My first and very pleasant contact with Royalty had taken place at Dessau, while I was a schoolboy. When afterwards I went to the University of Berlin, the Duchess of Dessau had given me an introduction to Alexander von Humboldt, and while I was in Paris, working at the then Bibliothèque Royale, Humboldt had used his powerful influence with the King, Frederick William IV., to help me in publishing my edition of the “Rig Veda” in Germany. Nothing, however, came of that plan; it proved too costly for any private publisher, even with Royal assistance. But when, after having published the first volume in England, under the patronage of the East India Company, I passed some weeks at Berlin, in 1850, collating some of the Vedic MSS. in the Royal Library there, I received a message from Humboldt that the King wished to see me.

Frederick William IV. was a man of exceptional talent, nay, a man of genius. I had heard much about him from Bunsen, who was a true friend and confidant of the King, ever since they had met at Rome. I had seen some of the King’s letters to Bunsen; some of them, if I remember rightly, signed, not by the King’s name, but by Congruentia Incongruentium, probably from his imagining that the different opinions and counsels of his various friends and advisers would find their solution in him. This idea, if it was entertained by the King, would account for the many conflicting sides of his character, and the frequent changes in his opinions. I presented my volume of the “Rig Veda” to him at a private audience. He knew all about it, and had so much to tell me about the oldest book of mankind, that I had hardly a chance to say anything myself. But it was impossible to listen to him without feeling that one was in the presence of a mind of very considerable grasp and of high and noble ideals.

A few days after this audience I received an invitation to dine with the King at Potsdam, and Humboldt wrote to me that he would take me in his carriage.

But a curious intermezzo happened. While I was quietly sitting in my room with my mother, a young lieutenant of police entered, and began to ask a number of extremely silly questions—why I had come to Berlin, when I meant to return to England, what had kept me so long at Berlin, etc. After I had fully explained to him that I was collating Sanskrit MSS. at the Royal Library, he became more peremptory, and informed me that the police authorities thought that a fortnight must be amply sufficient for that purpose (how I wished that it had been so), and that they requested me to leave Berlin in twenty-four hours. I produced my passport, perfectly en règle; I explained that I wanted but another week to finish my work. It was all of no avail, I was told that I must leave in twenty-four hours. I then collected my thoughts, and said very quietly to the young lieutenant, “Please to tell the police authorities that I shall, of course, obey orders, and leave Berlin at once, but that I must request them to inform His Majesty the King that I shall not be able to dine with him to-night at Potsdam.” The poor young man thought I was laughing at him, but when he saw that I was in earnest he looked thunderstruck, bowed, and went away. All this seems now almost incredible even to myself while I am writing it down, but so it was. Nor was the explanation far to seek. One of my friends, with whom I had been almost every day, was Dr. Goldstücker, a young Sanskrit scholar, who had been mixed up with political intrigues, and had long been under strict surveillance. I was evidently looked upon as an emissary from England, then considered the focus of all political conspiracies; possibly my name had been found in the Black Book as a dangerous man, who, when he was about eighteen, had belonged to a secret society, and had sung Arndt’s song, “Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland,” before Bismarck sang it in his own way. It was not long, however, before another police official appeared, an elderly gentleman of very pleasant manners, who explained to me how sorry he was that the young lieutenant of police should have made so foolish a mistake. He begged me entirely to forget what had happened, as it would seriously injure the young lieutenant’s prospects if I lodged a complaint against him. I promised to forget, and, at all events, not to refer to what had happened in the Royal presence.

Humboldt and I drove to Potsdam, and I had a most delightful dinner and evening party. The King was extremely gracious, full of animated conversation, and evidently in the best of humours. While the Queen was speaking to me, he walked up to us, bowed to the Queen, and said to her, not to me, “S’il vous plait, monsieur.” With this sally he took her arm and walked into the dining-room. We followed and sat down, and during the whole dinner the King carried on a conversation in a voice so loud that no one else ventured to speak. I watched the King, and saw how his face became more and more flushed, while he hardly touched a drop of wine during the whole of dinner.

After dinner we all stood, and the King walked about from one to the other.

Humboldt, who was at that time an old man, about eighty, stood erect for several hours like all the rest. When we drove home it was very late, and I could not help remarking on the great sacrifice he was making of his valuable time in attending these court functions.

“Well,” he said, “the Hohenzollern have been very kind to me, and I know they like to show this old piece of furniture of theirs. So I go whenever they want me.” He went on to say how busy he was with his “Kosmos,” and how he could no longer work so many hours as in former years. “As I get old,” he said, “I want more sleep, four hours at least. When I was young,” he continued, “two hours of sleep were quite enough for me.” I ventured to express my doubts, apologising for differing from him on any physiological fact. “It is quite a mistake,” he said, “though it is very widely spread, that we want seven or eight hours of sleep. When I was your age, I simply lay down on the sofa, turned down my lamp, and after two hours’ sleep I was as fresh as ever.”

“Then,” I said, “your Excellency’s life has been double the life of other people, and this accounts for the immense amount of work you have been able to achieve.” Humboldt was never married and, I was told, had never been in love. But I did not tell him what was in my mind, that under such circumstances his life had really been four times that of ordinary mortals.

“Yes,” he said, “I have had a long span of life to work, but I have also been very much helped by my friends and colleagues. I know,” he continued, “I have been abused for not building my own stoves for making chemical experiments; but a general, in order to make great conquests, must have colonels, captains, lieutenants, and even privates under him.” And those who served under him and assisted him had certainly no cause to regret it. He helped them whenever he could, and his influence at that time was very great. To be mentioned in a note in his “Kosmos” was for a scholar what it was for a Greek city to be mentioned in the catalogue of ships in the “Iliad.” I could not resist telling him in strict confidence my little adventure with the police lieutenant, and he was highly amused. I hope he did not tell the King; anyhow, no names were mentioned and the poor lieutenant of police, who, of course, had only done what he was told, may, long ago I hope, have become a president of police, or some “grosses Thier.” When I left Humboldt I felt I should not see him again, and the old man was moved as much as I was in saying good-bye. These old heroes had very large and tender hearts. After all, I was only one out of hundreds of young men in whom he took an interest, and I happen to know that his interest was not only in words, but in deeds also. He was by no means what we should call a rich man, but I know that he sent young Brugsch, afterwards the great Egyptian scholar, Brugsch Pasha, a handsome sum of money to enable him to finish his studies at the University of Berlin, though no one at the time heard anything about it.

I did not see Humboldt again, nor Frederick William IV. Long before this time it had become clear that King William IV. was not what he imagined himself to be—the congruence of all the incongruent elements then fermenting in Prussia and Germany at large. There can be little doubt that towards the end of his life his mind, or rather his judgment, had given way. His mind, I believe, remained lively to the very end; but, in a State like Prussia, the Government without a clear-sighted King is like a runaway engine without its driver. It may keep to the rails for a time, but there is sure to be a smash at the end. The King had parted with one friend after another. His own brother, the Prince of Prussia, afterwards the first German Emperor, fell into disgrace, and had in the end to leave the country and take refuge in England. The name by which he was known in the family was not flattering. He was a soldier, clear-headed and straightforward. His whole heart was in the army, and when he afterwards came to the throne, he wisely left everything else to his responsible ministers, after he had once learnt to trust them. The army was the pride of his life, and to see that army ordered out of Berlin, and not allowed to restore order in the streets of the capital, had nearly broken his heart. He was intensely unpopular in 1848. His own palace was taken possession of, and, in order to preserve it from pillage, a large inscription was put on the walls, “National Property.” I was not in Germany that year, but I heard much from my friends there—v. Schlœzer, Ernst Curtius, and others—all personal friends of the Prince and Princess of Prussia. The Prince was not even allowed to command his own, the Prussian army, in the Schleswig-Holstein war, then just beginning; and the following letter, written in London, and addressed to one of his comrades, shows how deeply he felt it:—

Mit welchen Gefühlen habe ich gestern Euren Sieg bei Schleswig vernommen!!! Gott sei Dank dass unser alter Waffenruhm auch gegen einen ehrlichen Feind sich bewährt hat! Sage doch Deinen Untergebenen, wie glücklich ich wäre über diese Siegesnachricht: wie der Geist, der Euch zum Siege führte, der alte preussische war, der vor nichts zurückschreckt. Wie beneide ich Dir das Glück, diese Lorbeeren geerntet zu haben. Du weisst, wie nahe es daran war, dass ich sie mit Dir hätte theilen können. Wie wären dabei alle meine Wünsche in Erfüllung gegangen: Truppen meiner beiden lieben Corps geführt zu haben, im Ernst - Kampfe!—Es sollte nicht sein!—Aber ich kann es nicht verschmerzen, da die Möglichkeit vorhanden war! Nun, Gott wird es doch wohl noch einst so fügen, dem wir ja Alles anheim stellen müssen. Wer kann und muss es wohl mit mehr Resignation als ich! Er prüft mich schwer, aber mit einem reinen Gewissen erwarte ich den Tag der Wahrheit, damit ich dem neuen Preussen meine Kräfte widmen kann, wie dem alten, wenngleich das Herz trauern muss, über den Fall des alten Preussen, des Selbständigen. Lebe wohl! Gott schütze Dich ferner und erhalte Dich den Deinen, die sehr besorgt sein müssen. Ich kenne die Verluste noch nicht, mir bangt etwas vor ihnen.

I was at that time in London, and often with Bunsen at the Prussian Legation in Carlton House Terrace. There was a constant succession of couriers bringing letters from Berlin. On one occasion a sub-editor from The Times office rushed in and said: “Well, another one is gone, the King of Bavaria!” He did not see that the Bavarian minister, Baron Cetto, was in the room, and thus received this very informal notification of his sovereign’s fate. It was known that the King had remained at his palace, but that the Prince of Prussia had left Berlin. For several days no one knew where he was. I was quietly sitting on the sofa with Bunsen (27th March, 1848, 8 A.M.) discussing some question of Vedic mythology, when a servant came in and whispered something in Bunsen’s ear. Bunsen rose, took me by the arm and said: “Make haste, run away.” I did so, and as I ran out of the door I rushed against the Prince of Prussia. I hardly knew him at first, for he was not in uniform, and had no moustache. In fact, I saw him as few people have ever seen him. He stayed in London for many weeks at the Prussian Legation, where I met him several times, and, honest and hardworking as he was all through life, he did not waste the time in Bunsen’s house, nor did Bunsen lose the opportunity of showing the Prince how well a free and popular form of government could be carried on with due respect for order and law, and with love and devotion to the throne. This London episode of the Prince’s life has borne ample fruit in the hey-dey of the German Empire, and he by whom the seed was sown has but seldom been remembered, or thanked for the good work he did then for his sovereign and for his country.

There was no sovereign more constitutional than the King of Prussia at the beginning of his reign. He surrounded himself with enlightened and liberal-minded ministers, and never interfered with their work. Having been brought up to look upon his brother as a great genius, he was very humble about his own qualifications, and he even thought for a time of abdicating in favour of his son. This, however, would not have suited Bismarck’s hand. When the Prince of Prussia came to the throne, he stipulated one thing only with his ministers: they must give him a free hand to strengthen the army; for all the rest he would follow their advice. And so he did for several years. But when they failed to keep their promise, and to get Parliament to pass the necessary military budget, he parted with them and invited Bismarck to form a new ministry in 1862. This was the beginning of the political drama which ended at Sedan, if indeed it ended then.

I had heard much from my friends Roggenbach, Schlœzer, and E. Curtius about the Princess of Prussia (afterwards the Queen of Prussia, and the first German Empress), and my expectations were not deceived when I was presented to her during her stay in England in the spring of 1851. She was grand’ dame, highly gifted, highly cultivated. She wanted to see everything and know everybody worth knowing in England. It was she who went to Eton to see a cricket match played. She had heard much about it, and was most anxious to watch it. After the game had been going on for a good quarter of an hour, she turned impatiently to the Provost, and asked: “When are the boys going to begin?” She had evidently expected some kind of fight or skirmish, and was rather disappointed at the quiet and business-like way in which the boys, who were on their best behaviour, threw the ball and hit it back. However, at that time everything English, even the games, was perfect in the eyes of the Germans, and nothing more perfect than the Princess Royal, when she had been won by the young Prince of Prussia in 1857. The Princess of Prussia never forgot people whom she had once taken an interest in, and I had several interesting interviews with her later on—at Coblentz in 1863, at Baden in 1872. I confess I was somewhat taken aback when, after dinner, the Empress took me by the hand, and stepped forward, addressing the whole company present, and giving the ladies and gentlemen a full account of what this Oxford professor had done for Germany during the Franco-German war by defending their cause in The Times. All I could reply was that I had done little enough, and that I could not help saying what I had said in The Times, and that I was proud of having been well abused for having spoken the truth.

Whatever disappointments she may have had in life, she lived long enough to see the fulfilment of her patriotic dreams; she wore the Imperial crown of Germany, and she saw in the Crown Prince Frederick the fulfilment of all that a mother can dream of for her son. One wishes that she had died a year sooner, so as to be spared the terrible tragedy of her son’s illness and death in 1888.

That son, our Princeps juventutis, had been educated by my friend Ernst Curtius, and was on most friendly terms with many of my German friends. I made his acquaintance when he came to Oxford as a very young man in 1857. He brought George Bunsen and two friends with him, and I took rooms for them at the Angel Hotel, which stood where the Examination School, the so-called Chamber of Horrors, now stands. For several days I took the Prince to all the Colleges and to some of the lectures, even to one of the public examinations. No one knew him, and we preserved the strictest incognito. He quickly perceived the advantages of the English university system, particularly of the college life and the tutorial teaching. But he saw that it would be hopeless to attempt to introduce that system into Germany. Though at that time everything English was admired in Germany, he was clear-sighted enough to see that it is better to learn than simply to copy. The weak point in the German university system is that, unless an undergraduate is personally known to a professor, he receives very little guidance. He generally arrives from school, where he has been under very strict guidance, without any choice as to what he really wishes to learn. He then suddenly finds himself independent, and free to choose from an immense menu (Index lectionum) whatever tempts his appetite. Most German students, when they leave school, have not only a natural curiosity, but a real thirst for learning. They have also a feeling of great reverence for the professors, particularly for the most famous professors in each university. They often select their university in order to hear the lectures of a certain professor, and if he is moved to another university they migrate with him. In the strictly professional faculties of medicine, law, and theology, there is no doubt a certain routine, and students know by a kind of tradition what lectures they should attend in each semester. But in the philosophical faculty there is little, if any, tradition, and looking at my book of lectures, attested by the various professors at Leipzig, I am perfectly amazed at the variety of incongruous subjects on which I attended professorial classes. Unless they were all properly entered and attested in my book I could not believe that at that time (1840–41), when I was only seventeen years of age, I had really attended lectures on so many heterogeneous subjects. In this respect, in preventing waste, the college or tutorial system has, no doubt, many advantages, but the young Prince saw very clearly that what is called in Germany academic freedom cannot be touched, that the universities could not be changed into schools, if for no other reason, because it would be impossible to find the necessary funds to inaugurate the college system by the side of the professorial system. All that could possibly be done would be to establish a closer relation between professors and undergraduates, to increase, in fact, the number of seminaries and societies, and to make it obligatory on each professor to have some personal intercourse with the students who attend his lectures.

The Prince’s incognito was carefully preserved at Oxford, though it was not always easy to persuade his attendants not to bow and take off their hats whenever they met the Prince. The very last day, however, and just before I asked for the bill at the hotel, one of his A.D.C.’s forgot himself, bowed very low before the door of the hotel, and stood bareheaded before the Prince. The hotel-keeper smiled and came to me with a very knowing look, telling me of the discovery he had made. He was very proud of his perspicacity; but I am sorry to say that the discovery had its painful influence on the bill also, which, under the circumstances, could not be helped.

What struck the Prince most at Oxford was the historical continuity of the University. I reminded him of the remark which Frederick William IV. made when at Oxford:—

“Gentlemen,” he said, “in your University everything that is young is old, everything that is old is young.” “We cannot do everything,” the Prince used to say, “but we shall do our best in Germany.” Though the Prince was still very young, he could at times be very serious. There had actually been rumours, as I have said before, that his father, always one of the most humble-minded men, would abdicate in favour of his son, who was very popular, while the father at one time was not, and the thought that he might soon be called upon to rule the destinies of Prussia and of Germany was evidently not unfamiliar to him. How different was his destiny to be! What terrible events had happened before I saw much of the Prince again; for though I saw him in his own happy home life at the Neue Palais at Potsdam in 1863, it was not until after the Prusso-Austrian and Franco-German wars that I had again some real personal intercourse with the Prince at Ems in the year 1871. He had sent me a very kind letter immediately after his return to Berlin from Paris. Even Bismarck had sent me a message through his private secretary that he was proud of his new ally. I had defended the policy of the German Emperor in The Times, simply because I could not keep silent when the policy of Germany was misrepresented to the people of England.

Here is the Prince’s letter, which I received in May, 1871:—

Ich habe mit aufrichtigem Danke und ganz besonderem Interesse Ihre “Letters on the War” entgegengenommen, welche Sie die Freundlichkeit hatten, mir zu übersenden.

Mit der einmüthigen Hingebung unseres Volkes während der grossen Zeit die wir durchkämpft, steht im schönsten Einklang die patriotische Haltung welche unsere deutschen Brüder, oft unter den schwierigsten Verhältnissen und mit Opfer aller Art bewährt und durch die sie sich für immer einen Anspruch auf die Dankbarkeit des Vaterlandes erworben haben.

Dass die Erfahrungen, welche die Deutschen in England während unseres ruhmvollen Krieges gemacht, nicht immer erfreulich waren, ist mir freilich bekannt, Gründe der verschiedensten Art kamen zusammen um eine Verstimmung zu erzeugen, die hüben und drüben von allen einsichtigen und patriotischen Männern gleich schmerzlich empfunden ist.

Meine feste und zuversichtliche Hoffnung bleibt es aber dass dieselbe bald jenem herzlichen Einvernehmen wieder Platz machen wird, welches die Natur unserer gegenseitigen Beziehungen und Interessen verlangt. Dieses Ziel wollen wir verfolgen, unbeirrt durch Aufregungen und Eindrücke des Augenblicks, überzeugt, dass es für das Gedeihen beider Länder ebenso heilsam wie für den Frieden Europa’s unerlässlich ist.

Sie haben Ihrerseits niemals aufgehört in diesem Geiste thätig zu sein und es ist mir deshalb Bedürfniss, Ihnen meine dankbare Anerkennung für Ihr erfolgreiches Wirken hierdurch auszusprechen.

At Ems the Prince was the popular hero of the day, and wherever he showed himself he was enthusiastically greeted by the people. He sent me word that he wished to see me. When I arrived the antechambers were crowded with Highnesses, Excellencies, Generals, all covered with stars and ribands. I gave my card to an A. D. C. as simple Max Müller, and was told that I must wait, but I soon saw there was not the slightest chance of my having an audience that morning. I had no uniform, no order, no title. From time to time an officer called the name of Prince So-and-So, Count So-and-So, and people became very impatient. Suddenly the Prince himself opened the door, and called out in a loud voice, “Maximiliane, Maximiliane, kommen Sie herein!”

There was consternation in the crowd as I walked through, but I had a most pleasant half-hour with the Prince. Once when I began to bubble over and tried to express, as well as I could, my admiration for his splendid achievements in the war, he turned away rather angrily, and said, “Na, sind Sie denn auch unter die Schmeichler gegangen!” I wrote a sonnet at the time, which I find among my old papers:—

This was followed by another sonnet at the time of his death:—

The old Emperor was at Ems at the same time, and so was the Emperor Alexander of Russia. It was a surprise to me to see these two Emperors walking together in the crowd, and fetching their glass of water at the spring, apparently without any protection. The people did not much crowd round them, but neither were they kept back by the police officers. I asked one of the higher officials how they managed to keep out any dangerous Poles or Frenchmen, who might have shot the two Emperors with a double-barrelled pistol at any moment. The place was swarming with people of every nationality; but he said that there was no one at Ems who was not known. I confess it was a riddle to me. The good old Emperor, who had heard of my presence, asked me to dine, and he also thanked me for my advocacy of Germany in The Times. What a change since I ran against him in Bunsen’s room! Abeken, who during the war had been Bismarck’s right hand, was there, and I learnt from him that the famous Ems telegram had been written by him, though, of course, inspired and approved of by Bismarck. This is now well known, and has become ancient history. Great as was the enthusiasm at Ems, it was heart-breaking to see the invalided soldiers, looking young and vigorous, but without arms or legs, their only wish being to catch a glimpse of the Emperor or the Crown Prince. Some of them had been blinded in the war; others walked about on crutches, some with both arms cut off, and using iron forks instead of hands and fingers. All was done that could be done for them, and the Emperor and the Crown Prince shook hands with as many of them, officers or privates, as they could. The Crown Prince had sent me word that he wished to see me once more; but his surroundings evidently thought that I had been favoured quite enough, and our meeting again was cleverly prevented. No doubt princes must be protected against intruders, but should they be thwarted in their own wishes? I had another happy glimpse, however, of the Crown Prince in his family circle, in 1876.

In the year 1879 the Crown Prince came once more to Oxford, this time with his young son, the present German Emperor, and accompanied by the Prince of Wales. He had not forgotten his former visit, when he was not much older than his son was then, and he reminded me of what had happened to us in the Examination Schools on his former visit. The Prince had preserved the strictest incognito, but when we entered the schools his appearance, and that of several foreign-looking gentlemen, had attracted some attention. However, we sat down and listened to the examination. It was in Divinity, and one of the young men had to translate a chapter in the Gospel of St. John. He translated very badly, and the Prince, not accustomed to the English pronunciation of Greek, could not follow. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter. The Prince did not perceive that it was due to a really atrocious mistranslation. He turned to me and said: “Let us go; they are laughing at us.” When we were outside I explained to him what had happened; but it was really so bad that I must not repeat it here. The passage was St. John, iv., 9: Λέγει οὔν αὐτῷ ἡ γυνὴ ἡ Σαμαρειτῖς.

The young Prince, the present Emperor, who was with his father, was very much pleased with what he saw of Oxford, of the river, and of the life of the young men. He would have liked to spend a term or two at Oxford, but there were objections. Fears of English influence had begun to show themselves at Berlin. Several young ladies tried their powers of persuasion on the young Prince, who told me at the time, in true academic German, “In all my life I have not been canvassed so much” (In meinem Leben bin ich noch nicht so gekeilt worden).

It is well known how warm an interest the young Prince, now the German Emperor, has always taken in the success of Oxford, and for how many years he has always sent his congratulations by telegram to the successful, and now almost charmed, Oxford crew.

When the Crown Prince with his son and the Prince of Wales honoured my College (All Souls’) with their presence at luncheon, I remember presenting to them three tumblers of the old ale that is brewed in the College, and is supposed to be the best in the University, very drinkable (süffig), but very strong. One year when several men from Cambridge were passing their long vacation at Oxford (one of them was Lightfoot, afterwards Bishop of Durham, another Augustus Vansittart), they were made free of all the common-rooms at Oxford, and constituted examiners of the beers brewed in the different Colleges. All Souls’ came out at the head of the tripos, but there was to be a new examination in the year following, and competitors were invited to send their essays to F. M. M., Professor of Comparative Palaeontology, at All Souls’. I took a tumbler of the old ale myself and drank to the health of “The three Emperors.” The Crown Prince did not see what I meant, and asked again and again, “But how so (Wie so)?” “The future German Emperor,” I said, “the future Emperor of India (the Prince of Wales), and, in the very distant future, the third Emperor of Germany.” The Crown Prince smiled, but an expression of seriousness or displeasure passed over his face, showing me that I touched a sensitive nerve. The Crown Prince was a curious mixture. In his intercourse with his friends he liked to forget that he was a Prince, he spoke most freely and unguardedly, and enjoyed a good laugh about a good joke. He allowed his friends to do the same, but suddenly, if any of his friends made a remark that did not quite please him, he drew back, and it took him some time to recover himself. He was a noble and loyal nature. He knew Bismarck, he knew his strong, and he knew his very weak, and more than weak, points; but such was his gratitude for what the old statesman had done for Prussia and Germany that he never said an unkind word against him. I believe he would never have parted with him, though he was quite aware of the danger of a major domus in the kingdom of Frederick the Great. History will have much to say about those years, and will teach us once more the old lesson—how small the great ones of the earth can be.

Once more I met the Prince at Venice, when he was enjoying himself with the Crown Princess and some of his daughters. He was then incognito, and he had the best cicerone in his learned and charming wife. They worked hard together from morning till evening. At last the people of Venice found out who he was, and crowded round him to that extent that he had to take refuge in the royal palace. What struck me at the time was a sadness and far greater reticence in the Prince. Still, at times, the old joyous smile broke out, as if he had forgotten how serious life had become to him.

Again some years passed. The accounts of the old Emperor’s health showed that his end was drawing near, but at the same time began the disquieting rumors about the Crown Prince’s health. The Prince sent for me shortly after his arrival in London, where he had come for the Queen’s Jubilee, 1887. He looked as grand as ever, and in his eyes there was the same light and life and love, but his voice had become almost a whisper. Nevertheless, he spoke hopefully, almost confidently, and went through all the festivities like a hero. Who will ever forget him on horseback in the white uniform of the Prussian Cuirassiers, in the midst of the sons and sons-in-law of the Queen? I saw him once more at Windsor, the day before he left for Germany. In the evening, after dinner, he walked up to me and spoke to me for a long time. His voice had regained its timbre, and I felt convinced like himself that the downward course of his malady was over, and that the uphill work was now to begin.

After he had spoken to me for nearly half an hour, one of his aides-de-camp came up to him, and said: “Not another word, your Royal Highness.” He shook my hand: I looked up to him full of hope; it was for the last time. He himself, I believe, retained his hopefulness to the very end. The Greeks said: “Those whom the gods love die young.” When the Prince Consort died, and when the Emperor Frederick died, one felt inclined to say: “Those whom all men love die young.” Five reigns have thus passed before my eyes, those of Frederick William III., 17971840; Frederick William IV., 1840–1861; Wilhelm I., 1861–1888; Frederick III., 1888; Wilhelm II., 1888; and if there is one lesson which their history teaches us, and which everybody should take to heart, it is that the wonderful work which they have achieved is due to the hard work, the determined purpose, and the persevering industry of these sovereigns. I did not know much of the personal work of Frederick William III., but, beginning with Frederick William IV. to the present Emperor, I have had occasional glimpses of their private life, enough to show that none of these men looked upon his place in life as a sinecure. In no case was their throne an easy chair. Their bed was in very truth a bed of iron, not a bed of roses. These sovereigns have been at work day and night; they have shared not only in the triumphs, but in the privations and sufferings of their army. I shall never forget, when I was at Ems in 1871, passing the house where the old Emperor resided; and there in the first storey, behind a green curtain, one could clearly see him standing at his desk, with a lamp by his side, reading and signing despatches, while everybody else enjoyed the cool air of the evening, nay, long after most people had gone to bed. The Emperor Frederick, before he was Emperor, was unhappy about one thing only, that he had not work enough to do, and if there is a sovereign indefatigable in the service of his country it is surely the present King of Prussia, the German Emperor. I must say no more, for I have made it a rule in these Recollections not to say anything about living persons, least of all royalties. Besides, through all my life I have tried to follow the rule that Ruskin lays down for himself: “In every person who comes near you look for what is good and strong; honour that; rejoice in it, and, as you can, try to imitate it.”

Though I did not see much of Prince Albert—I am thinking of the time when he was still called Prince Albert, and not yet the Prince Consort—I heard much about him, partly from Bunsen, who admired him greatly, partly through one of his private secretaries, my old friend Dr. Karl Meyer.^[16] By this time the world knows not only the nobility of the Prince’s character, but the strength of his intellect, his unceasing industry, and his loyal devotion to his queen and country. But there was a time when those who knew him felt indignant, nay, furious, at the treatment which he received in England. It would be well if that page could be torn out of the history of England, and as she who suffered most has long forgiven, if not forgotten, who has a right to renovare dolores? Apart from all personal considerations, it seemed a most extraordinary hallucination to imagine that he who was the consort of the Queen should exercise no influence on his wife. Human nature after all is superior even to the English constitution. One can imagine a political philosopher indulging in so Utopian a theory as a marriage without influence, but that practical men, men of the world, men of common sense, should have imagined such a possibility—that English statesmen should have imagined that a wife, because she was a Queen, would never be influenced by her husband, will hardly sound credible to future historians. I remember only one analogous case. When Lord John Russell was proposed as Secretary for Foreign Affairs, several members of the Cabinet objected, fearing Lady Russell’s influence, and pointing out the danger of Cabinet secrets oozing out through her indiscretion. Lord Palmerston listened for a long time, and then turned to his colleagues and said: “Well, I see one remedy only—one of us must always sleep with them.” When he saw blank consternation on the faces of his colleagues, “Well, well,” he said, “we shall take it by turns.” At a time when it was fully believed that Prince Albert had been taken to the Tower for high treason, no wonder that even a young German student who spent his days in the Bodleian Library should have been attacked as a spy. It was a passing madness, and the wonder is that it passed without more serious consequences.

Prince Albert took a most lively interest in a scheme which I had strongly advocated in The Times and elsewhere, namely, that there should be a school of Oriental languages in England, as in every other country that has political and commercial relations with the East. I pointed out that for years France had maintained its École des Langues Orientales vivantes; that Austria had its Oriental School for the diplomatic service and for the education of official interpreters; that, long before the Afghan disaster, there was a professor teaching the Afghan language in the University of St. Petersburg (and, I may add now, that Prussia has a flourishing Oriental seminary in which even African languages are taught by professors and native teachers); but no one would listen to me except Prince Albert. The different offices, Foreign Office, Horse Guards, Colonial Office, etc., declared that interpreters could always be had, and that the best way to secure their fidelity was to pay them well. That others might pay them better seemed never to have entered their minds. Prince Albert saw clearly the disadvantage under which England was labouring, nay, the danger that threatened her trade and her general influence in the East. He spoke to Lord Granville, and Lord Granville wrote to me to make further proposals. This I did; but beyond that I decided I would not go, for such was the feeling at that time, that the name of Prince Albert and my own, as that of a German scholar, would have been sufficient to wreck the whole scheme. I remember writing at the time to Prince Albert that we must wait till “Her Majesty, Public Opinion, became more favourable.” In the meantime, to speak of commercial interests only, how much has England lost by her unwillingness to incur an expense which other countries have readily incurred, which the people of England have a right to demand, and which would not have amounted to anything like the cost of a single man-of-war! The Prince of Wales took the same warm interest in the foundation of an Oriental school in London, as may be seen from the speech he delivered at the Royal Institution in 1890, when the scheme of a school of Oriental languages was taken up by the Imperial Institute, but even his persuasive eloquence has hitherto proved ineffectual to realise a wish that was so near his father’s heart, and of such enormous importance to English interests in the East.

As I think it right to abstain from recording my recollections of royal persons still alive, I must say nothing of the stay of the young Prince of Wales at Oxford; but, among the many things which I treasure in my memory, I may at least produce one small treasure, a sixpence, which I won from His Royal Highness at whist. I have always been a very bad whist player, but good luck would have it that I won a sixpence at Frewen Hall, the Prince’s residence at Oxford. The Prince maintained that I had calculated my points wrongly, but not being a courtier, I held my own, and actually appealed to General Bruce. When he decided in my favour, the Prince graciously handed me my sixpence, which I have kept ever since among my treasures. I may speak more fully of Prince Leopold, the late Duke of Albany, a deeply interesting character of whom much was expected, and in whom much has been lost. He was often a great sufferer while at Oxford, but when he was well, no one was so well as he was, no one looked more brilliant or more vigorous. His little dinner parties were charming. His tutor, Mr. (now Sir) R. Collins, knew how to collect his guests, and the Prince was the most excellent host. Whenever I had some distinguished man staying with me, a note was sure to come from the Prince, asking whether he might invite Emerson or Froude, or whoever it might be, and I well remember his adding: “You may tell Mr. Froude that I have read the whole of his ‘History.’” And so he had. Being often confined to his bed he had read a great deal, and was read to by his devoted tutor, Sir R. Collins. How many fond hopes centred in that life, and how anxious many of the best men that Oxford has produced were to inspire him with a love each of his own subject. Sanskrit, I soon perceived, had no chance. But for a time astronomy was in the ascendant, then history, then art. But there was always the danger to be guarded against of the young student becoming too much absorbed in any one subject, and losing that general sympathy with learning and art which is so desirable in a Prince. The Prince had a quick eye for small weaknesses, but his kindness was likewise extreme. I so well remember sitting by him at dinner, and enjoying the most exquisite real Johannisberger from the royal cellar. Prince Metternich used to send every year some of the best of his crue to the royalties represented at the Congress of Vienna, having received Johannisberg from that Congress. Prince Leopold knew how to appreciate the wines sent him from the royal cellar. “They like port better at Oxford,” he said to me, “but we shall keep to the Rheinwein.” It was really a quite exceptional wine, the aroma of it being perceptible even at the dinner-table. I quoted some of my father’s drinking songs, “Das Essen, nicht das Trinken, bracht’ uns um’s Paradies,” etc. Many delightful evenings were thus spent in the Prince’s drawing-room. I often played à quatre mains with him, fearing only to touch and hurt his fingers, which was always most painful to him. But to return to the Johannisberger. Long after the Prince had settled at Boyton, I was staying with him, and at dinner he said: “Now we must drink the health of the Princess of Wales; it is her birthday. I have one bottle left of the Oxford Rheinwein. I kept it for you. It has travelled about with me from place to place; but there will be no more of it, it is the last bottle.”

Once more the Prince was most kind to me under most trying circumstances. I was to dine at Windsor, and when I arrived my portmanteau was lost. I telegraphed and telegraphed, and at last the portmanteau was found at Oxford station, but there was no train to arrive at Windsor before 8.30. Prince Leopold, who was staying at Windsor, and to whom I went in my distress, took the matter in a most serious spirit. I thought I might send an excuse to say that I had had an accident and could not appear at table; but he said: “No, that is impossible. If the Queen asks you to dinner, you must be there.” He then sent all round the Castle to fit me out. Everybody seemed to have contributed some article of clothing—coat, waistcoat, tie, shorts, shoes and buckles. I looked a perfect guy, and I declared that I could not possibly appear before the Queen in that attire. I was actually penning a note when the 8.30 train arrived, and with it my luggage, which I tore open, dressed in a few minutes, and appeared at dinner as if nothing had happened.

Fortunately the Queen, who had been paying a visit, came in very late. Whether she had heard of my misfortunes I do not know. But I was very much impressed when I saw how, with all the devotion that the Prince felt for his mother, there was this feeling of respect, nay, almost of awe, that made it seem impossible for him to tell his own mother that I was prevented by an accident from obeying her command and appearing at dinner.

Oxford is an excellent place for seeing illustrious visitors from all parts of the world. It is the cynosure of all Americans, and it is strange to see how many travellers know all about the beauties of Oxford, and seem often to be quite unaware of the similar, nay, in some respects greater, beauties of Cambridge. There is only one drawback. Most travellers come to Oxford during the Long Vacation, and during the Long Vacation most professors naturally go away. In that way I have missed seeing some people whose acquaintance I should have highly valued. I thus lost the pleasure of showing the late Emperor of Brazil the historical sights of Oxford, being absent when he passed through. He saw everything in a marvellously short time, but then he was up sight-seeing at five in the morning. However, I made his acquaintance afterwards in Switzerland. We were staying at an out-of-the-way place at Gimmelwald, and one day about five in the morning there was a loud knock at my bedroom door. The whole wooden cottage trembled. When I got up to see what was the matter, I saw my friend Mr. Ralston, standing breathless on the staircase and saying, “The Emperor of Brazil wants to see you. He is staying at Interlaken, and has persuaded the Empress to stay another day to see you. But you must get up at once and take a carriage and drive to Interlaken.” I did so, and was with the Emperor and Empress soon after breakfast. The Empress and the gentlemen-in-waiting were not in the best of humours on account of this unexpected delay in their journey. We had a long and undisturbed talk in a private room. I was sorry the Emperor would speak French, though, having been at school in Switzerland, he spoke German quite as well. He was full of questions about Sanskrit literature and the Vedic religion. I was amazed at his knowledge, for he had actually begun to study Sanskrit, and was fully aware of all the difficulties that had to be met before we could hope to gain an insight into the heart of the ancient religion of the Vedic Rishis. He had a young German with him who acted as his tutor in Sanskrit, and likewise in Hebrew. It was very pleasant to be examined by a man who really knew what questions to ask, and who was bent on finding out by himself what the “Rig Veda,” the most ancient of all the books in the world, really contained. Like many others he seemed to expect too much, and I had to tell him he must not be disappointed, and that, though the Veda was certainly the oldest book in the proper sense of that word, which had been preserved to us in an almost miraculous manner, still it bore already traces of a long growth, nay, even of a long decay of religious thought. If the Vedic poets were different from what we expected them to be, it was our fault, not theirs. They showed us what the world was like in the second millennium B.C., and if we thought that there was in that millennium much that sounds childish and absurd to us, it was well that we should know that fact, and talk no longer of the mysterious or esoteric wisdom of the East. Like most students, the Emperor wished to know the exact date of the Veda, and I did not find it easy to explain to him that where we have no contemporaneous history we cannot expect an exact chronology. If some scholars placed the Veda 5000 or 10,000 B.C., we should find it difficult to refute them, but we should gain nothing, it would be like one of the distant dates in Egyptian and Babylonian chronology, a mere point in vacuo. He was surprised when I confessed to him that even the low date of about 1200 B.C., which I had fixed upon, seemed to me too high rather than too low, and that I should feel it a relief if anybody could establish a lower date for at least some of the Vedic hymns. I think the Emperor saw that in spite of this inevitable uncertainty, the “Rig Veda” would always maintain its unique position in the history of religion, nay, of literature, being without an equal anywhere, and allowing us an insight into the growth of thought, such as we find in no other literature. Whatever the antecedents of the Vedic religion may have been, however rudely its original features may have been effaced even before the beginning of the Brâhmana period, we can still see here and there in the Veda some germ ideas, some thoughts requiring no antecedents, and in that sense primitive, more primitive even than the thoughts of Egypt, Babylon, and Nineveh, whatever their merely chronological antiquity may have been. I do not know how it happened—that from discussing the ancient names of metals and the relative value of gold and silver, as fixed, we do not know how, in Egypt, Babylon, and afterwards in Greece, in Italy, and the rest of the civilised world at about 1 to 15—our conversation drifted away into financial questions. Here I must have been betrayed into uttering some financial heresy, possibly savouring of bimetallism, for I well remember the Emperor becoming rather impatient and saying: “I know all about that, and have studied the question for many years. Let us return to the Veda.”

After a very pleasant luncheon we parted, and soon after the Emperor lost his crown, as some would have it, because he had given too much thought and time to his studies instead of keeping in touch with the leaders of the different parties around his throne. However that may be, Brazil has not been long before regretting her learned Emperor. I heard afterwards that to the very end of his reign, and even when in exile, the Emperor kept his tutor and carried on his studies in Sanskrit and Hebrew. When at Stockholm in 1889, attending the International Oriental Congress, under the auspices of the King of Sweden, I received a letter from the Emperor of Brazil giving an account of his Sanskrit studies. I showed the letter to the King of Sweden, Oscar II., himself a man extremely well informed on Eastern literature, and full of the warmest sympathy for Oriental scholars and scholarship. He read the letter and sighed. “I have no leisure for Sanskrit,” he said. “The happy Emperor of Brazil has but one people to govern, I have two.”

I might go on for a long time with my royal recollections, but it is, of course, impossible to do so when living persons are concerned. Most of the royal persons with whom I was brought into contact were eminent among their peers, but were I to say what I think of them, I should at once be called ugly names—courtier, flatterer, etc. Such things cannot be helped, and the only excuse I could, perhaps, plead as a circonstance atténuante would be the reverence I imbibed with my mother’s milk for my own Duke and my own Duchess of Anhalt-Dessau.

There is only one more sovereign about whom I may say a few words, the late Queen of Holland, highly gifted as she was, and most charming in society. She frequently came to England; according to the newspapers, as a friend and advocate of the Emperor Napoleon. She was far too wise, however, to attempt to play such a part at the English court. But that she was much admired and won the hearts of many people in London is certainly true. She came to lunch with Stanley at the Deanery. She had asked him to invite a number of literary men—Tennyson, Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton), Huxley, and several more. We were waiting and waiting, but Tennyson did not appear. Stanley suggested that we should not wait any longer, but the Queen refused to sit down before the great poet’s arrival. At last it was suggested that Tennyson might be mooning about in the Cloisters, and so he was. He was caught, and was placed next to the Queen. The Queen knew wonderfully how to hide her Crown, and put everybody at their ease. She took the conversation into her own hands, and kept the ball rolling during the whole luncheon. But she got nothing out of Tennyson. He was evidently in low spirits, and, sitting next to him, I could hear how to every question the Queen addressed to him he answered, “Yes, Ma’am,” “No, Ma’am,” and at last, by a great effort, “Ma’am, there is a good deal to be said on both sides of the question.” He then turned to me and said in a whisper, but a loud whisper: “I wish they had put some of you talking fellows next to Regina.”

While I am finishing these “Recollections of Royalties,” and sending the proof sheets to press, the last echoes of the greatest triumph that has ever been granted to royalty, which has ever been celebrated by royalty, are vanishing from our ears. May those royal recollections never vanish from our memories! We need not, nay, we cannot exaggerate their importance. Magnificent as the pageant has been of the Diamond Jubilee of the Queen of England, what was invisible in it was far greater than what was so brilliantly visible in the royal procession passing through the crowded streets of London. Has there ever been an empire like the British, not excluding the Babylonian, the Persian, the Macedonian, or the Roman empires? Sixty years of one reign is not a mere numerical expression; no, it means permanent vitality, unbroken continuity, sustained strength and vigour, such as, I believe, have never been witnessed in any reign during the whole history of the world.

And England is not only the greatest, it is also the freest, country in the world, so free that even republics may well envy it its fresh and pure air; and yet was there ever among the vast masses, rich and poor, a more universal outburst of hearty loyalty to the Throne, of personal love of the sovereign, than in the days of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee?

It was said early in her reign by a royal and loyal thinker that constitutional government was then on its trial in England. So it was, but it has come out triumphant, and stronger than ever. Constitutional government under a royal protector will henceforth be recognised as the most perfect form of government which human ingenuity has been able to devise, after many centuries of patient and impatient search. Royalty has proved its right to exist, and that under the sceptre of a Queen who, if compared to other sovereigns, will be famous not only for much that she has done, but also for much that she has not done. Constitutional government has proved its superiority over any form of government by the triumph on 22nd June.

If the people have been loyal to the Queen, how loyal has the Queen been to her people; if her subjects have shared her joys and sorrows, how warmly has she taken the sufferings of her people to heart. Royalty has its dangers, and mankind has suffered much from kings and emperors, but the greatness of England during the last sixty years has chiefly been due to the mutual esteem and love of her people and their sovereign. The world will know henceforth one at least of the secret springs of England’s health and wealth and strength—namely, the true sympathy that for years has knitted ruler and ruled together. England has had great ministers and counsellors, but ask those ministers, who for years has been their truest and most trusted counsellor, and they will not hesitate in their answer. No wonder that England, celebrating the Sixty-years’ Jubilee of her Sovereign, should have roused the admiration—and it may be, the envy also—of other nations. Let us hope that the admiration, so ungrudgingly bestowed, may last, and that the envy, if any, may pass away. “Viel Ehr, viel Feind” is as true here as elsewhere. Let other nations blame and criticise, it is the highest compliment they can pay. But let them ponder what Europe would have been without England, what the world would have been without the sceptre of the wise and good Queen Victoria.