self-possession. She had been always retiring, and obedient to others, to a marked degree, but as the words “Your Majesty” were addressed to her for the first time, she instantly put out her hand to receive the customary kiss of allegiance, and even attired as she was, looked a very sovereign. From that moment Victoria assumed all the dignity and prerogatives of a queen. She had been the most docile of daughters; but as queen, the Duchess of Kent, her mother, received only her filial affection, and was allowed no privilege of dictating the affairs of state, or even advising her royal daughter regarding her actions or duties as sovereign.

The young queen took as her residence Buckingham Palace, making Windsor Castle her country home. Mr. Charles Greville says of her at this time: “The queen’s manner and bearing are perfect. It is the remarkable union of _naïveté_, kindness, nature,—good nature, with propriety and dignity, which make her so admirable and so endearing to those about her, as she certainly is. I have been repeatedly told that they are all warmly attached to her, but albeit all feel the impossibility of for a moment losing sight of the respect which they owe her. She never ceases to be a queen, and is always the most charming, cheerful and obliging, unaffected queen in the world.”

On the 28th of June, 1838, occurred the coronation of Queen Victoria. The famous musical composer, Felix Mendelssohn, who was then in London, thus writes concerning the imposing pageant: “At a quarter-past twelve the procession began to arrive at Westminster Abbey, and by an hour later the whole had been absorbed in the cathedral. Nothing more brilliant could be seen than all the beautiful horses, with their rich harness, the carriages and grooms covered with gold embroideries, and the splendidly dressed people inside. All this, too, was encircled by the venerable gray buildings, and the crowds of common people under the dull sky, which was only now and then pierced by sunbeams; at first, indeed, it rained. But when the golden, fairy-like carriage, supported by Tritons with their tridents and surmounted by the great crown of England, drove up, and the graceful girl was seen bowing right and left—when at that instant the mass of people was completely hidden by their waving handkerchiefs and raised hats, while one roar of cheering almost drowned the pealing of the bells, the blare of the trumpets, and thundering of the guns, one had to pinch one’s self to make sure it was not all a dream out of the Arabian Nights. Then fell a sudden silence, the silence of a church, after the queen had entered the cathedral. I mixed among the crowd, walked up to the door of the abbey, and peered into the solemn obscurity; but my involuntary emotion was dispelled by a sense of the ludicrous as I looked closely at their dressed-up, modern _cinque-centi halberdiers_ (the beef-eaters), whose cheeks suggest beef, and whose noses tell tales of whiskey and claret.”

Victoria wore a royal robe of crimson velvet, furred with ermine and bordered with gold. A small circlet of gold banded her head, and the collar of the Order of the Garter adorned her neck. Three swords were borne before her, emblems of justice, defence, and mercy. Her train was carried by eight young maidens of high rank, dressed in cloth of silver, with roses in their hair. After the queen entered the cathedral and advanced to the foot of the throne, she knelt there for a moment in devotion. As she rose, the Archbishop of Canterbury turned her round to each of the four corners of the abbey, saying to the assembled people: “Sirs, I here present unto you the undoubted queen of this realm. Will ye all swear to do her homage?” Each time he asked the question the air rang with shouts of “Long live Queen Victoria!”

The anointing followed, whereupon the archbishop gave her his benediction. The primate then placed her on the throne, or rather in St. Edward’s chair, used by the sovereigns in this ceremony since Edward the Confessor. The young queen then received the ring, betrothing her to her people, and the orb of empire—a small globe surmounted by a cross—was placed in her hand, and the sceptre of rule was given to her. The crown of England was then laid upon her head by the archbishop, and at the same moment peers and peeresses donned their coronets; bishops, their mitres; heralds, their caps; the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannon boomed, and the Tower guns answered, and the shouts of the people broke forth in loud and joyous acclamations. The archbishop then presented the Bible to her Majesty, and bent in homage. He was followed by bishops and lords, according to their rank, who each in turn, lifting their coronets, touched the crown on the queen’s head, and repeated the oath of allegiance.

The Communion Service followed; and the queen, in homage to the _King_ of kings, removed her crown while she received the sacrament. Then, resuming her royal diadem, with the sceptre in one hand, and the orb of empire in the other, the crowned queen of England left the abbey, followed by her imposing retinue.

Mr. Charles Greville gives us this little bit of human nature enacted between these pompous scenes of solemn ceremony:—

“Lord John Thynne, who officiated for the Dean of Westminster, told me that nobody knew what was to be done, except the archbishop and himself (who had rehearsed), Lord Willoughby (who is experienced in these matters), and the Duke of Wellington; and consequently there was a continual difficulty and embarrassment, and the queen never knew what she was to do next. They made her leave her chair and enter into St. Edward’s chapel before the prayers were concluded, much to the discomfiture of the archbishop. She said to John Thynne, ‘Pray tell me what I am to do, for they don’t know.’ And at the end, when the orb was put in her hand, she said, ‘What am I to do with it?’ ‘Your Majesty is to carry it, if you please, in your hand.’ ‘Am I?’ she said; ‘it is very heavy.’ The ruby ring was made for her little finger instead of the fourth, on which the Rubric prescribes that it should be put. When the archbishop was to put it on, she extended the former, but he said it must be put on the latter. She said it was too small, and she could not get it on. He said it was right to put it there, and as he insisted, she yielded, but had first to take off her other rings, and then this was forced on; but it hurt her very much, and as soon as the ceremony was over she was obliged to bathe her finger in iced water in order to get it off.”

Most royal marriages have little to do with love and sentiment, but that of Queen Victoria was a delightful exception.

It is a pretty scene, and one full of fascinating charm, which presents the young queen making her offer of marriage to the handsome young Prince Albert, son of the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld.

As she was a sovereign, the prince could not with propriety make the offer to her, and so the blushing girl, now the _woman_ rather than the _queen_, in the presence of the youth who had already gained her love, forgot the sovereign, as she timidly took this momentous step.

Their married life was beautiful and happy, and within the sacred circle of such a love-life none have right to enter, even though royal lives are considered public property. No shadow seems to have come between their perfect confidence; and the sweetest tribute to the character of Queen Victoria fell from the lips of her dying husband, when twenty years after, she bent over his death-bed, and he lifted his trembling hand and stroked her cheek, murmuring, “_Liebes Frauchen_” (dear little wife), “_Gutes Weibchen_” (good little wife), and resting his aching head upon her shoulder, saying, “It is very comfortable so, dear child,” and having kissed her, fell asleep in her arms, to waken no more on this side the river of death.

We can only enumerate the most important political events of Queen Victoria’s reign, without detailed description. The Victorian Era will only rightly take its place in the annals of history when the entire epoch shall have become the past. While the present is weaving the history for the future upon the loom of time, it is impossible clearly to discern the intricacies of the pattern, or rightly to estimate the importance of the various-colored threads which are being employed to work out the finished design. Only when the epoch has become past history, can we truly measure its importance in the annals of the world.

Although during the past fifty years there has been no change in the sovereign of England, there have been vast and momentous changes in the parties which control the government of that nation. Prominent men in the ministry have arisen and declined, and the position of the _English people_ to-day, as regards their influence in political affairs, is much changed from the comparatively insignificant part they played in past epochs. No longer does a despotic Elizabeth hold the lives of her people subject to the caprices of her individual will; and more and more clearly is the voice of that people, not only _heard_, but _heeded_, even in the House of Lords.

At the time of Victoria’s coronation, a Whig ministry was in power, led by Viscount Melbourne.

Queen Victoria was much attached to her first premier, Lord Melbourne. But soon changes took place in the ministry. The Conservatives, led by Sir Robert Peel, came into power. Sir Robert Peel, remembering the pernicious influence of _women-intriguers_ in the time of Queen Anne, insisted that the ladies of Victoria’s household should be changed with the change of the ministry. But Victoria was a very different woman and sovereign from the weak-minded Anne. With indignation, she wrote:—

“They wanted to deprive me of my ladies, and I suppose they would deprive me next of my dressers and my housemaids; but I will show them that I am queen of England.” And show them she did, and the Conservatives were obliged to yield and retire, and Lord Melbourne was recalled to office.

But in 1841, the Whigs were again succeeded by the Conservatives; and Sir Robert Peel became prime minister. He was succeeded in 1846 by Lord John Russell, who was placed in power by the combined efforts of the Protectionists and Whigs.

The Revolution in France, which resulted in the overthrow of Louis Philippe and the ascension to the French throne of Prince Louis Napoleon, as Napoleon III., occasioned outbursts of the people in various parts of Europe. There were wild threats of an insurrection in London, but the scare passed over, and the preservation of order was secured without bloodshed.

The renowned Duke of Wellington was the chief military authority in England, and the leader in the House of Lords up to the time of his death, in 1852, in his eighty-fourth year. The queen greatly mourned his loss. She had given him the distinguished honor of standing godfather to one of her own children, Prince Arthur, and when she heard the news of his death she wrote:—

“What a loss! One cannot think of this country without the duke, our immortal hero. In him centred almost every earthly honor a subject could possess. Above party, looked up to by all, revered by the whole nation, the friend of the sovereign.”

In this same year the Conservatives again came into power, with the Earl of Derby as premier. We cannot give the various changes in the English ministry during Victoria’s reign. Suffice it to say, the Derby ministry retired in 1858, and were succeeded by the Palmerston ministry. Again, Lord Palmerston was obliged by circumstances to resign, and Lord Derby again came into office. But he was soon deposed, and Lord Palmerston returned to office as prime minister. On the death of Viscount Palmerston in 1865, Lord John Russell again became premier, but was soon defeated by the Conservatives, who came into power with the Earl of Derby, and Mr. Benjamin Disraeli. Lord Derby afterwards resigned, and Disraeli became prime minister, and subsequently received the title of Lord Beaconsfield. In 1880 Lord Beaconsfield’s party was defeated, and a Liberal ministry came in with Mr. Gladstone. Later changes it is not necessary to note here.

The English wars during the last fifty years have been wars in Afghanistan, the quelling of various revolts in India, England’s alliance with France in the Crimean War, the Abyssinian War in 1867, and the recent war with Egypt, which resulted in the loss of several Englishmen of note, especially the renowned and brave Chinese Gordon, whose imprisonment and inhuman murder by the savage followers of Mahdi, at Khartoum, called forth loud denunciations against the military measures of the English government.

The Franco-German War in 1870, resulting in the downfall of Napoleon III., although not entered into by England, was watched with intense anxiety by Queen Victoria. Two of her daughters, the Princesses Victoria and Alice, were obliged to see their husbands depart for the seat of war, and the beloved Princess Alice devoted herself with untiring energy to the care of the sick and wounded soldiers. For the second time Queen Victoria welcomed the fallen French monarchs to her realm. She had received the family of Louis Philippe with kindness; and the Empress Eugénie, together with the dethroned emperor and the young Prince Imperial, were equally the recipients of her pity and sympathy. Strange vicissitudes of fortune! During the Crimean War, the emperor and empress of the French had visited Queen Victoria, their royal ally.

“How strange,” says the queen’s journal, “that I, the granddaughter of George III., should dance with Emperor Napoleon, nephew of England’s greatest enemy, now my most intimate and nearest ally, only six years ago, living in this country an exile, poor and unthought of!”

This visit was afterwards returned by Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, when they were received by Napoleon III. with great magnificence in Paris, and attended there the _Grande Exposition;_ as the French were the first to follow the example of the English in the great World’s Exhibition, which had been originally conceived of by Prince Albert, when he devised the famous Crystal Palace.

This great International Exhibition, inaugurated and carried out by Prince Albert, this first Crystal Palace of the world, of which the Paris Exposition, and others of the kind, have been copies, some on a larger scale, but none of equal beauty, is best described in Queen Victoria’s own words:—

“The glimpse of the transept through the iron gates, the waving palms, flowers, statues, myriads of people filling the galleries and seats around, with the flourish of trumpets as we entered, gave us a sensation I can never forget, and I felt much moved. We went for a moment to a little side-room, where we left our shawls, and where we found mamma and Mary, and outside which were standing the other princes. In a few seconds we proceeded, Albert leading me, having Vicky at his hand and Bertie holding mine. The sight, as we came to the middle, where the steps and chair (which I did _not_ sit on) were placed, with the beautiful crystal fountain just in front of it, was magical—so vast, so glorious, so touching. One felt, as so many did whom I have since spoken to, filled with devotion, more so than by any service I have ever heard,—the tremendous cheers; the joy expressed in every face; the immensity of the building; the mixture of palms, flowers, trees, statues, fountains; the organ (with two hundred instruments, and six hundred voices, which sounded like nothing); and my beloved husband, the author of this Peace Festival, which united the industry of all nations of the earth. All this was moving indeed, and it was and is a day to live forever. God bless my dearest Albert! God bless my dearest country, which has shown itself so great to-day! One felt grateful to the great God, who seemed to pervade all and to bless all! The only event it in the slightest degree reminded me of was the Coronation, but this day’s festival was a thousand times superior. In fact, it is unique, and can bear no comparison, from its peculiar beauty and combination of such striking and different objects. I mean the slight resemblance only as to its solemnity; the enthusiasm and cheering, too, were much more touching, for in a church naturally all is silent.... That we felt happy, thankful, I need not say; proud of all that had passed, of my darling husband’s success, and of the behavior of my good people.”

Thus did the queen gracefully acknowledge her indebtedness to the devoted husband, who, refusing all titles but that of Prince Consort, spent his life in ministering to her greatness, and consecrated his superior talents of mind in unostentatiously smoothing the difficulties in her royal path. Prince Albert would, without doubt, have made one of the best and most beneficent rulers that England ever had, if he had been the sovereign; it was to his wise head and clear judgment that Victoria was indebted for many of the popular measures of her government during his life; and his loss was indeed irreparable. And her constant devotion to his memory is a more noble tribute to him than the magnificent memorial erected by her in his honor, even though the inscription reads:—

To The Beloved Memory
OF
ALBERT, THE GREAT AND GOOD PRINCE CONSORT.
Raised by his Broken-Hearted Widow
VICTORIA R.

Charlotte M. Yonge, in her recent “Jubilee Book,” “The Victorian Half-Century,” gives the following incident:—

“We have a charming picture of domestic life in the letters of the great musical composer Mendelssohn, who was in England in the summer of 1842. ‘Prince Albert had asked me to go to him on Saturday, at two o’clock, that I might try his organ before I left England. I found him alone, and as we were talking away, the queen came in, also alone, in a simple morning dress. She said she was obliged to leave for Claremont in an hour, and then suddenly interrupting herself, exclaimed, “But, goodness! what a confusion!” For the wind had littered the whole room, and even the pedals of the organ (which, by the way, made a very pretty feature of the room), with leaves of music from a large portfolio that lay open. As she spoke she knelt down and began picking up the music; Prince Albert helped, and I, too, was not idle. Then Prince Albert proceeded to explain the stops to me, and she said that she would meanwhile put things straight. I begged that the prince would first play me something, that I might boast about it in Germany, and he played a chorale, by heart, with the pedals, so charmingly and clearly and correctly that it would have done credit to any professional; and the queen, having finished her work, came and sat by him and listened, and looked pleased. Then it was my turn, and I began my chorus from “St. Paul,” “How lovely are the messengers.” Before I got to the end of the first verse they had both joined in the chorus, and all the time Prince Albert managed the stops so cleverly for me,... and all by heart, that I was really quite enchanted. Then the young Prince of Gotha came in, and there was more chatting, and the queen asked if I had written any new songs, and said she was very fond of singing my published ones. “You should sing one to him,” said Prince Albert, and after a little begging, she said she would try the “_Frühlingslied_” in B flat, “if it is still here,” she added, “for all my music is packed for Claremont.” Prince Albert went to look for it, but came back, saying it was already packed. “But one might, perhaps, unpack it,” said I. “We must send for Lady ——,” she said (I did not catch the name). So the bell was rung, and the servants were sent after it; but without success, and at last the queen went herself, and whilst she was gone, Prince Albert said to me, “She begs you will accept this present as a remembrance,” and gave me a case with a beautiful ring, on which is engraved “V. R., 1842.” Then the queen came back, and said, “Lady —— is gone, and has taken all my things with her. It is really most annoying.”’

“However, Mendelssohn begged that he might not be the sufferer, and after some consultation, Prince Albert said, ‘She will sing you something of Gluck’s.’ Then they proceeded to the queen’s sitting-room, where there stood by the piano a mighty rocking-horse and two great bird-cages. The walls were decorated with pictures; beautifully bound books lay on the tables, and music on the piano. Mendelssohn found among the music a set of songs of his own, and, first sending away the parrot, ‘for he will scream louder than I can sing,’ the queen sang ‘_Schöner und Schöner schmückt sie_’ quite charmingly, in strict time and tune, but with one slight error. Mendelssohn confessed that the song was not his, but his sister Fanny’s, and she then, with some doubt, undertook to try to sing his ‘_Pilger Spruch, Lass dich nur_,’ which she did quite faultlessly, and with charming feeling and expression.