As I sit down to write, on the stormy evening of this twenty-ninth day of January, 1877, I bethink me that it is fifty-seven years to-day since death terminated a life and a reign alike unexampled for their length in the history of English monarchs. King George the Third died on the 29th of January, 1820.

I remember the day perfectly. I, a child not quite five years old, was sitting with my parents in a room, the windows of which looked upon the street of a pleasant town in Kent. Snow was falling fast, and lay thick upon the ground outside. The weather was intensely cold, and we crowded round the fire for warmth and comfort. Suddenly there was a crash: a snowball fell in our midst, and the fragments of a windowpane were scattered in the room. My father rose in anger to go to catch the culprit who had thrown. He was unsuccessful; but in his short visit to the street he had learned some news, for when he returned he told us that the King was dead.

The King dead? I had heard of "the King" of course, but what it was I had never thought of. To me it represented strength and omnipotent protection, but it was an abstraction only; an undefined something of awful portent; and that it could die was very mysterious, and set me wondering what we should do now.

My father explained at once, that the King was only a man; that his sons and daughters, even, were old people now; that one of the sons died only a week ago, and wasn't buried yet; and that this son had left, fatherless, a little baby girl, not much over six months old, who, if she should live, might one day become the Queen of England. Such is my earliest recollection in connection with the illustrious lady who still, happily, sits upon the English throne.

I am an old man now, but I remember that being without a King made me feel very uncomfortable then, particularly at night. A few days afterwards, however, there was a sound of trumpets in the street, and a number of elderly gentlemen, in very queer dresses and curious hats, stopped opposite our window, where one of them, standing upon a stool, read something from a paper. When he had finished, the trumpets sounded again, and I knew there was a new King, for all the people shouted, "God save the King." Then, for the first time since the fatal day, I felt re-assured; and I went to bed that night free from the dread which had been instilled into my mind by a very judicious nurse, that Bonaparte might come in the dark; steal me and my little brother; and cook us for his Sunday dinner.

Soon after this I had frequent opportunities of seeing a veritable Queen. The unfortunate Caroline, wife of George the Fourth, lived at Blackheath, and drove occasionally in an open carriage through the streets of Greenwich, and there I saw her. I have a perfect recollection of her face and figure. A very common-looking red face it was, and a very "dowdy" figure. She wore always an enormous flat-brimmed "Leghorn" hat, trimmed with ostrich feathers. The remainder of her dress was gaudy, and, if one may say so of a Queen's attire, rather vulgar. She was, however, very popular in the neighbourhood; and when, at her great trial, she was acquitted, the town of Greenwich was brilliantly illuminated. I remember, too, how she, having been snubbed at the coronation of her husband, died of grief only three weeks afterwards, and how in that very month of August, 1821, which saw her death, her illustrious spouse set forth, amid much pomp and gaiety, on a festive journey to Ireland.

In October, 1822, I saw the King himself, on his way to embark at Greenwich, for Scotland. I remember a double line of soldiers along the road, several very fussy horsemen riding to and fro, a troop of Cavalry, and a carriage, in which sat a very fat elderly man, with a pale flabby face, without beard or whisker, but fringed with the curls of a large brown wig. That is all I remember, or care to remember, of George the Fourth.

A little more than ten years after that cold January day of which I wrote, this King lay, dying, at Windsor. It was early summer, and I, a boy of fifteen, was one of a group of people who stood in front of a bookseller's shop at Guildford, reading a copy of a bulletin which had just arrived: "His Majesty has passed a restless night; the symptoms have not abated." As I turned away, I overheard a woman say, "The King'll be sure to die; he's got the symptoms, and I never knew anybody get over that." All at once the bells struck up a merry peal, and the Union Jack floated from the "Upper Church" tower. A crowd assembled round the "White Hart," and a dozen post-horses, ready harnessed, stood waiting in the street. Presently there was a sound of hoofs and wheels, and three carriages dashed rapidly up the hill, to the front of the hotel. The people waved their hats and shouted. The glass window of one of the carriages was let down, and a child's face and uncovered head appeared in the opening: it was the Princess Victoria, then eleven years old. A mass of golden curls; a fair round face, with the full apple-shaped cheeks peculiar to the Guelphs; a pair of bright blue eyes; an upper lip too short to cover the front teeth; a pleasant smile; and a graceful bending of the tiny figure as the carriage passed away, left favourable impressions of the future Queen. She had been summoned from the Isle of Wight to be near her uncle; at whose death, a few days after—amid a storm of thunder and lightning, such as had not been known since the night when Cromwell died—his brother, the Duke of Clarence, was proclaimed King, and she became the Heiress Presumptive to the Crown of England.

William the Fourth, with his good Queen, Adelaide, I saw once, as they rode in the great State carriage to the Handel commemoration, at Westminster Abbey, in June, 1834. The King had a good-tempered, simple-looking face, without much sign of intellectual power; the Queen's face was of Grecian shape, and had a thoughtful and intelligent expression. The face and features were good in form, but the complexion was highly coloured, and looked as though affected by some kind of inflammation. They were a quiet, unpretending, well-meaning, and moral couple. They purified the tainted precincts of the Court, and thus rendered it fit for the abode of the youthful and gracious lady who succeeded them.

The next time I saw the Princess Victoria was in 1836. It was on a day which, but for the firmness of Sir John Conroy, who acted as Equerry, might have been her last. At any rate, but for him, she would have been in great peril. I was standing in the High Street of Rochester; a fearful hurricane was blowing from the west; chimney pots, tiles, and slates were flying in all directions, and the roaring of the wind, as it hurtled through the elms in the Deanery Garden, was loud as thunder. A strip of lead, two feet wide, the covering of a projecting shop window, rolled up like a ribbon, and fell into the street. At that moment three carriages, containing the Duchess of Kent, the Princess, and their suite, came by. They were on their way from Ramsgate to London, and a change of horses stood ready at the Bull Inn. Arriving there, a gentleman of the city approached Sir John, and advised him not to proceed further, telling him that if they attempted to cross Rochester bridge, the carriages might be upset by the force of the wind. The Royal travellers alighted, and Sir John proceeded to inspect the bridge. On his return, he advised the Duchess to stay, as the storm was raging fearfully, and the danger was imminent. The Princess, with characteristic courage, wanted to go on, but Sir John was firm, and he prevailed, for the journey onwards was postponed. In an hour from that time, nearly the whole of one parapet was lying in rains upon the footway of the bridge, and the other had been blown bodily into the river underneath. The Royal party had to stay all night, and the inn at which they slept, henceforth took the additional title of "Victoria Hotel," which it still retains. The journey was resumed next day, the horses being carefully led by grooms over the roadway of the wall-less bridge.

A few months after this, the Princess, at Kensington Palace, was called from her bed, in the twilight of a summer morning, and was greeted by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, as Queen of England. Her first act, as Queen, was to write, and despatch by a special messenger to Windsor, an affectionate letter to her widowed aunt, the Queen Dowager. From that time forward her daily doings have been duly chronicled, and need not be dwelt upon here; but a few sketches, incidental to her own and the Prince Consort's visits to Birmingham, will perhaps be interesting.

When the Princess Victoria was a mere child, her excellent mother, in the course of a somewhat lengthy tour, brought her to Birmingham, to see some of the principal manufactories. Arrangements were made for their stay at Willday's Hotel, now the Eye Hospital, in Temple Row. On the day they were expected, a guard of honour, consisting of a company of Infantry, was in attendance, and, pending the Royal arrival, waited near the Rectory, in St. Philip's Churchyard. By a very singular chance, the officer then in command became, years after, the Rector of St. Philip's, and the occupier of the house before which he waited that day. He is now the Dean of Worcester, the Hon. and Rev. Grantham M. Yorke.

As the hour of the arrival of the Royal visitors approached, the troops drew up in front of the hotel, and they presented arms as the carriage arrived. A great crowd had assembled. There were no police then, and order was badly kept. As the Princess alighted, a lady, standing near the door of the hotel (Mrs. Fairfax, who recently lived in Great Charles Street), moved by a sudden impulse, rushed forward, caught the Princess in her arms, and kissed her. The Duchess was annoyed, and the attendants, too, were very angry; but the crowd, recognising in the act only the "one touch of nature" that "makes the whole world kin," gave the adventurous lady a round of hearty cheering.

It was many years after her accession that the Queen revisited the town, but the Prince Consort came frequently. His first visit was in 1843. Her Majesty and himself were the guests of Sir Robert Peel at Drayton Manor, and the Prince took the opportunity to come to Birmingham, to inspect some of the manufactories. There is reason to believe that the impressions he received that day were lasting, and that he ever afterwards took a very warm interest in the town and its various industries. Mr. Thomas Weston was Mayor at the time. He was a prosperous and very worthy man, possessing a large fund of common sense, but knowing little of courtly manners. Of course, as Chief Magistrate, he accompanied the Prince through the town, and joined him at the luncheon provided at the Grammar School, by the Rev. J.P. Lee, the Head Master. After luncheon, the Prince, his Equerry, and the Lord-Lieutenant, took their seats in the carriage, but the Mayor was missing. Anxious looks were exchanged, and as minute after minute went by, the attendants became impatient. The Prince stood up in the carriage, and put on an overcoat. Still the Mayor didn't come. At length it oozed out that he had lost his hat. A dozen hats were offered at once on loan; but the Mayor's head was a large one, and it was long before a hat sufficiently capacious could be found. It came at last, however, and the Mayor, in a borrowed hat, came rushing out, much disconcerted, and full, evidently, of apologies, which the Prince, with much good nature, laughingly accepted.

The next time he came to Birmingham was in 1849. At this time the area from Broad Street to Cambridge Street in one direction, and in the other from King Edward's to King Alfred's Place, now covered with buildings, was enclosed on all sides by a brick wall some ten feet high. Inside this wall there was a belt of trees all round, and a few "ancestral elms" were dotted here and there within the enclosure. About a hundred yards from the Broad Street wall stood a square house of red brick, built in the style of architecture current in the days of Queen Anne. It was known as Bingley House. Not far from the spot where the house now occupied by Mr. Mann, the surgeon, stands, was a carriage gate, leading to the dwelling. The grounds were laid out in park-like fashion, and so late as 1847 were abundantly tenanted by wild rabbits. The house had been occupied for a generation or two by the Lloyd family, but about 1846 or 1847 they removed, and it was understood that the ground was shortly to be devoted to building purposes.

In 1848, an exhibition of Birmingham manufactures was projected: the idea, I believe, originating with the late Mr. Aitken. It was received with considerable favour, and a strong committee being formed, a plan was soon matured for carrying it into effect. Negotiations resulted in the tenancy, for the purpose, of Bingley House and grounds. Very soon a substantial timber building was seen rising within the wall, near the corner of King Alfred's Place. In a few weeks it was covered in; a broad corridor connected it with the old mansion; and early in 1849 an exhibition, most interesting in its details, and artistic in its arrangement, was opened. The larger articles were displayed in the temporary building; flat exhibits covered the walls of the corridor; and smaller matters were arranged, with great judgment, in the old-fashioned rooms of the house itself.

The exhibition opened with great Éclat. The buildings were thronged from morning till night with gratified crowds. Special reporters from the daily newspapers came down from London, and sent long and special reports for publication. The veteran magazine, now called The Art Journal, but then known as The Art Union, gave interesting accounts, with engravings of many of the articles on view, and the whole matter was a great and signal success.

One morning the secretary received an intimation that Prince Albert was coming on the following day. Preparations on a suitable scale were at once commenced for his reception, and the principal exhibitors were invited to be in attendance. At the time appointed, the Prince, who had made a special journey from London for the purpose, was met by the officials at the entrance, and conducted systematically through the place. He made a most minute and careful examination of the whole of the contents, took copious memoranda, and chatted familiarly with everybody. One remark I heard him make struck me as significant of the practical, observant character of his mind. Cocoa-fibre matting was then comparatively unknown; the stone steps of the old hall had been carpeted with this new material; observing this, as he walked up the steps, the Prince turned to Mr. Aitken and said, "Capital invention this; the only material I know of that wears better in a damp place than when dry."

As he left the place on his return to London, he expressed, in cordial terms, his thanks for the attention shown him, and said he had "been very much pleased; quite delighted, in fact," and so ended a visit which eventually led to the Great Exhibition of 1851, the Royal Commission for the establishment of which was gazetted January 3, 1850.

The Prince came again, to lay the foundation stone of the Midland Institute buildings. On that occasion he accepted an invitation to a public luncheon in the Town Hall, and it was here that he delivered the celebrated speech which placed him at once in the foremost rank of philosophic thinkers. He was much pleased at his cordial reception on this occasion, and it is known that it had much to do in overcoming the avowed reluctance of the Queen to visit Birmingham, and was mainly instrumental in inducing her to consent to open Aston Hall and Park.

The 15th of June, 1858, was eagerly looked forward to, for on that day the Queen was coming. Taking a lesson from continental practice, it was wisely resolved that individual attempts at decoration should be discouraged, and that the inhabitants of each street should combine for effective artistic arrangements. For the first time, I believe, in England, Venetian masts were a principal feature, where possible. Poles by hundreds, and flags by thousands, were sought in all directions. The Town Hall was placed in the hands of skilful decorators. The interior was, as yet, a mystery; but the pediment fronting Paradise street was fitted with an enormous canvas-covered frame, upon which was emblazoned, in gorgeous, but proper heraldic style, the Royal Arms of England. All along the line of route through the town, and on the road to Aston, rose hundreds of galleries for spectators. Every one was busy in preparation, and nothing was omitted to make the scene as gay as possible.

The morning of the day was fine and intensely hot. Each street had its own style of ornamentation, but the number of separate short lengths of the route, gave sufficient variety to avoid monotony. Bull Street, as seen from the bottom, seemed like a fairy scene from a theatre; all looked gay and pleasant to the artistic eye. The Town Hall had been transformed into a gorgeous Throne Room, and was crowded with the Élite of the neighbourhood. The Queen, as usual, was punctual, and took her seat under a regal canopy. A short reception was held. The Mayor knelt, and rose up a Knight. The mover and seconder of the address from the Corporation kissed hands. Poor Alderman Horatio Cutler, in his confusion at finding himself in so august a presence, forgot the customary bending of the knee. In vain Lords in Waiting touched the back of his leg with their wands to remind him. He had lost his presence of mind, and retired in utter confusion, amid a general but suppressed titter.

Then came the journey to the Park, through the long line of decorated streets; the short ceremony at the Hall, and the luncheon. Then the appearance in the gallery upon the roof of the glass pavilion, where the Queen and Prince received, and acknowledged gracefully, the plaudits of the spectators; and finally came the announcement by Sir Francis Scott, that he had received "Her Majesty's gracious commands to declare, in her name, that the Park was now open."

At the door of departure, her Majesty, in thanking the Mayor for the arrangements made for her comfort and convenience, was pleased to say that she had never before been greeted with such enthusiastic loyalty, and that the decorations had exceeded in beauty anything of the kind she had ever seen.

I have never seen the Queen since. Her photographs, however, show me that, although she has twenty-seven grand-children, and has been Queen of England for more than forty years, she is still a comely matron, with every appearance of health and vigour. Long may she remain so! Long may she continue to be, as now, the kindly, sympathetic, motherly head of a contented, loyal, and united people.