Betrothal of the Princess Royal—Birth of the Prince Imperial of France— More visitors and visitings—The Emperor And Empress of Mexico—Marriage of the Princess Royal—The attendant festivities.

At Balmoral, where they took possession of the new Castle, the Queen and Prince received the news of the approaching fall of Sebastopol, for it was not down yet. It finally fell amid a scene of awful conflagration and explosions—the work of the desperate Russians themselves.

The peace-rejoicings did not come till later, but in the new house at Balmoral there was a new joy, though one not quite unmixed with sadness, in the love and happy betrothal of the Princess Victoria. In her journal the Queen tells the old, old story very quietly: "Our dear Victoria was this day engaged to Prince Frederick William of Prussia. He had already spoken to us of his wishes, but were uncertain, on account of her extreme youth, whether he should speak to her or wait till he should come back again. However, we felt it was better he should do so, and, during our ride up Craig-na-Ban this afternoon; he picked a piece of white heather (the emblem of good luck), which he gave to her." This it seems broke the ice, and so the poetic Prince (all German Princes, except perhaps Bismarck, are poetic and romantic) told his love and offered his hand, which was not rejected. Then came a few weeks of courtship, doubtless as bright and sweet to the royal pair of lovers as was a similar season to Robert Burns and "Highland Mary"—for love levels up and levels down— and then young Fritz returned to Germany, leaving behind him a fond heart and a tearful little face round and fair.

From this time till the marriage of the Princess Royal, which was not till after her seventeenth birthday in 1858, the Prince-Consort devoted himself more and more to the education of this beloved daughter—in history, art, literature, and religion. He conversed much and most seriously with her in preparation for her confirmation. He found that this work of mental and moral development was "its own exceeding great reward."

The character of the Princess Royal seems to have been in some respects like that of the Princess Charlotte of Wales. She was as high-spirited, strong-willed, gay, free, and fearless; but with infinitely better and purer domestic and social influences, she grew up into a nobler and more gracious young womanhood. Intellectually and morally, she was her father's creation; intellectually and morally, poor Princess Charlotte was worse than fatherless.

But I must hurry on with the hurrying years. The Prince, writing to Baron Stockmar in March, 1856, says: "The telegraph has just brought the news of the Empress having been safely delivered of a son. Great will be the rejoicing in the Tuileries."

This baby born in the purple was the Prince Imperial, whose fate beggars tragedy; who went to gather laurels on an African desert and fell a victim to a savage ambuscade—his beautiful body stuck almost as full of cruel darts as that of the martyred young St. Sebastian.

On March 21st the long-delayed treaty of peace was signed. After all the waste, the agony, the bloodshed, the Prince wrote: "It is not such as we could have wished." But he had learned to bear these little disappointments.

Prince Alfred began his studies for the navy. Fritz of Prussia came over on a visit to his betrothed, and his father and mother soon followed— coming to get better acquainted with their daughter-in-law to be. Then into the royal circle there came another royal guest, all unbidden—the king whose name is Death. The Prince of Leiningen—the Queen's half- brother in blood, but whole brother in heart—died, to her great grief; and soon after there passed away her beloved aunt, the Duchess of Gloucester, a good and amiable woman, and the last of the fifteen children of George the Third and Queen Charlotte. But here life balanced death, for on April 14th another daughter was born in Buckingham Palace. The Prince in a letter to his step-mother speaks of the baby as "thriving famously, and prettier than babies usually are." He adds, "Mama—Aunt, Vicky and her bridegroom are to be the little one's sponsors, and she is to receive the historical, romantic, euphonious, and melodious names of Beatrice Mary Victoria Feodora."

That summer there came two very interesting royal visitors to Windsor— the young Princess Charlotte of Belgium and her betrothed husband, the Archduke Maximilian of Austria. Prince Albert wrote of the young girl: "Charlotte's whole being seems to me to have been warmed and unfolded by the love which is kindled in her heart." To his uncle Leopold he wrote:" I wish you joy at having got such a husband for dear Charlotte, as I am sure he is quite worthy of her and will make her happy."

Just ten years from that time the Emperor Maximilian, standing before a file of Mexican soldiers at Queretaro, took out his watch, which he would never more need, and, pressing a spring, revealed in its case a miniature of the lovely Empress Charlotte, which he kissed tenderly. Then, handing the watch to the priest at his side, he said: "Carry this souvenir to my dear wife in Europe, and if she ever be able to understand you, say that my eyes closed with the impression of her image, which I shall carry with me above."

She never did understand. She lives in a phantom Court, believing herself still Empress of Mexico, and that the Emperor will soon come home from the wars to her and the throne.

There was this summer a memorable show in Hyde Park, when Queen Victoria on horseback, in her becoming military dress, pinned with her own hands on to the coats of a large number of heroes of the great war the coveted Victoria Cross. Ah! they were proud and she was prouder. She is a true soldier's daughter; her heart always thrills at deeds of valor and warms at sight of a hero, however humble.

The Prince went over to his cousin Charlotte's wedding, and the Queen, compelled to stay behind, wrote to King Leopold that her letting her husband, go without her was a great proof of her love for her uncle. "You cannot think," she said, "how completely forlorn I feel when he is away, or how I count the hours till he returns. All the children are as nothing when he is away. It seems as if the whole life of the house and home were gone."

Again, how like a loving Scotch peasant wife:

"There's na luck about the house,
There's na luck at a'—

There's little pleasure in the house,
When my guid mon's awa'."

In August the Emperor and Empress made a flying visit in their yacht to Osborne and talked over the latest political events, the new phases of affairs, and, doubtless, the new babies; and, a little later, the Queen and Prince ran over to Cherbourg in their yacht, taking six of the children. There was a perfect nursery of the little ones, "rocked in the cradle of the deep." This was such a complete "surprise party," that the Emperor and Empress away in Paris, knew nothing about it. They all took a pleasant little excursion into the lovely country of Normandy in chars-À-bancs, with bells on the post-horses, doubtless, and everything gay and delightful and novel to the children,—especially French sunshine.

This year the Balmoral stay was greatly saddened by the news of the Sepoy rebellion, of the tragedies of Cawnpore, and the unspeakable atrocities of Nana Sahib. Young people nowadays know little about that ghastly war, except as connected with the pretty poetical story of the relief of Lucknow, and Jessie Brown; but, at the time, it was an awfully real thing, and not in the least poetical or romantic.

The marriage of the Princess Royal was fixed for January 25, 1858. Her father wrote from Balmoral hi the autumn; "Vicky suffers under the feeling that every spot she visits she has to greet for the last time as home… The departure from here will, be a great trial to us all, especially to Vicky, who leaves it for good and all; and the good, simple Highlanders, who are very fond of us, are constantly saying to her, and often with tears, 'I suppose we shall never see you again?' which naturally makes her feel more keenly."

At last the wedding day approached and the royal guests began to arrive at Buckingham Palace, and they poured in till on fair days a King or Queen, a Prince or Princess looked out of nearly every window; and when there was a fog, collisions of crowned heads occurred in the corridors. On the day the Court left Windsor the Queen wrote: "Went to look at the rooms prepared for Vicky's honeymoon; very pretty… We took a short walk with Vicky, who was dreadfully upset at this real break in her life; the real separation from her childhood."

These be little things perhaps, but beautiful little human things, showing the warm love and tender sympathy which united this family, supposed to be lifted high and dry above ordinary humanity, among the arid and icy grandeurs of royalty.

There was a gay little ball one evening with Highnesses and Serenities dancing and whirling and chassÉing, and a "grande chaine" of half of the sovereigns of Europe—all looking very much like other people. The Queen wrote: "Ernest (Duke of Coburg) said it seemed like a dream to see Vicky dance as a bride, just as I did eighteen years ago, and I still (so he said) looking very young. In 1840, poor dear papa (late Duke of Coburg) danced with me as Ernest danced with Vicky."

Afterwards there was a grand ball, attended by over a thousand of the elect, and for the multitude there were dramatic and musical entertainments. At Her Majesty's Theatre one night the famous tragedian, Mr. Phelps, and the great actress, Miss Helen Faucit, in the tragedy of Macbeth, froze the blue blood of a whole tier of royal personages and made them realize what crowns were worth, and how little they had earned theirs, by showing what men and women will go through with to secure one. The Emperor and Empress of France were not among the guests. They had been a little upset by an event more tragic than are most marriages—the attempt of Orsini to blow up their carriage, by the explosion of hand-grenades near the entrance of the Italian Opera. They had been only slightly hurt, but some eighty innocent people in the crowd had been either killed or wounded. The white dress of the Empress was sprinkled with blood, yet she went to her box and sat out the performance. What nerve these imperial people have!

The Queen's account of this glad, sad time of the marriage is very natural, moving and maternal. First, there was the domestic and Court sensation of the arrival of the bridegroom, Prince "Fritz," whom the Prince-Consort had gone to meet, and all the Court awaited. "I met him," says the Queen, "at the bottom of the staircase, very warmly; he was pale and nervous. At the top of the staircase Vicky received him, with Alice." That afternoon all the royal people witnessed a grand dramatic performance of "Taming the Horse," with Mr. Rarey as "leading man." In the evening they went to the opera. The next day, Sunday, the presents were shown—a marvelous collection of jewels, plate, lace and India shawls, and they had service and listened to a sermon. It is wonderful what these great people can get through with! Coming in from a walk they found a lot of new presents added to the great pile. The Queen writes: "Dear Vicky gave me a brooch, a very pretty one, containing her hair, and clasping me in her arms, said,' I hope to be worthy to be your child.'"

From all I hear I should say that fond hope has been realized in a noble and beneficent life. The Crown Princess of Germany is a woman greatly loved and honored.

On the wedding day the Queen wrote: "The second most eventful day of my life, as regards feelings; I felt as if I were being married over again myself… While dressing, dearest Vicky came in to see me, looking well and composed."

The Princess Royal, like her mother, was married in the Chapel of St. James' Palace, and things went on very much as on that memorable wedding day—always spoken of by the Queen as "blessed." She now could describe more as a spectator the shouting, the bell-ringing, the cheering and trumpetings, and the brave sight of the procession. Prince Albert and King Leopold and "the two eldest boys went first. Then the three girls (Alice, Helena and Louise), in pink satin, lace and flowers." There were eight bridesmaids in "white tulle, with wreaths and bouquets of roses and white heather." That was a pretty idea, using the simple betrothal flower of the Prince and Princess-for "luck."

The Queen speaks of "Mama looking so handsome in violet velvet; trimmed with ermine." Ah, the young Victoria was the only daughter of her Victoria, who as a bride was to receive on her brow that grandmother's kiss—dearer and holier than any priestly benediction. I like to read that immediately after the ceremony the bride "kissed her grandmama."

After the wedding breakfast at the Palace the bridal pair, Victoria and Frederick William, drove away just as eighteen years before Victoria and Albert had driven away—the same state, the same popular excitement, in kind if not in degree, and, let us trust, a like amount of love and joy. But this happy pair did not drive all the way to Windsor. The waiting train, the iron horse snorting with impatience, showed how the world had moved on since that other wedding; but the perennial Eton boys were on hand for these lovers also, wearing the same tall hats and short jackets, cheering in the same mad way, so that the Queen herself would hardly have suspected them to be the other boys' sons, or younger brothers. They "scored one" above their honored predecessors by dragging the carriage from the Windsor station to the Castle.

The Court soon followed to Windsor with thirty-five of the royal guests, and there were banquets and more investings, till it would seem that the Queen's stock of jeweled garters must be running low. Then back to town for more presents and operas and plays, and addresses of congratulation, and at last came the dismal morning of separation. The day before, the Queen had written: "The last day of our dear child being with us, which is incredible, and makes me feel at times quite sick at heart." She records that that poor child exclaimed, "I think it will kill me to take leave of dear papa!"

The next morning, she writes," Vicky came with a very sad face to my room. Here we embraced each other tenderly, and our tears flowed fast."

Then there were leave-takings from the loving grandmama and the younger brothers and sisters ("Bertie" and Alfred going with their father to Gravesend, to see the bridal party embarked), and hardest of all, the parting of the child from the mother.

To quote again: "A dreadful moment and a dreadful day! Such sickness came over me—real heart-ache,—when I thought of our dearest child being gone, and for so long… It began to snow before Vicky went, and continued to do so without intermission all day."

In spite of the dreary weather, I am told that thousands of London people were assembled in the streets to catch a last glimpse of the popular Princess Royal. They could hardly recognize her pleasant, rosy, child- like face—it was so sad, so swollen with weeping. They did not then look with much favor on the handsome Prussian Prince at her side—and one loyal Briton shouted out, "If he doesn't treat you well, come back to us!" That made her laugh. I believe he did treat her well, and that she has been always happy as a wife, though for a time she is said to have fretted against the restraints of German Court etiquette, which bristled all round her. She found that the straight and narrow ways of that princely paradise were not hedged with roses, as at home, but with briars. Some she respected, and some she bravely broke through.

The little bride was most warmly received in her new home, and about the anniversary of her own marriage-day, the Queen had the happiness of receiving from her new son this laconic telegram: "The whole royal family is enchanted with my wife. F. W."

Afterwards, in writing to her uncle, of her daughter's success at the Prussian Court, and of her happiness, the Queen says: "But her heart often yearns for home and those she loves dearly—above all, her dear papa, for whom she has un culte (a worship) which is touching and delightful to see."

Her father returned this "worship" by tenderness and devotion unfailing and unwearying. His letters to the Crown Princess are perhaps the sweetest and noblest, most thoughtful and finished of his writings. They show that he respected as well as loved his correspondent, of whom, indeed, he had spoken to her husband as one having "a man's head and a child's heart." His letters to his uncle and the Baron are full of his joy, intellectual and affectional, in this his first-born daughter; but the last-born was not forgotten. In one letter he writes: "Little Beatrice is an extremely attractive, pretty, intelligent child; indeed, the most amusing baby we have had." Again—"Beatrice on her first birthday looks charming, with a new light-blue cap. Her table of birthday gifts has given her the greatest pleasure; especially a lamb."

I know these are little, common domestic bits—that is just why I cull them out of grave letters, full of great affairs of State.