FIRST YEARS OF CHILDHOOD. Old Memories of Kensington Palace—Enlargements of the Structure by William III., Anne, Queen Caroline, and the Duke of Sussex—Maids of Honour—Rank and Beauty in the Gardens—Wilberforce and the Infant Princess—Victoria at Ramsgate—A Picture of Victoria when Five Years old—Her Physical Training—Popularity as a Child—Her Youthful Charities—A Narrow Escape from Death—Early Development of Quick Intelligence—Anecdotes—Love of Nature—Proneness to Self-will—But Counterbalanced by Candour—Waggishness—A Portrait of the Child-Princess by Leigh Hunt. The infancy, girlhood, and budding womanhood of the Princess Victoria were chiefly spent at the Royal Palace of Kensington. It was her mother’s fixed residence, but the family were much at Claremont, where the Queen testifies that she spent the happiest days of her childhood. There were frequent trips made, too, to various watering-places; and, as the Princess grew in years, visits were paid at the country houses of some of the nobility. Leigh Hunt, in his exquisite book of gossip entitled “The Old Court Suburb,” thus happily describes the more salient and prominent features of the somewhat sombre region of the Queen’s up-bringing:— In vain we are told that Wren is supposed to have built the south front, and Kent (a man famous in his time) the east front. We can no more get up any enthusiasm about it as a building, than if it were a box or a piece of cheese. But it possesses a Dutch solidity; it can KENSINGTON PALACE. The associations of Kensington Palace are almost entirely with the earlier Hanoverian reigns; the later Georges neglected it. Rumour hath it that this royal domain originated in the establishment of a nursery for the children of Henry VIII. If it were so, Elizabeth and Victoria must have been brought up on the same spot; but the tradition is not well supported. Its first ascertained proprietor was Heneage Finch, Speaker of the House of Commons at the accession of the First Charles, who built and occupied only a small nucleus of the present structure, which was enlarged from time to time by most of its successive occupants, but with no pretension, and without much plan. From the second Earl of Nottingham, the grandson of Finch, William III. bought the house and grounds. The latter he enlarged to the extent of twenty-six acres. To these Anne added thirty, and to these in turn Queen Caroline, wife of George II., added three hundred. The gardens were pedantically squared to Dutch uniformity by William of Orange, and the semblance of a Court which he held in this Palace was correspondingly gloomy and dismal. The most singular visitor ever received by William was the Czar Peter, who drove hither incognito in a hackney coach, on his arrival in London, and was afterwards entertained here with some slight show of state. In Anne’s time, the palace and gardens were little livelier than in William’s. The Queen hedged herself in behind absurd chevaux-de-frise of etiquette, and the court chroniclers of the period record little else than eating and drinking. Swift and Prior, Bolingbroke and Marlborough, Addison and Steele, nevertheless, lent occasional gleams of brightness and dignity to the otherwise sombre scene. The most fascinating and memorable association of Kensington Palace is in connection with the Courts of the first two Georges, and of the son of the latter, Frederick Prince of Wales. These associations are specially connected with the bevies of frolicsome, and sometimes frail, maids of honour, who now live in the pages of Pope and Gay, of Hervey and Walpole. Chief among them was the gay, sprightly, and irresistible Molly Leppell, who resisted, in a manner equally indignant and comical, the degrading overtures of the coarse-souled George II. She married Hervey, the most effeminate and egregious dandy of his time. Chesterfield thus toasted her in a ballad on the beauties of the Court;—
Caroline of Anspach, consort of Frederick, Prince of Wales, introduced the habit of promenading in gorgeous costume in the gardens, first on Saturday, then on Sunday, afternoons. By degrees the quality were admitted as well as the royal family and their immediate attendants. The liberty was gradually extended to the general public. Hence it was that Kensington Gardens became in time as open to all comers as are the royal parks. These gorgeous promenades ceased with the commencement of the last malady of George III. It was in allusion to the stately train of attendant beauties who accompanied the Princess Caroline of Wales, that Tickell wrote— Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread, With the death of George II., the glory departed from Kensington. No future English King favoured or frequented it. George III. never resided in the Palace, and it was altogether too dull and homely for his eldest son. He was willing enough that his bookish brother Sussex, and his steady brother Kent, should abide in it; WILBERFORCE AND THE PRINCESS. It was in the rooms, rich with such varied associations as those, some few of which we have cited, and surrounded by the remarkable collection of pictures, chiefly by Byzantine and early German painters—that England’s future Queen grew up from babyhood to womanhood. Amongst the very earliest notices of the infant Princess is the following, which we cite from a letter written by Wilberforce to his friend, Hannah More, on the 21st July, 1820. He says:— In consequence of a very civil message from the Duchess of Kent, I waited on her this morning. She received me with her fine animated child on the floor by her side, with its playthings, of which I soon became one. She was very civil; but, as she did not sit down, I did not think it right to stay above a quarter of an hour; and there being but a female attendant and footman present, I could not well get up any topic, so as to carry on a continued discourse. She apologised for not speaking English well enough to talk it; but intimated a hope that she might talk it better and longer with me at some future time. She spoke of her situation [this was, probably, in reference to the cold treatment of her and hers by George IV.], and her manner was quite delightful. Four years later, the Duchess and the little Princess paid one of many visits to Ramsgate: and it would MORAL TRAINING. During the earliest years of her childhood, Victoria does not seem to have been harassed with book-learning—a most wise and excellent omission. In 1823, the Dowager Duchess of Coburg wrote to her daughter—“Do not yet tease your little puss with learning; she is so young still.” The Queen’s mother followed the good advice; it was the cultivation of the heart of her child at which she first strove. Above everything, any approach to pride or hauteur was discouraged. The convictions equally with the natural temperament of the Duchess, led her to regard such a quality as specially to be avoided. She was trained to be courteous, affable, lively, and to put social inferiors perfectly at their ease. In her juvenile sea-side and other excursions, it was constantly observed by every one that the faces of the bathing-women, and others of the same class, whose services were needed, lighted up with genuine, unaffected gladness whenever the young Princess appeared. The following little picture deserves to be reproduced, without tampering with the colours of its portrayer:—“As she proceeded up the High Street from the sands, there sat on the low step of a closed shop an aged Irishwoman, pale, wan, dejected, sorrowful, her head bent forward, and whilst all nature was gay, she looked sickly, sad, and famishing. Whether she was too depressed to beg, or too exhausted at that moment to make the effort, I cannot tell, but she asked THE QUEEN’S CHILDHOOD. While still not a year old, and ere her father’s death, the intensity of interest which the people took in the safety and welfare of the Princess had been strongly displayed in the universal satisfaction which was expressed at her providential escape from being wounded, if not killed, in consequence of some boys shooting at birds near the temporary residence of the Duke at Sidmouth. Some of the shots penetrated the window of the nursery, and passed very near the child’s head. This universal interest became yet deeper, when, after the lapse of two or three years, both of the daughters of the Duke of It is especially worthy of notice that the Duke and Duchess of Clarence, their hearts not being made in the slightest degree callous or soured by their own melancholy bereavements and the disappointment of their fondest hopes, formed and displayed for their niece a sincere and warm attachment. They took from the very first the warmest interest in all her vicissitudes and illnesses; and when they became King and Queen their elevated positions only seemed to increase the warmth of their regard, and the copious flow of their practical kindness. It was, therefore, no wonder that when, under Providence, Victoria became Queen she treated the Queen Dowager with most unequivocal respect and esteem, regarding Spite of many sinister rumours, the Princess grew up strong and vigorous. Her mother was especially careful to fortify her constitution, and so to prepare it to encounter the hard work and manifold anxiety which are the inevitable lot of a British sovereign. Many there were—some of them with ends of their own to gain—who kept prophesying that “the daughter of the Duke of Kent would never attain her legal majority;” or, that “she would never marry;” again, that “she could never become the mother of a family.” Much alarm was caused by these prognostications. For one thing was above all others ardently desired by the nation—that the Duke of Cumberland, who stood next in succession after the Princess, should never become King of England. Even if he had not been an object of something more than suspicion, it was universally desired that England should never again (after King William’s death) be united with Hanover under one monarch. But as facts became known by degrees about the Princess, as her healthy face and agile frame became familiar in London, and in many parts of the land, the apprehensions died away, and the “frail, delicate, sickly child,” whose fabricated ailments had been made the subject of so much sham sympathy, was looked upon as a fabulous invention. LEARNING TO READ. It soon became known that her physical and mental characteristics were of a nature directly the opposite of what had been so industriously reported. She was extremely active, and had a healthy love of sports and games. She had an inquiring mind, not only restless in the pursuit, but clear in the comprehension of JUVENILE ANECDOTES. The following incident shows that at least on some occasions a keen spirit of waggishness entered strongly into her self-will. When first she took lessons on the piano, she objected strongly to the monotonous fingering, as she had formerly done to A B C. She was, of course, informed that all success as a musician depended upon her first becoming “mistress of the piano.” “Oh, I am to be mistress of my piano, am I?” asked she. To that the reply was a repetition of the statement. “Then what would you think of me if I became mistress at once?” “That would be impossible. There is no royal road to music. Experience and great practice are essential.” “Oh, there is no royal road to music, eh? No royal road? And I am not mistress of my pianoforte? But I will be, I assure you; and the royal road is this”—at the same time closing the piano, locking it, and taking the key—“There! that’s being mistress of the piano! and the royal road to learning is, never to take a lesson till you’re in the humour to do it.” After the laugh which her joke had provoked in herself and others had subsided, she at once volunteered to resume the lesson. We cannot more fitly conclude this chapter, ere we proceed to travel an important stage further in our attempt to trace the youthful days of the Queen, than by presenting a picture of her, as she appeared at this period of her life to the genial eyes of Leigh Hunt, We remember well the peculiar kind of personal pleasure which it gave us to see the future Queen, the first time we ever did see her, coming up a cross path from the Bayswater Gate, with a girl of her own age by her side, whose hand she was holding, as if she loved her. It brought to our mind the warmth of our own juvenile friendships, and made us fancy that she loved everything else that we had loved in like measure—books, trees, verses, Arabian tales, and the good mother who had helped to make her so affectionate. A magnificent footman, in scarlet, came behind her, with the splendidest pair of calves, in white stockings, that we had ever beheld. He looked somehow like a gigantic fairy, personating, for his little lady’s sake, the grandest footman he could think of; and his calves he seemed to have made out of a couple of the biggest chaise-lamps in the possession of the godmother of Cinderella. As the Princess grew up, the world seemed never to hear of her except as it wished to hear—that is to say, in connection with her mother; and now it never hears of her but in connection with children of her own, and her husband, and her mother still [this was written in 1855], and all good household pleasures and hospitalities, and public virtues of a piece with them. May life ever continue to appear to her what, indeed, it really is to all who have eyes for seeing beyond the surface—namely, a wondrous fairy scene, strange, beautiful, mournful too, yet hopeful of being “happy ever after,” when its story is over; and wise, meantime, in seeing much where others see nothing, in shedding its tears patiently, and in doing its best to diminish the tears around it. |