CHAPTER VII

QUEEN VICTORIA’S CIRCLE

“Under the present reign the perfect decorum of the Court is thought to have put a check on the gross vices of the aristocracy; yet gaming, racing, drinking, and mistresses bring them down, and the democrat can still gather scandals, if he will.”--_Emerson._

That the Queen had a determined will was evidenced by a rather amusing incident early in her reign. A great military review in Hyde Park had been suggested for July 18th, but failed to take place, and the Press did its best to discover the hidden reason for its abandonment. It is really wonderful how successful newspaper men were in ferreting out secrets, for this time, though they may have added details, with a little bit invented and a little bit inferred, the main fact was correct.

Her Majesty was determined that she would appear at the review on horseback, accompanied by the Duke of Wellington and Lord Hill, which was certainly the most effective way of seeing ranks of soldiers pass before her. A leading London paper reported that Lord Melbourne was horrified at the idea, for he thought that propriety demanded that a great lady should drive in a carriage. This point was discussed with “firmness” on both sides, the Queen refusing to alter her method of going, and the Prime Minister thinking that method too great an innovation to be countenanced. At last, as Melbourne backed from her presence, the Queen finished the interview with, “Very well, my lord, very well; remember, no horse, no review!”

So far the papers. But from contemporary correspondence I find that the matter was considered of sufficient importance for the Duke of Wellington to ask Lord Liverpool if there were not some idea of the Queen riding to the review, and on being told that there was talk of it, he expressed his opinion that it would be very dangerous, as it was difficult to get good steady horses, and, besides, the Queen would not be able to have a “female” attendant with her, which would seem indelicate, and that, in fact, she had better go in a carriage.

But Queen Victoria would not be dictated to in this matter; she decided that there should be no review _this year_. “I was determined to have it only if I _could_ ride, and as I have not ridden for two years, it was better not.” So she showed diplomacy as well as determination--two very good qualities in a Sovereign.

As to the Duke’s doubt about the horses, at that very time Victoria was pressing the Dowager Queen Adelaide to take away two or three of her own riding horses from among the number which, by the death of the King, had been transferred to herself.

However, Queen Victoria held a review in the Home Park at Windsor in August, when King Leopold was with her, and both regiments of the Guards, horse and foot, passed before her, she being mounted on a grey charger, and wearing a blue riding-habit and cloth cap with a deep gold band round it. When the troops were at “attention” the Queen rode along the line and between the ranks.

While the elections were in progress in July, both parties made unfair use of Her Majesty’s name. “Vote for ---- (Whig candidate) and the Queen!” was the general appeal from the Whig side. In fact, both sides claimed her; and though we consider the tactics employed to-day at elections are sometimes degrading and unnecessary, they are not quite so bad as they were in the “good old times” of the early part of last century. The poor disappointed Tories were spurred to desperation by the conviction forced upon them that their turn was not yet, and did their best to score off their opponents. They would not believe in the generally received idea that the young Queen favoured the Whigs, an idea which was absolutely true, however, and they wrote such warnings as the following:--

“The infamous use made of the Queen’s name is traitorous, base, and cowardly. Her Majesty, if she has any political bias, which we very much doubt, and earnestly for her own sake hope she may never have, is too young and inexperienced in matters of State policy to have given utterance to it. The continuance in office of the Melbourne Ministry is no proof of her affection for them. They are not of her selection; and, it may be, are only retained under warning till more eligible successors are found.”

In this strain ran many protests, which a little later, when the Government had done some work, took a new form. There were whispers, and then assertions made, that the Queen had converted all her Ministers to Conservatism, and in January, 1838, the _Morning Post_ had a leader upon the subject:--

“Her Majesty ... has effected an almost instantaneous conversion of Lord Melbourne, Lord John Russell, and all the other members of the Administration into Conservatives, the most ostentatious, not the most sincere, of whom England can boast. Yes, the same statesmen who vexed and harassed the declining years of their late aged Monarch by their alliance with the men of the movement, ... finding themselves at the commencement of a Conservative reign which the most juvenile of their number cannot expect to survive, and having discovered, moreover, that the hints breathed at them from Kensington during the latter part of their Royal Mistress’s minority were of no true or holy inspiration, but such spurious and illicit intimations as seldom fail to deceive alike the givers and the receivers, have thought fit to make for themselves a movement, and a very decided one, in a direction diametrically opposed to that in which for several years past they have been labouring to advance. The obsequious Ministers of a Conservative Sovereign, they are as decidedly Conservative as their existing alliances and their actual position will allow. Hence their hoary chief is in constant personal attendance upon our youthful Conservative SOVEREIGN, not to impart political instruction, but to imbibe it.”

A week or so later the same paper followed this up with another leader, in which it said:--

“The Whigs--the Melbourne or bastard Whigs we mean--have, with a most accommodating and meretricious facility, prostituted their hereditary and their personal pretexts--for principles we cannot call them--to captivate the ‘sweet voices’ of the swinish constituency (? electorate), which, for purposes more swinish than the constituency created, they have forced into existence.”

We scarcely aim at outdoing this sort of thing to-day; no paper would dare to label the electorate “swinish,” for the extension of the franchise would at least have had the effect of making all England feel itself insulted through every constituency.

That there had been no conversion of the Government it is unnecessary to say, but there may have been something to warrant the hope--or otherwise--that such a change had taken place, for Melbourne was distinctly a moderate Whig, disapproving of really Radical measures, just as Wellington disapproved of following blindly the desires of his party when he regarded their methods as impolitic. There was, however, a generally expressed hope that the Whigs would not long be retained in power, and articles upon this point filled the Tory papers, while songs were sung in the streets on the same theme. In Huddersfield upon a window-pane is said to have been written:--

“The Queen is with us, Whigs insulting say, For when she found us in she let us stay; It may be so, but give me leave to doubt How long she’ll keep you when she finds you out.”

Fatherly and experienced as was Melbourne, and ready as was the Queen to be taught, she did not give herself unreservedly into his hands, and there was no truth in the cheap witticism which I have come across somewhere: “‘The Lion of England,’ said the Queen, with one of her bland smiles, ‘has been taught to lie down with the Lamb!’”

If there was anything of particular importance to decide, Victoria was not one to go calmly where she was led; she had left all that ductility behind on the day that she attained her eighteenth year. Her answer would be: “I would rather think about it first; I will let you know my decision to-morrow.” Thus would she reply to everyone, with the result that many said that she could not decide a question until she had asked advice of Melbourne. But he recorded that such was her habit with him, and that when he talked to her upon any subject which required an expressed opinion of her own, she would reply that she would think it over and let him know her sentiments the next day. Of course, the next suggestion was that Lehzen was her counsellor, and that she always ran to her for advice; failing that lady, that it was Stockmar. The curious thing was that only one person seems to have suggested that the Duchess of Kent was the power behind the Throne, and this was Lord Brougham, of whom Greville, being at Holland House once, wrote that he “came in after dinner, looking like an old clothes man, and as dirty as the ground.” But there is no doubt at all that the Queen really and wisely decided to think matters out for herself, and not to adjudge any matter rashly. Leopold constantly gave her this advice: “Whenever a question is of some importance, it should not be decided on the day on which it is submitted to you.... It is really not doing oneself justice _de décider des questions sur le pouce_.”

[Illustration: LORD BROUGHAM.]

Greville complained that Victoria betrayed caution and prudence, the former to a degree unnatural in one so young, and unpleasing in that it suppressed the youthful impulses regarded generally as so graceful and so attractive. This caution was shown in her dislike of expressing an opinion upon people; Melbourne was never able to extract any idea as to whom she liked or disliked, which seemed much to surprise him; but once, probably anxious to know who, supposing for some unforeseen reason he failed her, would be most acceptable as her adviser, he pressed the point. Her Majesty, still cautious, asked if it were a matter of State policy that she should answer. Melbourne replied that in no other circumstances would he have presumed to put such a question. “Then,” she said, “there is one person for whom I should feel a decided preference, and that is the Duke of Wellington.”

It was but natural that the Premier--a word much in use at that period--should feel some embarrassment at the amount of work he had to bring this girl, who might well have hoped for a life of ease and enjoyment, and sometimes he apologised for his exactions. She would not, however, recognise the need for such apology, saying that the attention required from her was only a change of occupation; she had not so far led a life of leisure, “for you know well that I have not long left off my lessons.”

At this time the Queen was said to be much more like the Brunswicks than the Guelphs, being, in fact, very like the unfortunate wife of George I., who was imprisoned for years in the Royal palace at Celle, in Hanover. Sophia’s hair was much fairer, but the features were the same.

The little Queen, despite her busy life and the extra work she gave herself in her attempt to remember and judge, had time to think of other people. She worked with the zeal of the new-comer, kept a journal, in which she entered anything remarkable that she noticed, with her criticisms thereon; and after every important debate would collect all the newspaper reports and make a _précis_ of the best of them. She thought for the comfort of the Dowager Queen, and was somewhat troubled about the Fitzclarences; the pension list was gone through by her, and some little acts of kindness done. Thus old Sir John Lade, who had been one of the wildest of the Regent’s companions in the palmy days of the Pavilion, was still alive, having run through all his possessions. “Our Prinny” had given him a pension of five hundred a year out of the Privy Purse; William IV. gave him three hundred a year when he came to the throne, but it was supposed that with the young Queen his pension must end. The poor old _roué_, then over eighty, implored Lord Sefton’s interest with Melbourne to secure him some portion, however small, of the amount; but Melbourne could hold him out no hope that he would receive it. When Queen Victoria was asked her pleasure in the matter, she said, “But is not Sir John over eighty years old?” “That is so, your Majesty.” “Then I will neither inquire into the pension nor reduce it; it shall be continued from my Privy Purse,” she answered.

The tribe of Fitzclarences were in a state of rebellious anxiety concerning their own affairs; they all were holding sinecures and drawing salaries, besides being in receipt of pensions out of the public pension list and nearly £10,000 a year given them by King William. It was in Victoria’s power to withdraw all this, and the accounts of the austerity of the Kensington circle thoroughly frightened them. Between the Duchess of Kent and all the Fitzclarences, whether taken singly or as a family, there was no love, no liking, scarcely tolerance; and so little was known of Victoria by them that they could only suppose that she shared her mother’s views.

Lord Munster, the eldest, received the first shock, which communicated itself to the other members. He held the post of Lieutenant of the Round Tower, and on his surrendering the keys to the Queen they were not given back to him, though Victoria was most pleasant and polite. But Munster behaved with discretion, for he probably expected this; and after some days it was discovered that he had been given the post for life. So the keys were returned him, with ample apology from Lord Melbourne. When the pensions and other things were considered, the Prime Minister advised Her Majesty to grant all the Fitzclarences the same amounts they had enjoyed during their father’s life, for, he said, “It would be kind, it would be generous, and it would be conclusive. No further demand could be made.”

As for the Dowager Queen, Victoria showed her every attention and affection, begging her to take from Windsor anything that she wished for. On the first occasion that Queen Adelaide visited her at the Castle she desired that she would choose which bedroom she would like to occupy; whereupon the old Queen naturally asked to have that in which she had slept when King William was alive. It had already been dedicated to the young Queen’s use, but she willingly gave it up, forbidding anyone to let Queen Adelaide know that she was turning out for her. Thus everyone began to feel a certain confidence in at least the good disposition of the Queen, and those who stood to lose or gain began to breathe more freely.

It was a queer swinging of the pendulum, for the Duchess of Kent, who ought to have attained the height of her ambition and happiness, was at this time one of the most disappointed and miserable of women, while those who feared to lose all found themselves assured in their positions for the rest of their lives. Madame de Lieven, so noted for her love of political intrigue, was granted an audience by the Queen at the end of July, 1837, and found that cautious young lady disinclined to talk of anything but commonplaces, being probably afraid of committing herself. Victoria had, in fact, been warned by Leopold to beware of the wily Frenchwoman. Madame de Lieven’s interview with the Duchess of Kent was, however, of a much more intimate character, and before she left she was doing her best to condole with that august lady for being the mother of a Queen--for having, in fact, accomplished her desire, and having nothing left for which to live.

The poor Duchess complained that, though her daughter showed her every attention and kindness, she had rendered herself absolutely independent of that mother who had so long (and so unwisely) guided every moment of her days and nights, so that the Duchess felt abjectly insignificant. She also still felt bitterly mortified at the way in which Conroy had been dismissed. Her words to Madame de Lieven were, “There is no longer any future for me; there is no longer anything.”

She felt that this child, who for eighteen years had been almost the only thing she lived for, was now lost to her. Poor woman! if only she had understood human nature a little better she would have had a less royal time over her child in the past and a greater influence in the present. Madame de Lieven urged the idea of reflected glory upon her; told her that she ought to be the happiest of human beings in seeing the elevation of her child, in watching her success, in appreciating the praise and admiration which were lavished upon her; but the Duchess only “shook her head with a melancholy smile,” saying that that would not fill her life; that the accomplishment of her wishes only made her unhappy and forlorn. In actual fact the Duchess was an ambitious woman, and the intriguing at Kensington had not been a supposition, but a fact. A month after Queen Victoria’s accession Leopold, writing to her of a person who loved intrigue, added, “Your life amongst intriguers and tormented by intrigues has given you an experience on this important subject, which you will do well not to lose sight of, as it will unfortunately often reproduce itself--though the aims and methods may not be the same.” The Duchess had thought to see herself filling the great post of Regent over a great kingdom, wielding the power, if not the sceptre, of a monarch; and when this dream passed she fully expected to point the guiding finger for her daughter, to be present at State discussions, to be consulted in all difficulties; indeed, to continue to be the ruling influence in Victoria’s life, and through her in England. She could not realise that her own independent attitude had taught her child the same quality, for the Queen wrote in her journal on June 20th that she saw Lord Melbourne at nine o’clock, “and, _of course, quite alone_, as I shall _always_ do all my Ministers.” It was well for Victoria that she put her foot down so firmly, even though so cruelly, at the outset, for otherwise it would have been inevitable that she would have been the unhappy one.

The Duchess’s position certainly did not justify Brougham’s spiteful assertion in the House some little time later; indeed, it gives the lie to it. That statesman in this speech started the dislike which for a long time the Queen felt for him. He was then still sitting on the Ministerial side, and listened to the proposition that the Duchess of Kent should receive a grant of 30,000 a year, with a not unusual desire to make trouble. In an outrageous speech he denounced as extravagant such a grant, and spoke of the Duchess as the “Queen-Mother.” There were many who felt this to be a veiled attack on the Duchess’s probable influence over the Queen, and who resented it; but Melbourne punished Brougham more astutely by appearing to believe that he had simply made an error. “Mother of the Queen,” he ejaculated. Brougham loved a quarrel, and turned upon Melbourne at once. “I admit my noble friend is right. On a point of this sort I humble myself before my noble friend. I have no courtier-like cultivation. I am rude of speech. The tongue of my noble friend is so well hung and so well attuned to courtly airs, that I cannot compete with him for the prize which he is now so eagerly struggling to win. Not being given to glozing and flattery, I may say that the Duchess of Kent (whether to be called the Queen-Mother or the Mother of the Queen) is nearly connected with the Throne; and a plain man like myself, having no motive but to do my duty, may be permitted to surmise that any additional provision for her might possibly come from the Civil List, which you have so lavishly voted.”

Melbourne replied by pointing out the difference between a Queen Dowager and a Princess who had never sat on the Throne, and complimented Brougham on his skill in “egregious flattery.”

In spite of his dirt and his carelessness about dress--“He wears a black stock or collar, and it is so wide that you see a dirty coloured handkerchief under, tied tight round his neck. You never saw such an object, or anything half so dirty”--Brougham was one of the most remarkably intellectual men of his day. We have heard accounts of how over-prolific writers dictate three stories at once to three different typewriters all in the same room; and really Brougham seems to have had some such capacity. If he did not do about six things at once, he did them in such rapid succession that it makes one’s brain whirl to think of it. He worked ceaselessly from 9 a.m. to 1 a.m., and seemed quite fresh at the end of that time; a day’s work might include going through the details of a Chancery suit, writing a philosophical or mathematical treatise, correcting articles for the “Library of Useful Knowledge,” and preparing a great speech for the House of Lords. Yet he was so intemperate in his speech, so ready with invective, so inconstant in his views, that he became a terror to the House, and, indeed, seemed constantly on the border-line of insanity. One writer said he was like a wasp, for ever buzzing and stinging the Government, animated to sting by spite and malice. Creevy spoke of him as the Archfiend, Old Wicked-Shifts, and Beelzebub; and when he had a new carriage with, on the panel, a coronet surmounting a large B, Sydney Smith remarked, “There goes a carriage with a bee outside and a wasp inside.”

In 1838, when he knew that he would no longer have the Great Seal as Lord Chancellor, someone in Paris asked him who were the Queen’s Ministers. “Really,” he replied, “I do not know; I cannot recall the names of more than three or four.” Yet there was a very tender spot in his heart, which made him remark upon being introduced to a beautiful young girl, “I don’t know what to say to these young things; I feel like the old Devil talking to an angel.” Brougham, too, adored his daughter, who only lived nineteen years, dying at Cannes after a life of illness. He built the Villa Eleanor for her at Cannes, and after her death her bedroom, always called Eleanor’s room, was kept unaltered during Brougham’s life. He had Eleanor’s body brought to England and buried in the graveyard of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, probably the only woman ever buried there. He became very unpopular with the Court after Victoria’s marriage by speaking of her as Albertina, and never losing an opportunity of saying something disrespectful. One night he behaved so badly at a Court function that he was totally ignored for a long time after. Then one day Her Majesty asked the Chancellor why it was that Lord Brougham never appeared, and this was looked upon as the olive-branch, which Brougham gladly recognised, sending both to the Queen and to Prince Albert one of his books, which Victoria acknowledged by sending him an autograph letter of thanks, thought by everyone a great honour.

His very soul craved for appreciation and applause, and in October, 1839, he took a queer way of finding out what the world would say if he were no more. He, Leader (the member for Westminster), and Robert Shafto went in a hackney carriage from Brougham Hall to see some ruins in the district. An accident of some sort happened, and this suggested to Brougham the practical joke of reporting his own death. A letter supposed to have been written by Shafto was received by Alfred Montgomery, a great favourite with Brougham, detailing the expedition, saying that the splinter bar broke, all were thrown out, Brougham was kicked on the head, and the carriage turned over on him, killing him on the spot. Montgomery rushed to Gore House, before Lady Blessington had sat down to breakfast, with the news, and by the afternoon a thousand rumours were afloat. Brougham was mourned by all. Sheil hurried from the Athenæum Club on Monday evening to pen a magniloquent obituary, which appeared in the next day’s _Morning Chronicle_. “Windsor Castle shook with glee, and Lord Holland began to think he should venture to speak again in the Lords. For the first time for five years all the world talked for a whole day about Brougham’s virtues, and there was wondrous forgiveness of injuries in the whole metropolis.” On Monday a letter by him, written on Sunday, was received at the Colonial Office, and soon the hoax became known. At first Brougham denied being the author of the grim jest, scared, perhaps, by the anger of those who had wept over his death. He actually challenged his old friend Sir Arthur Paget for accusing him of the deed; and on November 23rd we have the amusing scene of the Duke of Cambridge, after the Queen had withdrawn from a Council, running round the room after Brougham, shouting at the top of his voice:

“By God, Brougham, you did it! By God, you wrote the letter yourself!”

It was in relation to this and to Brougham’s desire for political promotion that Henry Reeve said: “Brougham is less manageable than usual; for though he has had a resurrection, he may and must despair of an ascension.”

On an earlier occasion Brougham scored neatly off another of the Royal Dukes. The Duke of Gloucester was conversing with him on the burning topic of the Reform Bill, and grew so warm in the argument that at length he observed hastily that the Chancellor was _very near a fool_. Brougham readily replied that he could not think of contradicting the Duke, as he fully saw the force of His Royal Highness’s _position_.

Lord John Russell, the Home Secretary, was of a very different type. Theodore Hook first gave him the nickname of “the Widow’s Mite,” as he was very small, and had married the widow of Lord Ribblesdale, herself also of small size. Creevy talks of meeting them somewhere: “In came the little things, as merry-looking as they well could be, but really much more calculated, from their size, to show off on a chimney-piece than to mix and be trod upon in company.” But those who looked at John Russell from a different aspect found him equal to every occasion, strong in principle, clear in his ideas, bold and straightforward in his disposition, and afraid of no one.

Not the least noteworthy of the men who influenced politics in the early part of the Queen’s reign was Sir Robert Peel, who declared at the beginning of her first Parliament that if the Government tried to carry through any further measures of reform he would resist them to the utmost. Like Melbourne, he was not a whole-hearted party man, and when in power disappointed everyone by trying to steer a middle course. He was shy, reserved, cautious, and unable to be really decisive; also by his lack of cordial manners he was unfortunate enough to accentuate in the Queen’s mind every prejudice she held against the Tories, for, unlike Melbourne, he had no idea of how to please a woman.

Among the Queen’s women were one or two worthy of mention, chief of whom was the First Lady of the Bedchamber, the Duchess of Sutherland. In spite of the want of punctuality, she was a most attractive woman, giving an impression of something very plenteous and sunny in her appearance. She was tall, large, and carried herself with a good-natured stateliness; her hair was blond, her features large and well-chiselled, her smile beaming, and benevolence in every look and word. In 1853 Henry Reeve said of her: “In our time there has been nobody who continues to surround herself with a sort of fictitious dignity like the Duchess of Sutherland. She is not clever, and in anyone else her affectations might be laughed at. But she is neither worldly nor ambitious; is very good-natured, and has a thoroughly kindly heart; all of which, added to her beauty and high character, gives her an influence in society far beyond what wealth and rank could claim for her.”

[Illustration: HARRIET, DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND.]

It is a pity that the Marchioness of Tavistock, later Duchess of Bedford, whom Her Majesty had known many years, had not rather more than she had of Lady Sutherland’s kindliness; she might then have saved the Queen from one of the most painful episodes in her life. One writer called her a gaby, modifying it, however, by saying that she was all truth and daylight; and Lady Cardigan speaks of the charming recollection she could conjure up of her, saying that it was at her house that she heard Tom Moore sing and play his Irish melodies. Lady Tavistock was driving one Sunday in the carriage which followed the Queen, when the latter, being cold, got out to walk, and, of course, all the ladies had to do the same. It had been raining, and presumably Victoria was properly shod for the occasion; Lady Tavistock was not, however, and soon her shoes and stockings were wet through and covered with mud. When at last they got back to the Castle the shivering Lady Tavistock found that her maid was out, the cupboards were all locked up, and there was nothing to do but to go to bed until she could get dry stockings!

The Queen was of quick temper and wilful. Her half-sister once wrote: “I was much amused at your tracing the quickness of our tempers in the female line up to Grandmamma (the Dowager Duchess of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld), but I must own that you are quite right.” Thus she never forgot that she was the Queen, and went her own way irrespective of other people. Palmerston said in conversation that any Minister who had to deal with her (the Queen) would soon find out that she was no ordinary person; and on a lady giving the credit to the Duchess of Kent, he added that Her Majesty had an understanding of her own which could have been made by no one. “A resolute little tit,” one diarist of the time dubbed her.

Once the first freshness of being Queen was dulled, Victoria set herself to enjoy life as much as possible. Theatres, the opera, balls, and parties were the order of the evening. She rode every day, generally accompanied by the Duchess of Kent, and often with Melbourne on one side of her and Lord Palmerston on the other. Her usual riding habit was of dark green cloth, and she wore a black beaver hat without veil or trimming. Once when riding, and having sixteen people in her train, she passed over Battersea Bridge, the toll-taker counted the party and demanded the toll from the groom who brought up the rear. The man had no money, but, taken by surprise, and perhaps unaware that the Monarch had a “free pass” over the roads of the kingdom, he parted with a silk handkerchief as a pledge of future payment.

Queen Victoria gave a grand concert at Buckingham Palace in honour of her mother’s birthday on the 17th of August, the Court going out of mourning for the day--a concert made memorable by the fact that all the men--even the aged Duke of Sussex--were required to stand, as well as the Ladies of the Household, while the ladies who were guests occupied chairs. This somewhat inhospitable arrangement seems to have made a great impression, for I have come across mention of it in various places.

The Queen opened the Victoria Gate of Hyde Park, entertained her uncle, King Leopold, and his wife at Windsor in September, sat for her portrait--being, it is said, a most patient sitter--and appointed Sir David Wilkie as Painter in Ordinary. When Hayter was painting her he had done much to the face, but had not started upon the arms, and she asked him how he would place her hands. “Just take them and pose them as you think,” she said. With some diffidence the painter did as she wished. She turned to the lady near her, saying, “How strange! I have often thought how I would place the hands if I were painting the portrait of a Queen, and it was exactly in this position.”

A queer little speech, which shows how thoroughly the Princess had soaked her mind in the anticipation of being Queen.

_The Times_, which Lord Grey once called the most infamous of all papers, published a curious description of a portrait of Queen Victoria which was painted in 1838 by Parris. The writer went into rhapsodies over it, and concluded by remarking that “the bosom had been most delicately handled, and had been brought out by the artist in admirable rotundity, who had imparted full relief to it.” Lord Palmerston used to say that when Her Majesty was once asked how she would like to be painted, she replied, “In my Dalmatic robe. Lord Melbourne thinks that I look best in that.”

When she went to the Royal Academy for the second time that year (after her accession), C. R. Leslie says that she appeared towards her mother the same affectionate little girl as hitherto, calling her “Mamma.”

On her return to town from Windsor in the autumn there were many functions to attend, the first and most wonderful being the banquet given in her honour on November 9th at Guildhall. Books have been written on this ceremony, and amusing incidents are not wanting to make it interesting. The streets were avenues of green boughs and flags as the Queen drove through them, followed by a train of two hundred carriages. On this occasion Her Majesty sat alone in her State carriage, her mother occupying one which preceded her.

The new Lord Mayor (Alderman Cowan) and the Aldermen met the Queen outside Temple Bar, near Child’s Bank. All the civic magnates were riding, and for this purpose had hired horses from the Artillery Barracks at Woolwich, each horse being brought up by its usual rider, who was to act as attendant squire to the Alderman who temporarily became its master.

It was not an easy thing for gentlemen unaccustomed to the saddle to mount on horseback; however, with much care and pains bestowed by the troopers, the Aldermen were at last seated and formed into procession. One of the daily journals added to its account of the proceedings: “We believe only one fell off, and that accident happened through a laudable desire to perform an act of obeisance to a fair lady at a window. The worthy Alderman fell flat upon the ground, and his horse walked over him. Since the days of John Gilpin no feat of a citizen of London on horseback has excited so much masculine laughter and feminine sympathy. A general cry was raised, the procession stopped, and several military officers and brother corporators rushed to the assistance of the fallen cavalier, who had sustained but little injury, and he was hoisted into the saddle amidst general cheers and laughter.”

It is needless to tell of the display at Guildhall--of the £400,000 worth of plate, gold dishes, coffee-cups of gold with handles of lapis lazuli, a candelabra formed of a thousand ounces of gold, and a thousand other extravagances. It reads like an Eastern story. The banquet itself lasted three hours, while the whole function took from two in the afternoon until past nine at night. The Queen was gorgeous in pink satin, gold and silver, pearls and diamonds; and the Queen of the City was equally gorgeous, though perhaps not so youthful, in green velvet, white satin, gold fringe, Brussels lace, opals, and diamonds. On the return journey the Queen went as she had come, a stately little figure alone in an enormous carriage.

At this period she delighted in her State amusements, and it is pleasant to think that for once fate allowed a young thing to go through all these experiences just at the right age, just when a romantic, colour-loving girl could really appreciate pomp and ceremony, could bow and smile, and listen with pleasure to cheers and applause, without seeing the things that lay behind.

The Queen’s next excitement was the opening of Parliament, which she did with all the grace that had attached to her from the first, making people like Fanny Kemble go into ecstasies over her face, “not handsome, but very pretty,” her clear soft eyes, her dignity, her beautifully moulded hands and arms, her exquisite voice, &c. Well, young queens are not very plentiful, so it is good to make much of them when they are found; only to-day we should feel ashamed to be so delighted with ordinary composure and good-breeding; we should be much more likely to condemn unsparingly the lack of them. But then the standard of womanly excellence of those days and of these have little relationship to each other.

There were theatres to visit, with their Royal boxes fitted up and decorated for the young Sovereign, and at that time the King’s Theatre became Her Majesty’s by her command. This eventful year drew to its close with the Christmas festivities spent at Windsor.