CHAPTER XVII.
THE PAPAL BULL—THE GREAT EXHIBITION.
In the winter of 1850 the whole of England was disturbed by the Papal Bull which professed to divide England afresh into Roman Catholic bishoprics, with a cardinal-archbishop at their head. Protestant England hotly resented the liberty the Pope had taken, the more so that the Tractarian movement in the Church seemed to point to treachery within the camp. Lord John Russell took this view of it, and the announcement of his opinion intensified the excitement which expressed itself, in meetings all over the county and numerous addresses to the Queen, condemning the act of aggression and urging resistance. The protests of the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, and of the Corporation of London, were presented to her Majesty in St. George's Hall, Windsor Castle, on the 10th of December. The Oxford address was read by the Chancellor of Oxford, the Duke of Wellington, the old soldier speaking "in his peculiar energetic manner with great vigour and animation." The Cambridge address was read by the Chancellor of Cambridge, Prince Albert, "with great clearness and well-marked emphasis." The Queen replied "with great deliberation and with decided accents." Her Majesty, while repelling the invasion of her rights and the offence to the religious principles of the country, held, with the calmer judges of the situation, that no pretence, however loudly asserted, could constitute reality. The Pope might call England what he liked, but he could not make it Catholic.
In January, 1851, the Court had a great loss in the retirement of Lady Lyttelton from her office of governess to the royal children, which she had filled for eight years; while her service at Court, including the time that she had been a lady-in-waiting, had lasted over twelve years. Thenceforth her bright sympathetic accounts of striking events in the life at Windsor and Osborne cease. The daughter of the second Earl of Spenser married, at twenty-six years of age, the third Lord Lyttelton. She was forty-two when she became a lady-in-waiting, and fifty-four when she resigned the office of governess to the Queen's children. She desired to quit the Court because, as she said, she was old enough to be at rest for whatever time might be left her. In the tranquillity and leisure which she sought, she survived for twenty years, dying at the age of seventy-four in 1870. The parting in 1851 was a trial to all. "The Queen has told me I may be free about the middle of January," wrote Lady Lyttelton, "and she said it with all the feeling and kindness of which I have received such incessant proofs through the whole long twelve years during which I have served her. Never by a word or look has it been interrupted." Neither could Lady Lyttelton say enough in praise of the Prince, of "his wisdom, his ready helpfulness, his consideration for others, his constant kindness." "In the evening I was sent for to my last audience in the Queen's own room," Lady Lyttelton wrote again, "and I quite broke down and could hardly speak or hear. I remember the Prince's face, pale as ashes, and a few words of praise and thanks from them both, but it is all misty; and I had to stop on the private staircase and have my cry out before I could go up again."
Lady Lyttelton was succeeded in her office by Lady Caroline Barrington, sister of Earl Grey, who held the post for twenty-four years, till her death in 1875. She too was much and deservedly esteemed by the Queen and the royal family.
The Exhibition was the event in England of 1851. From the end of March till the opening-day, for which May-day was fitly chosen, Prince Albert strove manfully day and night to fulfil his important part in the programme, and it goes without saying that the Queen shared in much of his work, and in all his hopes and fears and ardent desires.
Already the building, with its great transept and naves, lofty dome, transparent walls and roof, enclosing great trees within their ample bounds, the chef-d'-oeuvre of Sir Joseph Paxton—who received knighthood for the feat—the admiration of all beholders, had sprung up in Hyde Park like a fairy palace, the growth of a night. Ships and waggons in hundreds and thousands, laden by commerce, science and art, were trooping from far and near to the common destination. Great and small throughout the country and across the seas were planning to make the Exhibition their school of design and progress, as well as their holiday goal.
It must be said that the dread of what might be the behaviour of the vast crowds of all nations gathered together at one spot, and that spot London, assailed many people both at home and abroad. But as those who are not "evil-doers" are seldom "evil-dreaders," the Queen and the Prince always dismissed the idea of such a danger with something like bright incredulous scorn, which proved in the end wiser than cynical suspicion and gloomy apprehension.
The Exhibition of 1851, with its reverent motto, chosen by Prince Albert, "The earth is the Lord's, and the fullness thereof; the compass of the world, and they that dwell therein," is an old story now, and only elderly people remember some of its marvels—like the creations of the "Arabian Nights'" tales—and its works of art, which, though they may have been excelled before and since, had never yet been so widely seen and widely criticised. The feathery palm-trees and falling fountains, especially the great central cascade, seemed to harmonize with objects of beauty and forms of grace on every side. The East contended with the West in soft and deep colours and sumptuous stuffs. Huge iron machines had their region, and trophies of cobweb lace theirs; while "walking-beams" clanked and shuttles flew, working wonders before amazed and enchanted-eyes.
Especially never had there been seen, such modern triumphs in carved woodwork, in moulded iron, zinc, and bronze, in goldsmiths' work, in stoneware and porcelain, in designs for damasks in silk and linen.
The largest diamond in the world, the Koh-i-Noor or "mountain of light," found in the mines of Golconda, presented to the great Mogul, having passed through the hands of a succession of murderous and plundering Shahs, had been brought to England and laid at the feet of Queen Victoria as one of the fruits of her Afghan conquests, the year before the Exhibition. It was now for the first time publicly displayed. Like many valuable articles, its appearance, marred by bad cutting, did not quite correspond with the large estimate of its worth, about two millions. In order to increase its effect, the precious clumsily-cut "goose's egg," relieved against a background of crimson velvet in its strong cage, was shown by gas-light alone. Since those days, the jewel has been cut, so that its radiance may have full play when it is worn by her Majesty on great occasions. To keep the Koh-i-Noor in company, one of the largest emeralds and one of the largest pearls in the world were in this Exhibition. So were "le saphir merveilleux"—of amethystine colour by candle-light, once the property of Egalité Orleans, and the subject of a tale by Madame Genlis-and a renowned Hungarian opal.
Hiram Powers's "Greek Slave" from America more than rivalled Monti's veiled statue from Italy, while far surpassing both in majesty was Kiss's grand group of the "Mounted Amazon defending herself from, the attack of a Lioness," cast in zinc and bronzed. Statues and statuettes of the Queen abounded, and must have constantly met her eye, from Mrs. Thornycroft's spirited equestrian statue to the great pedestal and statue, in zinc, of her Majesty, crowned, in robes of State, with the sceptre in one hand and the orb in the other, modelled by Danton, which stood in the centre of the foreign nave.
What enhanced the fascination of the scene to untravelled spectators was that without the deliberate contrivance brought to perfection in the great Paris Exhibition, real Chinamen walked among their junks and pagodas, Russians stood by their malachite gates, Turks hovered about their carpets.
Women's quaint or exquisite work, whether professional or amateur, was not absent. It was notable in the magnificent covers for the head and footboard of a bed which had occupied thirty girls for many weeks, and in a carpet worked in squares by a company of ladies, and presented as a tribute of their respect and love for the most unremittingly diligent woman in England, her Majesty the Queen.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE QUEEN'S ACCOUNT OF THE OPENING OF THE EXHIBITION.
Of all the many descriptions of the Exhibition of 1851, which survive after more than thirty years, the best are those written by the Queen, which we gratefully borrow, as we have already borrowed so many of the extracts from her journal in the Prince's "Life."
Sir Theodore Martin has alluded to the special attraction lent to the Exhibition on its opening day by the excitement of the glad ceremonial, the throng of spectators, the Court element with "its splendid toilets" and uniforms, while Thackeray has a verse for the chief figure.
Behold her in her royal place,
A gentle lady, and the hand
That sways the sceptre of this land,
How frail and weak
Soft is the voice and fair the face;
She breathes amen to prayer and hymn
No wonder that her eyes are dim,
And pale her cheek.
But she has deigned to speak for herself, and no other speaks words so noble and tender in their simplicity.
"May 1st. The great event has taken place, a complete and beautiful triumph, a glorious and touching sight, one which I shall ever be proud of for my beloved Albert and my country…. Yes, it is a day which makes my heart swell with pride and glory and thankfulness.
"We began it with tenderest greetings for the birthday of our dear little Arthur. At breakfast there was nothing but congratulations…. Mamma and Victor (the Queen's nephew, son of the Princess of Hohenlohe, now well-known as Count Gleichen) were there, and all the children and our guests. Our humble gifts of toys were added to by a beautiful little bronze replica of the 'Amazon' (Kiss's) from the Prince (of Prussia), a beautiful paper-knife from the Princess (of Prussia), and a nice little clock from mamma.
"The Park presented a wonderful spectacle, crowds streaming through it, carriages and troops passing quite like the Coronation day, and for me the same anxiety; no, much greater anxiety, on account of my beloved Albert. The day was bright, and all bustle and excitement…. At half-past eleven the whole procession, in State carriages, was in motion…. The Green Park and Hyde Park were one densely crowded mass of human beings in the highest good-humour and most enthusiastic. I never saw Hyde Park look as it did, as far as the eye could reach. A little rain fell just as we started, but before we came near the Crystal Palace the sun shone and gleamed upon the gigantic edifice, upon which the flags of all the nations were floating. We drove up Rotten Row and got out at the entrance on that side.
"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 which, 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 (now Duchess of Teck), 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 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 for ever. God bless my dearest Albert, God bless my dearest country, which has shown itself so great to-day! One felt so grateful to the great God who seemed to pervade 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 peculiarity, beauty, and combination of such different and striking 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.
"Albert left my side after "God save the Queen" had been sung, and at the head of the commissioners, a curious assemblage of political and distinguished men, read me the report, which is a long one, and to which I read a short answer; after which the Archbishop of Canterbury offered up a short and appropriate prayer, followed by the "Hallelujah Chorus," during which the Chinese mandarin came forward and made his obeisance. This concluded, the procession began. It was beautifully arranged and of great length, the prescribed order being exactly adhered to. The nave was full, which had not been intended; but still there was no difficulty, and the whole long walk, from one end to the other, was made in the midst of continued and deafening cheers and waving of handkerchiefs. Everyone's face was bright and smiling, many with tears in their eyes. Many Frenchmen called out "Vive la Reine!" One could, of course, see nothing but what was near in the nave, and nothing in the courts. The organs were but little heard, but the military band at one end had a very fine effect as we passed along. They played the march from Athalie…. The old Duke and Lord Anglesey walked arm in arm, which was a touching sight. I saw many acquaintances among those present. We returned to our own place, and Albert told Lord Breadalbane to declare that the Exhibition was opened, which he did in a loud voice: 'Her Majesty commands me to declare this Exhibition open,' which was followed by a flourish of trumpets and immense cheering. All the commissioners, the executive committee, who worked so hard, and to whom such immense praise is due, seemed truly happy, and no one more so than Paxton, who may be justly proud; he rose from being a common gardener's boy. Everybody was astonished and delighted, Sir George Grey (Home Secretary) in tears.
"The return was equally satisfactory, the crowd most enthusiastic, the order perfect. We reached the palace at twenty minutes past one, and went out on the balcony and were loudly cheered, the Prince and Princess (of Prussia) quite delighted and impressed. That we felt happy, thankful, I need not say; proud of all that had passed, of my darling husband's success, and of the behaviour of my good people. I was more impressed than I can say by the scene. It was one that can never be effaced from my memory, and never will be from that of any one who witnessed it. Albert's name is immortalised, and the wicked reports of dangers of every kind, which a set of people, viz. the soi disant fashionables, the most violent Protectionists, spread, are silenced. It is therefore doubly satisfactory, and that all should have gone off so well, and without the slightest accident or mishap…. Albert's emphatic words last year, when he said that the feeling would be that of deep thankfulness to the Almighty for the blessings which He has bestowed on us here below this day realised….
"I must not omit to mention an interesting episode of this day, viz:— the visit of the good old Duke on this his eighty-second birthday to his little godson, our dear little boy. He came to us both at five, and gave him a golden cup and some toys, which he had himself chosen, and Arthur gave him a nosegay.
"We dined en famille, and then went to the Covent Garden Opera, where we saw the two finest acts of the Huguenots given as beautifully as last year. I was rather tired, but we were both so happy, so full of thankfulness! God is indeed our kind and merciful Father."
In answer to Lord John Russell's statement, on the close of the Exhibition, that the great enterprise and the spirit in which it had been conducted would contribute "to give imperishable fame to Prince Albert," the Queen asserted that year would ever remain the happiest and proudest of her life.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE QUEEN'S "RESTORATION BALL" AND THE "GUILDHALL BALL."
The season of the first Exhibition was full of movement and gaiety, in which the Queen and Prince Albert joined. They had also the pleasure of welcoming their brother and sister, the Duke and Duchess of Saxe Coburg, who arrived to witness the Prince's triumph. As usual he came forward on every occasion when his services, to which his position and personal gifts lent double value, were needed—whether he presided at an Academy dinner, or at a meeting of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, or laid the foundation of the Hospital for Consumption, or attended the meeting of the British Association, and the Queen delighted in his popularity and usefulness.
On the 4th of May Baroness Bunsen was at Stafford House "when her there," and thus describes the Queen. "The Queen looked charming, and I could not help the same reflection that I have often made before, that she is the only piece of female royalty I ever saw who was also a creature such as almighty God has created. Her smile is a real smile, her grace is natural; although it has received a high polish from cultivation, there is nothing artificial about it. Princes I have seen several whose first characteristic is that of being men rather than princes, though not many. The Duchess of Sutherland is the only person I have seen, when receiving the Queen, not giving herself the appearance of a visitor in her own house by wearing a bonnet."
On the 16th of May the Queen and the Prince were at Devonshire House, when Lord Lytton's comedy of "Not so Bad as we Seem" was played by Dickens, Foster, Douglas Jerrold, on behalf of the new "Guild of Literature and Art," in which hopes for poor authors were cheerfully entertained.
On the 23rd of May Lord Campbell was anticipating the Queen's third costume ball with as much complacency as if the eminent lawyer had been a young girl. "We are invited to the Queen's fancy ball on the 13th of June," he wrote "where we are all to appear in the characters and costume of the reign of Charles II. I am to go as Sir Matthew Hale, Chief Justice, and I am now much occupied in considering my dress, that is to say, which robe I am to wear—scarlet, purple, or black. The only new articles I shall have to order are my black velvet coif, a beard with moustaches, and a pair of shoes with red heels, and red rosettes."
The period chosen for the Restoration Ball was the time midway between the dates of the Plantagenet and the Powder Ball.
As on former occasions, the Court walked in procession to the throne- room, where each quadrille passed in turn before the Queen and Prince Albert.
Her Majesty's dress was of grey watered silk, trimmed with gold and silver lace, and ornamented with bows of rose-coloured riband fastened by bouquets of diamonds. The front of the dress was open, and the under-skirt was made of cloth of gold embroidered in a shawl pattern in silver. The gloves and shoes were embroidered alternately with roses and fleurs-de-lys in gold. On the front of the body of the dress were four large pear-shaped emeralds of great value. The Queen wore a small diamond crown on the top of her head, and a large emerald set in diamonds, with pearl loops, on one side of the head; the hair behind plaited with pearls.
Prince Albert wore a coat of rich orange satin, brocaded with gold, the sleeves turned up with crimson velvet, a pink silk epaulette on one shoulder; a baldrick of gold lace embroidered with silver for the sword; the breeches of crimson velvet with pink satin bows and gold lace, the stockings of lavender silk, the sash of white silk, gold fringed.
There were four national quadrilles. The English Quadrille was led by the Marchioness of Ailesbury; the Scotch Quadrille was under the guidance of the young Marchioness of Stafford, daughter-in-law of the Duke of Sutherland; the French Quadrille was led by Countess Flahault, the representative of the old barons Keith, and the wife of a brilliant Frenchman; the Spanish Quadrille was marshalled by Countess Granville. There were two more Quadrilles, the one under the control of the Countess of Wilton, the other, called the "Rose Quadrille," led by Countess Grey.
With all due deference to the opinion of the late Mr. Henry Greville, the accounts of these quadrilles leave the impression not only that they were arranged with finer taste, but that a considerable advance had been made in artistic perception and sense of harmony. The ladies in each quadrille were dressed alike, so were the gentlemen; thus there were no harsh contrasts. In the English set the ladies wore blue and white silk gowns with trimmings of rose-colour and gold. The gentlemen were in scarlet and gold, and blue velvet. Lady Waterford was in this set, and Lady Churchill, daughter of the Marquis of Conyngham, long connected with the Court. The Duke of Cambridge and Prince Edward of Saxe Weimar were among the gentlemen in the set.
Certainly it is a little hard to decide on what principle the exceedingly piquant costume of the ladies in the Scotch Quadrille was classed as Scotch. The ladies wore riding-habits of pale green taffeta ornamented with bows of pink ribbon, and had on grey hats with pink and white feathers. Lady Stafford carried a jewelled riding-whip. The gentlemen were in Highland costume.
In the French Quadrille the ladies wore white satin with bows of light blue ribbon opening over cloth of gold. The gentlemen were in the uniform of Mousquetaires. In this quadrille danced Lady Clementina Villiers, with her "marble-like beauty." She had ceased to be a Watteau shepherdess, and she had lost her companion shepherdess of old, but her intellectual gifts and fine qualities were developing themselves more and more. In the same dance was Lady Rose Lovell, the young daughter of the Duke of Beaufort, whose elopement at the age of seventeen with a gallant one-armed soldier had been condoned, so that she still played her part in the Court gala.
In the Spanish Quadrille the ladies wore black silk over grey damask, trimmed with gold lace and pink rosettes, and Spanish mantillas. The gentlemen were in black velvet, with a Spanish order embroidered in red silk on coat and cloak, grey silk stockings, and black velvet hats with red and yellow feathers. In this quadrille were the matronly beauties Lady Canning, Lady Jocelyn, and Lady Waldegrave.
After the quadrilles had been danced, the ladies falling into lines, advanced to the throne and did reverence, the gentlemen forming in like manner and performing the same ceremony. Her Majesty, and Prince Albert then proceeded to the ballroom, where Lady Wilton's and Lady Grey's quadrilles were danced. In the Rose Quadrille the ladies wore rose-coloured skirts over white moire, with rose-coloured bows and pearls, rose colour and pearls in the hair. Each lady wore a single red rose on her breast.
After the quadrilles, the Queen opened the general ball by dancing the Polonnaise with Prince Albert, the Duke of Cambridge, and Prince Edward of Saxe Weimar; Prince Albert dancing next with the Duchess of Norfolk, the premier peeress present. The Queen danced after supper with the Prince of Leiningen. He was at the Restoration as he had been at the Powder Ball, and wore black velvet and gold lace with orange ribbons.
The characters seem to have been chosen with more point than before.
The Countess of Tankerville personated a Duchesse de Grammont, in
right of her mother-in-law, Corisande de Grammont, grand-daughter of
Marie Antoinette's friend Gabrielle de Polignac.
Lady Ashburton was Madame de Sevigné, whose fashion of curls beginning in rings on the forehead and getting longer and longer towards the neck, was as much in demand for the ladies, as Philip Leigh's lovelocks were for the gentlemen.
Lady Hume Campbell was "La Belle Duchesse de Bourgogne;" Lady Middleton, Lucy Percy, Countess of Carlisle. Mrs. Abbot Lawrence vindicated her American nationality by representing Anna Dudley, the wife of an early governor of Massachusetts; Mr. Bancroft Davies, secretary of the United States legation, figured as William Penn.
Lady Londonderry and Miss Burdett Coutts were still remarkable for the splendour of their jewels. Lady Londonderry wore a girdle of diamonds, a diamond berthe, and a head-dress a blaze of precious stones, the whole valued roughly at a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Miss Burdett Coutts displayed a band of jewels, after the fashion of the gentlemen's baldricks, passing over one shoulder and terminating in a diamond clasp fastening back the upper skirt. After diamonds, which, like the blossom of the gorse, may be considered as always à la mode, the specialities of the Restoration Ball were Honiton lace, which was reckoned in better keeping with falling collars than old point, and an enormous expenditure of ribbons. Some of the magnificent collars, such as that of Lord Overton, were manufactured for the occasion. As for ribbons, not only did ladies' dresses abound in bows and rosettes, the gentlemen's doublets, "trunks," and sleeves, were profusely beribboned. The very shirt-sleeves, exposed by the coat- sleeves terminating at the elbow, were bound and festooned with ribbons; while from the ends of the waistcoat hung a waterfall of ribbons, like a Highlander's philabeg. Verily, the heart of Coventry must have rejoiced; the Restoration Ball might have been got up for its special benefit.
The Duke of Wellington was in the scarlet and gold uniform of the period, but he alone of all the gentlemen was privileged to wear his own scanty grey hair, which rendered him conspicuous. The old man walked between his two daughters-in-law, Lady Douro and Lady Charles Wellesley.
Lord Galway wore a plain cuirass and gorget so severely simple that it might have been mistaken for the guise of one of Cromwell's officers, who were otherwise unrepresented.
Mr. Gladstone was there as Sir Leoline Jenkins, judge of the High Court of Admiralty in Charles's reign. His dress was copied from an engraving in the British Museum. It was quiet enough, but it is difficult to realise "the grand old man" of to-day in a velvet coat turned up with blue satin, ruffles and collar of old point, black breeches and stockings, and shoes with spreading bows.
Sir Edwin Landseer, whom Miss Thackeray has described as helping to dress some of the ladies for this very ball, was so studiously plain that it must have looked like a protest against the use of "properties" in his apparel. He wore a dress of black silk, with no cloak, no mantle, no skirts to his coat. Round his neck was a light blue scarf, hanging low behind. He had on a grey wig, imitating partial baldness. There could have been no doubt of the historical correctness of the dress, though there might have been some question of its becomingness.
There were changes of some importance in the royal household at this time, caused by the retirement of General, afterwards Sir George Bowles, the Master of the Household, and of Mr. Birch, tutor to the Prince of Vales. With the assistance of Baron Stockmar, fitting successors for those gentlemen were found in Sir Thomas Biddulph and Mr. Frederick Gibbes.
The ball at Guildhall had been fixed for the 2nd of July, but the day was changed when it was remembered that the 2nd was the anniversary of the death of Sir Robert Peel. The entertainment was a very splendid affair. The city was continually progressing in taste and skill in these matters, and the times were so prosperous as to admit of large expenditure without incurring the charge of reckless extravagance. The Queen, Prince Albert, and their suite left Buckingham Palace, in State carriages, at nine o'clock on the summer evening, and drove through brilliantly illuminated streets, densely crowded with large numbers of foreigners as well as natives.
The great hall where the ball took place was magnificently fitted up, many ideas for the decoration being borrowed from the Exhibition. Thus there was a striking array of banners emblazoned with the arms of the nations and cities which had contributed to the Exhibition. "Above the centre shaft of each cluster of columns, shot up towards the roof a silver palm-tree, glittering and sparkling in the brilliant light so profusely shed around. On touching the roof these spread forth and ended in long branches of bright clustering broad leaves of green and gold, from which hung pendant rich bunches of crimson and ruby sparkling fruit." The compartments beneath the balconies were filled with pictures of the best known and most admired foreign contributions to the Exhibition—such as the Amazon group, the Malachite gates, the Greek Slave; &c., &c. Huge griffins had their places at the corners of the dais supporting the throne, while above it a gigantic plume of Prince of Wales's feathers reared itself in spun glass. The chambers and corridors of the Mansion House were fitted up with "acres of looking-glass, statuary, flowers, &c., &c.," provided for the crowd of guests that could not obtain admittance to the hall, where little room was left for dancing. The supper, to which the Queen was conducted, was in the crypt. It was made to resemble a baronial hall, "figures in mediaeval armour being scattered about as the bearers of the lights which illuminated the chamber." Before leaving, in thanking the Lord Mayor (Musgrove) for his hospitality, the Queen announced her intention of creating him a baronet. Her Majesty and the Prince took their departure at one o'clock, returning to Buckingham Palace through the lit streets and huzzaing multitude.
CHAPTER XX.
ROYAL VISITS TO LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER—CLOSE OF THE EXHIBITION.
On the 27th of August the Court left for Balmoral, travelling for the most part by the Great Northern Railway, but not, as now, making a rapid night and day journey. On the contrary, the journey lasted three days, with pauses for each night's rest between. Starting from Osborne at nine, the Royal party reached Buckingham Palace at half-past twelve. Halting for an hour and a half, they set off again at two. They stopped at Peterborough, where old Dr. Fisher, the Bishop, was able to greet in his Queen the little Princess who had repeated her lessons to him in Kensington Palace. No longer a solitary figure but for the good mother, she was herself a wife and mother, the happiest of the happy in both relations. The train stopped again at Boston and Lincoln for the less interesting purpose of the presentation and reception of congratulatory addresses on the Exhibition. The same ceremony was gone through at Doncaster where the party stayed for the night at the Angel Inn.
Leaving before nine on the following morning, after changing the line of railway at York, and stopping at Darlington and Newcastle, Edinburgh was reached in the course of the afternoon. Her Majesty and the Prince, with their children, proceeded to Holyrood, and before the evening was ended drove for an hour through the beautiful town. Here, too, the Exhibition bore its fruit in the honour of knighthood conferred on the Lord Provost.
On the third morning the travellers left again at eight o'clock, and journeyed as far as Stonehaven, where the royal carriages met them, and conveyed them to Balmoral, which was reached by half-past six. The Prince had now bought the castle and estate, seven miles in length, and four in breadth, and plans were formed for a new house more suitable for the accommodation of so large a household.
On the day after the Queen and Prince Albert's arrival in the
Highlands, he received the news of the death of his uncle, brother to
the late Duke of Coburg and to the Duchess of Kent, Duke Ferdinand of
Saxe-Coburg.
There is little to record of the happy sojourn in the North this year, with its deer-stalking, riding and driving, except that Hallam, the historian, and Baron Liebig, the famous chemist, visited Sir James Clark, the Queen's physician, at Birkhall, which he occupied, and were among the guests at Balmoral.
It had been arranged that the Queen and the Prince should visit Liverpool and Manchester on their way south, in order to give the great cities of Lancashire the opportunity of greeting and welcoming their Sovereign. It was the 8th of October before the royal party set out on their homeward journey, ending the first of the shortening days at Holyrood.
On the following day the strangers went on to the ancient dull little town of Lancaster, and drove to the castle, where the keys were presented, and an address read under John O'Gaunt's gateway. The tower stairs were mounted for the view over Morcambe Bay and the English lake country on the one hand, and away across level lands to the sea on the other. Every native of the town "wore a red rose or a red rosette, as emblems of the House of Lancaster."
The Queen and the Prince then proceeded to Prescot, where they left the railway, driving through Lord Derby's fine park at Knowsley, to be the guests of the Earl of Sefton at Croxteth. Next morning, when Liverpool was to be visited, a contretemps occurred. The weather was hopelessly wet; the whole party had to go as far as possible in closed carriages; afterwards the downpour was so irresistible that the Prince's large cloak had to be spread over the Queen and her children to keep them dry. But her Majesty's commiseration is almost entirely for the crowd on foot, "the poor people so wet and dirty." They spoil her pleasure in her enthusiastic reception and the fine buildings she passes.
The royal party drove along the docks, and in spite of the rain got out at the appointed place of embarkation, went on board the Fairy, accompanied by the Mayor and other officials, and sailed along the quays round the mouth of the Mersey, surveying the grand mass of shipping from the pavilion on deck as well as the dank mist would permit. On landing, the Town Hall and St. George's Hall were visited in succession. In the first the Queen received an address and knighted the Mayor. She admired both buildings—particularly St. George's, which she called "worthy of ancient Athens," and said it delighted Prince Albert. At both halls she presented herself on balconies in order to gratify the multitudes below.
The Queen left Liverpool by railway, going as far as Patricroft, where she was received by Lady Ellesmere and a party from Worsley, including the Duke of Wellington, Lord and Lady Westminster, and Lord and Lady Wilton. Her Majesty was to try a mode of travelling new to her. She had arrived at the Bridgewater Canal, one of the greatest feats of engineering in the last century, constructed by the public-spirited, eccentric Duke of Bridgewater, and Brindley the engineer. The Queen went on board a covered barge drawn by four horses. She describes the motion as gliding along "in a most noiseless and dream-like manner, amidst the cheers of the people who lined the sides of the canal." Thus she passed under the "beautifully decorated bridges" belonging to Lord Ellesmere's colliery villages.
Only at the hall-door of Worsley were Lord Ellesmere, lame with gout, and Lord Brackley, his son, "terribly delicate" from an accident in the hunting-field, the husband of one of the beautiful Cawdor Campbells, able to meet their illustrious guests. Henry Greville says her Majesty brought with her four children, two ladies-in-waiting, two equerries, a physician, a tutor, and a governess. Men of mechanical science seem to belong to Worsley, so that it sounds natural for the Queen and the Prince to have met there, during the evening, Nasmyth, the inventor of the steam-hammer, and to have examined his maps of his investigations in the moon, and his landscape-drawings, worthy of his father's son. The Queen and Prince Albert derived great pleasure from their passing intercourse with a man of varied gifts, whose sterling qualities they could well appreciate.
The next morning, the 10th of October, the weather was all that could be wished, but another and even more unfortunate complication threatened the success of the arrangements, on which the comfort of a few and the gratification of many thousands of persons depended. Prince Albert, never strong, was always liable to trying attacks of sleeplessness and sickness. In the course of the night he had been "very unwell, very sick and wretched for several hours." "I was terrified for our Manchester visit" wrote the Queen in her journal. "Thank God! by eight o'clock he felt much better, and was able to get up" indefatigable as ever.
At ten the party started to drive the seven miles to Manchester, escorted by Yeomanry and a regiment of Lancers, Lord Cathcart and his staff riding near the Queen's carriage through an ever-increasing crowd. The Queen was greatly interested in the rows of mill-workers between whom she passed, "dressed in their best, ranged along the streets, with white rosettes in their button-holes"—that patient, easily pleased crowd, which has an aspect half comical, half pathetic. Her Majesty admired the intelligent expression of both men and women, but was painfully struck with their puniness and paleness. In the Peel Park the visitors were greeted by a great demonstration, which her Majesty calls "extraordinary and unprecedented," of no less than eighty-two thousand school children, of every denomination, Jews as well as Christians. The Queen received and replied to an address, from her carriage, and the immense body of children sang "God save the Queen."
The party then drove through the principal streets of Salford and Manchester—the junction of the two being marked by a splendid triumphal arch, under which the Mayor and Corporation (dressed for the first time in robes of office—so democratic was Manchester), again met the Queen and presented her with a bouquet. At the Exchange she alighted to receive another address, to which she read an answer, and knighted the Mayor. Her Majesty missed "fine buildings," of which, with the exception of huge warehouses and factories, Manchester had then none to boast; but she was particularly struck by the demeanour of the inhabitants, in addition to what she was pleased to call their "most gratifying cheering and enthusiasm." "The order and good behaviour of the people, who were not placed behind any barriers, were the most complete we have seen in our many progresses through capitals and cities—London, Glasgow, Dublin, Edinburgh—for there never was a running crowd, nobody moved and therefore everybody saw well, and there was no squeezing…." The Queen heard afterwards that she had seen a million of human beings that day. In the afternoon her Majesty and the Prince, returned to Worsley.
Henry Greville tells an almost piteous incident of this visit, in relation to the Duke of Wellington and his advanced age, with the infirmities that could no longer be repelled. After saying that in order to prevent the procession's becoming too large, no other guest at Worsley was admitted into it, except the privileged old Duke, whom the teller of the story describes as driving in the carriage with Henry Greville's sister, Lady Enfield, one of the ladies in attendance on the Queen, he goes on to mention "he (the Duke) was received with extraordinary enthusiasm; notwithstanding Lady Enfield had to nudge him constantly, to keep him awake, both going and coming, with very little success." Lady Enfield adds a note to her brother's narrative. "The whole scene was one of the most exciting I ever saw in my life. Being carried away by the general enthusiasm, and feeling that the people would be disappointed if no notice was taken of their cheering, I at last exclaimed 'Duke, Duke, that's for you.' Thereupon he opened his eyes, and obediently made his well-known salutation, two fingers to the brim of his hat."
The next morning when the Prince had started by seven o'clock to inspect a model factory near Bolton, while there was a long and busy day before them, the Queen made a little entry in her journal which will find a sorrowful echo in many a faithful heart, "This day is full of sad recollections, being the anniversary of the loss of my beloved Louise (Queen of the Belgians), that kind, precious friend, that angelic being whose loss I shall ever feel."
The same pleasant passage was made by the canal back to Patricroft, where the railway carriages were entered and the train steamed to Stockport. Crewe, Stafford—there another old soldier, Lord Anglesey, was waiting—Rugby, Weedon, Wolverton, and Watford, then at five o'clock the railway journey ended. The royal carriages were in attendance, and rest and home were near at hand. The day had been hot and fatiguing, but the evening was soft and beautiful with moonlight; a final change of horses at Uxbridge, the carriage shut when the growing darkness prevented any farther necessity for seeing and being seen; at half-past seven, Windsor, and the three little children still up and at the door "well and pleased."
From Windsor the Court went for some days to London for the closing of the Exhibition. The number of visitors had been six millions two hundred thousand, and the total receipts five hundred thousand pounds. There had not been a single accident, "We ought, indeed, to be thankful to God for such a success," the Prince wrote reverently. On the 14th of October the Queen paid a farewell visit to the place in which she had been so much interested, with the regret natural on such an occasion. "It looked so beautiful," she wrote in her journal, "that I could not believe it was the last time I was to see it." But already the dismantling had begun.
The Queen refers in the next breath to a heroine of the Exhibition, an old Cornish woman named Mary Kerlynack, who had found the spirit to walk several hundreds of miles to behold the wonder of her generation. This day she was at one of the doors to see another sight, the Queen. "A most hale old woman" her Majesty thought Mary, "who was near crying at my looking at her."
On the 15th, a cheerlessly wet day, in keeping with a somewhat melancholy scene, Prince Albert and his fellow commissioners closed the Exhibition—a ceremony at which it was not judged desirable the Queen should be present, though she grieved not to witness the end as well as the beginning. "How sad and strange to think this great and bright time has passed away like a dream," her Majesty wrote once more in her diary. The day of the closing of the Exhibition happened to be the twelfth anniversary of the Queen's betrothal to the Prince.
The tidings arrived in the course of November of the death, in his eighty-first year, in the old palace of Herrenhausen, on the 18th of the month, of the King of Hanover, the fifth, and last surviving son of George III and Queen Charlotte. He had been more popular as a king than as a prince.
The arrival of Kossuth in England in the autumn of 1851 had brought a disturbing element into international politics. But it was left for Louis Napoleon's coup d'état in Paris on the 2nd of December, when the blood shed so mercilessly on the Boulevards was still fresh in men's minds, to get Lord Palmerston into a dilemma, from which there was no disentanglement but the loss of office on his part.
An impetus, great though less lasting than it seemed, was given this year to emigration to Australia, by the discovery in the colony of gold in quartz beds, under much the same conditions that the precious metal had been found in California. The diggings, with the chance of a large nugget, became for a time the favourite dream of adventurers. Nay, the dream grew to such an absorbing desire, that men heard of it as a disease known as "the gold fever." And quiet people at home were told that it was hardly safe for a ship to enter some of the Australian harbours, on account of the certainty of the desertion of the crew, under whatever penalties, that they might repair to the last El Dorado.
The successful ambition of Louis Napoleon and his power over the French army, began to excite the fears of Europe with regard to French aggression, and a renewal of the desolating wars of the beginning of the century; before the talk about the Exhibition and the triumphs of peace had well died on men's lips. The Government was anxious to fall back on the old resource of calling out the militia, with certain modifications and changes—brought before Parliament in the form of a Militia Bill. It did not meet with the approval of the members any more than of the Duke of Wellington, whose experience gave his opinion much weight. Lord Palmerston spoke with great ability against the measure. The end was that the Government suffered a defeat, and the Ministry resigned office in February, 1852. This time Lord Derby was successful in forming a new Cabinet, in which Mr. Disraeli was Chancellor of the Exchequer. A fresh Militia Bill was brought forward and carried by the new Government, after it had received the warm advocacy of the Duke of Wellington. The old man spoke in its favour with an amount of vigour and clear-headedness which showed that however his bodily strength might be failing, his mental power remained untouched.
CHAPTER XXI.
DISASTERS—YACHTING TRIPS—THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
The month of February, 1852, was unhappily distinguished by three great English calamities, accompanied by extensive loss of life. The first was the destruction of the West India mail steamer Amazon by fire, as she was entering the Bay of Biscay, in which a hundred and forty persons perished, among them Eliot Warburton, the accomplished traveller and author.
The second was the wreck of her Majesty's troop-ship Birkenhead near the Cape of Good Hope, with the loss of upwards of four hundred lives, in circumstances when the discipline and devotion of the men were of the noblest description. The third was the bursting of the Bilberry Reservoir in midland England, with the sacrifice of nearly a hundred lives and a large amount of property.
When the season commenced, and it was this year, as last, particularly gay, a reflection of the general prosperity of the country, with the high hopes inspired by the Australian gold-fields, the Queen wrote to the King of the Belgians in order to re-assure him with regard to a fear which seems to have arisen in the elderly man's mind, that she whom he remembered at the beginning of her reign as fond of pleasure and untiring in her amusements, might be swept away in the tide. "Allow me just to say one word about the London season. The London season for us consists of two State balls and two concerts. (The State balls and concerts are given to this day, though her Majesty, since her widowhood, has ceased to attend them. The Queen's place and that of Prince Albert in these social gaieties, have been naturally taken by the Prince and Princess of Wales.) We are hardly ever later than twelve o'clock at night, and our only dissipation is going three or four times a week to the play or opera, which is a great amusement and relaxation to us both. As for going out as people do here every night, to balls and parties, and to breakfasts and teas all day long besides, I am sure no one would stand it worse than I should; so you see, dearest uncle, that in fact the London season is nothing to us."
So much higher, and more solid and lasting, as they should have been, were the pursuits and gratifications of the woman, the wife and mother, than of the young girl.
The Queen added that the only one who was fagged was the Prince, and that from business and not pleasure, a result which made her often anxious and unhappy. Indeed, this suspicion of precarious health on Prince Albert's part was the cloud the size of a man's hand that kept hovering on the horizon in the summer sky.
Parliament was prorogued and dissolved at the same time at an unusually early date, the first of July, so that the season itself came to a speedy end.
Before the Queen left London, she was present at the baptism and stood sponsor for the young Hindoo Princess Gouromma, the pale, dark, slender girl whose picture looks down on the visitor at Buckingham Palace. She had been brought to England by her father, the Rajah of Coorg, a high-caste Hindoo, who desired that she should be brought up a Christian. He was one of the princes of Northern India, whose inheritance had become a British possession. He lived at Benares under the control of the East India Company, and had an allowance from Government as well as a large private fortune. The little princess was the same age as the Princess Royal, eleven years. She was the daughter of the Rajah's favourite wife, who had died immediately after the infant's birth. The ceremony took place in the private chapel of Buckingham Palace. The Archbishop of Canterbury officiated. Besides the Queen, the sponsors were Lady Hardinge, Mr. Drummond, and Sir James Weir Hogg, the chairman of the East India Company. The little girl received the name "Victoria." The Rajah returned soon afterwards to India.
The Court had longer time to enjoy the sea air and quiet of Osborne, where, however, sorrow intruded in the shape of the news of the death of Count Mensdorff, the uncle by marriage both of the Queen and Prince Albert, to whom they were warmly attached. Though he had been no prince, only a French emigrant officer in the Austrian service, when he married the sister of the Duchess of Kent, he was held in high esteem by his wife's family for the distinction with which he had served as a soldier, and for his many good qualities.
Princess Hohenlohe, with a son and daughter, came to Osborne as a stage to Scotland and Abergeldie, where she was to visit her mother, the Duchess of Kent, and where she could also best enjoy the Queen's society. The poor Princess, who made a stay of several months in this country, had need of a mother's and a sister's sympathy. A heavy sorrow had lately befallen her. The eldest daughter of the Hohenlohe family, Princess Elise, a girl of great promise, had died at Venice of consumption in her twenty-first year.
Yachting excursions were again made to Devonshire and Cornwall, to Torquay and the often-visited beauties of Mount Edgcumbe and the banks of the Tamar. There was a proposal of a visit to the King of the Belgians, with the Channel Islands to be touched at on the way. One part of the programme had to be given up, on account of the tempestuous weather. The yacht, after waiting to allow Prince Albert to pay a flying visit—the last—to the Duke of Wellington at Walmer, ran up the Scheldt in one of the pauses in the storm, and the travellers reached Antwerp at seven o'clock on the morning of the 11th of August, "in a hurricane of wind and rain."
But the weather is of little consequence when friends meet. King Leopold was waiting for his welcome guests, and immediately carried them off to his country palace, for their visit this time was to him and not to any of the old Flemish towns.
The Queen and Prince Albert, with their children, stayed at Laeken for three days, returning to Antwerp in time for a visit to the cathedral and the museum, before sailing in the same unpropitious weather for Flushing. The intention was still to cross on the following morning to the Channel Islands, but the wet, wild weather did not change, and the yacht remained where it was, the Queen indemnifying herself for the disappointment by landing and going over an old Dutch town and a farmhouse, with which she was much pleased.
On the 30th of August the Court went to Balmoral by Edinburgh. Soon after her arrival the Queen had the gratifying intelligence that a large legacy, about two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, had been left to her and her heirs by one of her subjects—Mr. Campden Nield— a gentleman without near relatives, who had lived in the most penurious way, denying himself the very necessaries of life.
The Queen's comment on the bequest to King Leopold was like her. "It is astonishing, but it is satisfactory to see that people have so much confidence that it will not be thrown away, and so it certainly will not be." Baron Stockmar held with some justice that it was "a monument reared to the Queen during her life, in recognition of her simple, honourable, and constitutional career."
Her Majesty and Prince Albert went on the 16th of September for their customary two days' stay by Loch Muich, though they had been startled in the morning by a newspaper report of the death of the Duke of Wellington at Walmer. But the rumour had arisen so often during these many years that nobody believed it, now that it was true.
The little party started in the course of the forenoon on a showery day. Arrived at the Loch, the Queen walked up the side to Alt-na- Dearg, a "burn" and fall, then rode up the ravine hung with birch and mountain-ash, and walked again along the top of the steep hills to points which command a view of Lord Panmure's country, "Mount Keen and the Ogilvie Hills."
A little farther on, while resting and looking down on the Glassalt Shiel and the head of the loch, the Queen, by a curious coincidence, missed the watch which the Duke of Wellington had given her. Her Majesty sent back a keeper to inquire about her loss; in the meanwhile she walked on and descended by the beautiful falls of the Glassalt, one hundred and fifty feet in height, which she compares to those of the Bruar. The cottage or shiel of the Glassalt had just been built for the Queen, and offered accommodation in its dainty little dining- room and drawing-room for her to rest and refresh herself. After she had eaten luncheon, she set out again on a pony, passed another waterfall, called the Burn of the Spullan, and reached the wild solitary Dhu Loch.
The Queen had sat down to sketch when the keeper returned to tell her that the watch was safe at home; but that was not all. He brought a letter from Lord Derby with a melancholy confirmation of the report of the morning. The Duke of Wellington was dead. The Queen calls the news "fatal," and with something of the fond exaggeration of a daughter, writes of the dead man as "England's—rather Britannia's—pride, her glory, her hero, the greatest man she ever had produced."
We can understand it, when we remember how closely connected he was with all her previous career, from her cradle till now. He had taken pride in her, advised her, obeyed her, with half a father's, half a servant's devotion. The King of the Belgians was hardly more her second father than the Duke of Wellington had been.
Besides, the Duke was not only a soldier; he had been a statesman, tried and true as far as his vision extended; brave here no less than in the stricken field, honest with an upright man's straightforwardness, wise with a practical man's sense of what could and could not be done, what must be yielded when the time came.
The Queen might well mourn for her grey-bearded captain, her faithful old councillor. There was one comfort, that the Duke had reached a good old age, and died after a few hours illness, without suffering. He simply fell asleep, and awoke no more in this world. His old antagonist, Marshal Soult, had pre-deceased him only by a few months.
The Queen sums up the position: "One cannot think of this country without 'the Duke,' our immortal hero."
Her Majesty hastened down on foot to the head of Loch Muich, and rode back in the rain to Alt-na-Giuthasach to write to Lord Derby and Lord Charles Wellesley, who had been with his father in his last hours. She wrote mournfully in her journal: "We shall soon stand sadly alone. Aberdeen is almost the only personal friend of that kind left to us. Melbourne, Peel, Liverpool, now the Duke, all gone!…."
Invitations were countermanded, and the Court went into mourning. The Queen was right that the sorrow was universal. The ships in the Thames and in all the English ports had their flags half-mast high, the church bells were tolled, business was done "with the great exchanges half-shuttered," garrison music was forbidden.
The Duke had left no directions with regard to his funeral, and it was fitting that it should receive the highest honour Sovereign and people could pay. But the Queen refrained from issuing an order, preferring that the country should take the initiative. It was necessary to wait till the 11th of November, when Parliament must meet. In the meantime the body of the Duke was placed under a Guard of Honour at Walmer. Viscount Hardinge was appointed Commander-in-Chief.
The Court left Balmoral on the 12th of October, about a month after the Duke of Wellington's death, and on the 11th—a day which the Queen calls in her journal "a very happy, lucky, and memorable one"—her Majesty and Prince Albert, with their family, household, tenants, servants, and poorer neighbours, ascended Craig Gowan, a hill near Balmoral, for the purpose of building a cairn, which was to commemorate the Queen and the Prince's having taken possession of their home in the north. At the "Moss House," half-way up, the Queen's piper met her, and preceded her, playing as he went. Not the least welcome among the company already collected were the children of the keepers and other retainers, with whom her Majesty was familiar in their own homes. She calls them her "little friends," and enumerates them in a motherly way, "Mary Symons, and Lizzie Stewart, the four Grants, and several others."
The Queen laid the first stone of the cairn, Prince Albert the next. Their example was followed by the Princes and Princesses, according to their ages, and by the members of the household. Finally every one present "came forward at once, each person carrying a stone and placing it on the cairn." The piper played, whiskey was handed round. The work of building went on for an hour, during which "some merry reels were danced on a flat stone opposite." All the old people danced, apparently to her Majesty's mingled gratification and diversion. Again the happy mother of seven fine children notices particularly the children and their performance. "Many of the children—Mary Symons and Lizzie Stewart especially—danced so nicely, the latter with her hair all hanging down."
There is another little paragraph which is very characteristic of the love of animals, and the faithful remembrance of old landmarks, well- known features in the Queen's character. "Poor dear old Monk, Sir Robert Gordon's (the former owner of Balmoral) faithful old dog, was sitting there among us all."
When the cairn ("seven or eight feet high") was all but finished, Prince Albert climbed to the top and deposited the last stone, when three cheers were given. The Queen calls it "a gay, pretty, and touching sight," that almost made her cry. "The view was so beautiful over the dear hills; the day so fine, the whole so gemüthlich." She ends reverently, "May God bless this place, and allow us to see it and enjoy it many a long year."
CHAPTER XXII.
THE IRON DUKE'S FUNERAL.
On the 11th of November the Parliament met and voted the Duke a public funeral in the City cathedral of St. Paul's, by the side of Nelson, the great soldier and the great sailor bearing each other company in their resting-place, in the middle of the people whom they had saved from foreign dominion.
The hearse with the body had left Walmer at seven o'clock on the morning of the 10th, minute guns being fired in succession from the castles of Walmer, Deal, and Sandown, startling the sea-mews hovering over the Goodwin Sands, causing the sailors in the foreign vessels in the Downs to ask if England had gone to war. From the railway station in London, the coffin was escorted by Life Guards to Chelsea, where it was received by the Lord Chamberlain and conducted to the great hall for the lying-in-state, which occupied four days.
The fine old hospital, where so many of the Duke's soldiers had found refuge, which Wilkie had painted for him at the moment when the pensioners were listening to the reading of the Gazette that announced the victory of Waterloo, was carefully prepared for the last scene but one of a hero's life. Corridors, vestibule, and hall were hung with black cloth and velvet, and lit with tall candles in silver candelabra. Trophies of tattered banners, the spoils of the many victories of him who had just yielded to the last conqueror, were surmounted by the royal standard; Grenadiers lined hall and vestibule, their heads bent over their reversed arms. A plumed canopy of black velvet and silver was raised over a dais, with a carpet of cloth of gold, on which rested the gilt and crimson coffin. At the foot of the bier hung the mace and insignia of the late Duke's numerous orders of knighthood; and on ten pedestals, with golden lions in front, were the eight field-marshals' batons of eight different kingdoms, which had been bestowed on him. On the ninth and tenth pedestals were placed the Great Banner and the banner of Wellesley.
The Queen and Prince Albert came privately with their children, early on the first day, a windy, rainy Saturday in November, to view the lying-in-state.
On the night before the funeral the coffin was removed to the Horse Guards, over which Wellington had so long presided, where it is said that in the early days of his career he met Nelson. Early next morning the coffin was conveyed to a pavilion on the parade, whence it was lifted to the car which was to convey it to St. Paul's.
Not later than six o'clock on the morning of the 18th, the troops in large numbers began to muster in Hyde Park, under the direction of the Duke of Cambridge. The streets and windows were lined with seats covered with black cloth. Barriers were raised at the mouths of the side streets in the line of route, to prevent the danger of any side rush. In the dread of missing the sight, hundreds of people took up their position the night before, and kept it during the dark hours, in spite of wind and rain. All the richer classes were in mourning; indeed, whoever could bring out a scrap of black did so. There was a peculiar hush and touch of solemnity, which had its effect on the roughest in the million and a half of spectators.
At a quarter before eight, nineteen minute guns were fired in the park, the walls of the pavilion were suddenly drawn up, revealing the funeral car and its sacred burden. Instantly the troops presented arms for the last time to their late commander, and the drums beat "a long and heavy roll, increasing like the roll of thunder." The words "to reverse arms" were then given, and the funeral procession began to move. First came battalion after battalion of infantry, commencing with the rifles, the bands playing "The Dead March in Saul," the trumpets of the cavalry taking up "the wailing notes." "As the dark mass of the rifles appeared, and the solemn dead march was heard, the people were deeply affected, very many of both sexes to tears…. Great interest was felt as the Duke's regiment, the 33rd, passed." Squadrons of cavalry were succeeded by seventeen guns; the Chelsea Pensioners, old men, like him whose remains they followed, to the number of eighty three—his years on earth; one soldier from every regiment in her Majesty's service, to say that none had been left out, when their leader was borne to his grave; standards and pennons; deputations from public bodies—Merchant Taylors' Company, East India Company, and the deputation from the Common Council of London, joining the procession at Temple Bar; more standards, high officials, Sheriffs, and Knights of the Bath; the Judges, members of the Ministry, and Houses of Parliament; the Archbishop of Canterbury; the Lord Mayor of London carrying the City Sword; His Royal Highness Prince Albert, attended by the Marquesses of Exeter and Abercorn— Lord Chamberlain and Groom of the Stole; the Great Banner, borne by an officer, and supported by two officers on horseback; the Field- marshals' batons—each carried by a foreign officer of high rank— which every country in Europe, except France and Austria, had entrusted to the care of the Great Duke. To the imposing scene to-day France, like an honorable enemy, sent a representative; but Austria, still smarting under the affront to Haynau, was conspicuous by absence. The English Field-marshal's baton was borne on its cushion by the Duke's old comrade in arms, the Marquis of Anglesey. The Duke's coronet followed. Then the pall-bearers—eight generals in mourning coaches. At length the huge funeral car, heavily wrought and emblazoned and inscribed with the names of the Duke's battles, drawn by twelve horses, with five officers on horseback, bearing the banneroles of the lineage of the deceased, riding on either side. On the car was placed the coffin, and on the coffin rested the hat and sword of the dead commander…. Every emotion, save that of solemn awe, was hushed. The massive structure moved on its course with a steady pressure, and produced a heavy dull sound, as it ground its path over the road…. But the car, apart from its vast size, passed unnoticed, for on its highest stage rested a red velvet coffin, which contained all that was mortal of England's greatest son. It seemed that a thousand memories of his great and long career were awakened at the sight of that narrow tenement of so great a man…. The voice which had cried "Up, Guards, and at them!" at the critical moment on the afternoon of that rainy Sunday at Waterloo, thirty-seven years before, was silent for ever. The sagacious and skilled brain which had planned so well the defence of London from the threatened outbreak of the Chartists, would plan no more for Queen and country. No longer would the shouting crowd press round him on every gala, and strangers watch patiently near the Horse Guards for one of the sights of London— the eagle face of the conqueror of him who conquered Europe.
"No more in soldier fashion would he greet,
With lifted hand, the gazer in the street."
Wellington was making his way from the Horse Guards for the last time, attended by such a mighty multitude as seldom waits on the steps of Kings, hardly ever with such mute reverence as they gave him that day. The "good grey head" of "the last Great Englishman" was about to be laid in the dust, and his best epitaph was Tennyson's line—
"One that sought but duty's iron crown."
Behind the car came the chief mourner, accompanied by his younger brother, with cousins and relatives to the last degree of kindred, and friends filling a long train of mourning coaches. Then followed what moved the people more than all the splendour, because it came like a touch of homely nature appealing to all, in a familiar part of the life that was gone, the late Duke's horse, led by John Mears, his aged groom. The horse might have been "Copenhagen," which had borne the Duke in the thick of his greatest battle, and died long since at Strathfieldsaye, so eagerly did the crowds gaze on it. More carriages and troops closed the march.
And she was not absent who had held the dead man in such high esteem, whom he had so loved and honoured. From two different points—as if she were reluctant to see the last of her old friend—from the balcony of Buckingham Palace, where the Royal Standard floated half-mast high, as the funeral passed up Constitution Hill, and again from the windows of St. James's Palace, as the melancholy train went down St. James's Street, the Queen, surrounded by her children and her young cousins from Belgium, looked down on the solemn pageant.
Nearly twenty thousand privileged persons—many of them of high rank, filled St. Paul's, black-draped and gas-lit on the dark November day. After the funeral company were seated, the body, which had been received at the west entrance by the Bishop of London and the other clergy of the Cathedral, was carried up the nave to the chanting of "I am the Resurrection and the Life." The spurs were borne by one herald, the helmet and crest by another, the sword and target by a third, the surcoat by a fourth, the foreign batons by their foreign bearers, the English baton by Lord Anglesey.
Among the psalms and anthems, a dirge accompanied by trumpets was sung, "And the King said to all the people that were with him, rend your clothes and gird you with sackcloth and mourn. And the King himself followed the bier. And they buried him; and the King lifted up his voice and wept at the grave, and all the people wept. And the King said unto his servants, Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel."
An affecting incident occurred, when, at the conclusion of this dirge, the body was lowered into the crypt to the "intensely mournful" sound of "The Dead March in Saul." As the coffin with the coronet and baton slowly descended, and thus the great warrior departed from the sight of men, a sense of heavy depression came on the whole assembly. Prince Albert was deeply moved, and the aged Marquess of Anglesey, the octogenarian companion in arms of the deceased, by an irresistible impulse stepped forward, placed his hand on the sinking coffin that contained the remains of his chief in many battles, and burst into tears.
"In the vast Cathedral leave him;
God accept him, Christ receive him."