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difficult to see how these relations could have been stated at all without presenting them in their true character, and with the same degree of frankness as the relations between Earl Russell or Lord Palmerston and the Court are described. There is no evidence of arrière pensée in the one case any more than in the other. The Prince had his own opinions, which he held firmly all the more that they were the result of his own deliberate thoughtfulness. He evidently disagreed with Mr. Gladstone strongly as to his attitude on the Fortification Bill, and the general question of what was necessary for the defence of the country. He had not the same faith in the efficacy of the Commercial Treaty for preserving peace as Mr. Gladstone and the Manchester School had. They were right upon the whole; and the Prince's apprehensions were in some degree exaggerated. But Mr. Gladstone's foresight could not have been appreciated without a perception of the difficulties of his policy such as they appeared to other minds, and even to the thoughtful mind of the Prince Consort. The moral earnestness of a man like Mr. Gladstone, no less than his amazing energy, were least of all likely to be underrated by a character like Prince Albert's, combining in itself such high enthusiasm with such serious and self-sacrificing devotion to work and duty. The only thing in the present volume really depreciatory of Mr. Gladstone, and the publication of which might have been spared by the biographer, is a remark not by the Prince, but by Lord Palmerston, the chief of the Cabinet upon which Mr. Gladstone's famous Budget speeches cast so much honour. Lord Palmerston in a letter to the Queen on July 23, 1860, while informing her Majesty as to the objections of the Chancellor of the Exchequer to the Fortification Bill, says that he reserved his freedom to take such course as he may see fit on that subject next year, to which Viscount Palmerston entirely assented.' That course," he adds, will probably be the same which Mr. Gladstone bas taken this year, namely, ineffectual opposition and ultimate acquiescence.

The course of events in Italy, which had been interrupted by the Peace of Villafranca, resumed their march with redoubled vigour under the auspices of Garibaldi in Naples. The truth was that the time was ripe for the consolidation of the Italian peninsula into one kingdom; and as Garibaldi advanced with his conquering volunteers from the south, Cavour was compelled to throw his forces into Umbria and the Marches, in order to prevent anarchy in those states, and to extend the authority of a stable government throughout Italy. It was natural that the Prince should view with some distrust and alarm the arguments by which Cavour defended his ambitious designs for his country and sovereign. His position, as well as bis habits of mind, here, as always, compelled him to look with favour at the more cautious and slowly progressive side of public affairs, rather than at the violent daring which knew, as in the case of Cavour, how to seize the fitting opportunity which might never return. This accounts for consideration of expediency should ever override the claims of truth and fair-dealing. Cavour's pliancy in saying one thing and sometimes doing another offended his sense of right. All his higher sympathies, however, were with the cause of Italian unity, and he therefore felt very bitterly the insinuation which appeared in the • Times ' in the spring of 1861, to the effect that the Italian policy of the Government was thwarted by the influence of the Court. Even if the Prince had less fully recognised than he did, the necessity of a United Italy as the only adequate fulfilment of the long-stified aspirations of a great people, he had too long learned and too long practised his constitutional duties as the adviser of the Queen on foreign policy, to have interposed any obstacles to a policy approved of by the English nation and promoted by the Government. His consciousness of freedom from blame did not prevent him feeling acutely such public accusations. It would have been better for his happiness, and possibly shown more strength of mind, had he not taken so much to heart articles in the · Times' or anywhere else. But it is the penalty of a nature like his, in its very strife to do what is right amidst the powerful influences of duty affecting it on the one side and the other, to feel bitterly the sting which harsher natures, untroubled by any considerations save those of the moment, may inflict upon a complex and sensitive conscience.

It is evident, moreover, in these last years, that the Prince's health was losing its elasticity and strength long before the end came. Apparently healthy and capable of much fatigue both of body and mind, his brilliant, youthful beauty of face and figure having settled into a dignified and noble manhood, he was never really what physicians call 6 strong. In childhood he was called “a delicate boy; and having brought a weak stomach into the world, he was never likely, as he says in one of his letters to his daughter, the Princess Royal, to get the better of this constitutional weakness. It was constantly making itself felt; and especially in the autumn of 1857, the strain of long-continued work seems to have begun to tell upon him, and his sufferings from this unhappy organ come out continually in his confidential communications. After his address to the philosophers of the British Association, at Aberdeen, in that autumn, he had a severe “gastric attack,' which evidently alarmed those who knew his constitution-none more so than his ever-watchful friend, Stockmar, at a distance, who wrote to him in evident distress, and in a note of warning, which it is now rather pitiful to read, he attributed his illness to the worries both of body and mind' to which the Prince was daily exposed, and the difficulties which beset him in taking due care of his health. “All around you,' he said, ominously, there is a

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• Vol. v. p. 287.

5.We have gone through much, and tried hard after much that is good. So write both the Queen and Prince Albert to Stockmar in the present volume. We do not know how it affects others; but we have seldom read, in all the circumstances, a

difficult to see how these relations could have been stated at all without presenting them in their true character, and with the same degree of frankness as the relations between Earl Russell or Lord Palmerston and the Court are described. There is no evidence of arrière pensée in the one case any more than in the other. The Prince had his own opinions, which he held firmly all the more that they were the result of his own deliberate thoughtfulness. He evidently disagreed with Mr. Gladstone strongly as to his attitude on the Fortification Bill, and the general question of what was necessary for the defence of the country. He had not the same faith in the efficacy of the Commercial Treaty for preserving peace as Mr. Gladstone and the Manchester School had. They were right upon the whole; and the Prince's apprehensions were in some degree exaggerated. But Mr. Gladstone's foresight could not have been appreciated without a perception of the difficulties of his policy such as they appeared to other minds, and even to the thoughtful mind of the Prince Consort. The moral earnestness of a man like Mr. Gladstone, no less than his amazing energy, were least of all likely to be underrated by a character like Prince Albert's, combining in itself such high enthusiasm with such serious and self-sacrificing devotion to work and duty. The only thing in the present volume really depreciatory of Mr. Gladstone, and the publication of which might have been spared by the biographer, is a remark not by the Prince, but by Lord Palmerston, the chief of the Cabinet upon which Mr. Gladstone's famous Budget speeches cast so much honour. Lord Palmerston in a letter to the Queen on July 23, 1860, while informing her Majesty as to the objections of the Chancellor of the Exchequer to the Fortification Bill, says that he reserved his freedom to take such course as he may see fit on that subject next year, to which Viscount Palmerston entirely assented.' That course,' he adds, “will probably be the same which Mr. Gladstone has taken this year, namely, ineffectual opposition and ultimate acquiescence.'

The course of events in Italy, which had been interrupted by the Peace of Villafranca, resumed their march with redoubled vigour under the auspices of Garibaldi in Naples. The truth was that the time was ripe for the consolidation of the Italian peninsula into one kingdom; and as Garibaldi advanced with his conquering volunteers from the south, Cavour was compelled to throw his forces into Umbria and the Marches, in order to prevent anarchy in those states, and to extend the authority of a stable government throughout Italy. It was natural that the Prince should view with some distrust and alarm the arguments by which Cavour defended his ambitious designs for his country and sovereign. His position, as well as bis habits of mind, here, as always, compelled him to look with favour at the more cautious and slowly progressive side of public affairs, rather than at the violent daring which knew, as in the case of Cavour, how to seize the fitting opportunity which might never return. This accounts for consideration of expediency should ever override the claims of truth and fair-dealing. Cavour's pliancy in saying one thing and sometimes doing another 4 offended his sense of right. All his higher sympathies, however, were with the cause of Italian unity, and he therefore felt very bitterly the insinuation which appeared in the • Times ’ in the spring of 1861, to the effect that the Italian policy of the Government was thwarted by the influence of the Court. Even if the Prince had less fully recognised than he did, the necessity of a United Italy as the only adequate fulfilment of the long-stifled aspirations of a great people, he had too long learned and too long practised his constitutional duties as the adviser of the Queen on foreign policy, to have interposed any obstacles to a policy approved of by the English nation and promoted by the Government. His consciousness of freedom from blame did not prevent him feeling acutely such public accusations. It would have been better for his happiness, and possibly shown more strength of mind, had he not taken so much to heart articles in the Times' or anywhere else. But it is the penalty of a nature like his, in its very strife to do what is right amidst the powerful influences of duty affecting it on the one side and the other, to feel bitterly the sting which harsher natures, untroubled by any considerations save those of the moment, may inflict upon a complex and sensitive conscience.

It is evident, moreover, in these last years, that the Prince's health was losing its elasticity and strength long before the end came. Apparently healthy and capable of much fatigue both of body and mind, his brilliant, youthful beauty of face and figure having settled into a dignified and noble manhood, he was never really what physicians call • strong. In childhood he was called “a delicate boy; '6 and having brought a weak stomach into the world, he was never likely, as he says in one of his letters to his daughter, the Princess Royal, to get the better of this constitutional weakness. It was constantly making itself felt; and especially in the autumn of 1857, the strain of long-continued work seems to have begun to tell upon him, and his sufferings from this unhappy organ come out continually in his confidential communications. After his address to the philosophers of the British Association, at Aberdeen, in that autumn, he had a severe 'gastric attack, which evidently alarmed those who knew his constitution—none more so than his ever-watchful friend, Stockmar, at a distance, who wrote to him in evident distress, and in a note of warning, which it is now rather pitiful to read, he attributed his illness to the worries both of body and mind' to which the Prince was daily exposed, and the difficulties which beset him in taking due care of his health. All around you,' he said, ominously, there is a want of a thoughtful care for the repose, the tending, and the nursing which are so necessary for the sick and the convalescent. His old friend was, perhaps, disposed to be slightly querulous, and no doubt the chief reason of the Prince's want of rest was, his own sleepless effort to be always at the post of duty. There is reason to beliere that Sir James Clark, who knew his system well and how much it needed periodical rest, had warned him to take a daily siesta. But the Prince was still in the prime of manhood, and many much older than he was shrink from habits that seem to suggest the approach of declining years.

• Vol. v. p. 287.

5.We have gone through much, and tried hard after much that is good. So write both the Queen and Prince Albert to Stockmar in the present volume. We do not know how it affects others; but we have seldom read, in all the circumstances, a

So he worked on, notwithstanding successive symptoms of want of sleep, as early as the end of 1859.7

In the beginning of the following year, and all throughout the concluding years of his life, chronicled in the volume, there is an evident decay of healthful vitality, and consequently of buoyancy of spirits. “I am tired to death with work, vexation, and worry," he says to Stockmar in January, 1860. The winter and spring of this year were cold and wet, and their influence was naturally depressing. With a brief gleam of fine weather in May, the spirits of the Prince rose; but there is a tone of weariness even in expressing his sense of pleasure in the change to his daughter at Berlin. He writes from Osborne on May 23 (1860):

Your letter of the 20th has found me in the enjoyment of the most glorious air, the most fragrant odours, the incessant choir of birds, and the most luxuriant verdure; and were there not so many things that reminded me of the so-called world (that is to say—of miserable men) one might abandon oneself wholly to the enjoyment of the real world. There is no such good fortune, however, for poor me; and this being so, one's feelings remain under the treadmill of ever-circling business. The donkey in Carisbrooke, which you will remember, is my true counterpart. He, too, would much rather munch thistles in the castle-moat than turn round in the wheel at the castle well ; and small are the thanks he gets for his labour. I am tortured, too, by the prospect of two public dinners at which I am, or rather shall be, in the chair. The one gives me seven, the other ten, toasts and speeches, appropriate to the occasion and distracting to myself.8

It may surprise some that the Prince's work should have been so incessant; but one has only to remember the numberless duties, public and private, devolving upon him, and the high ideal which he set before him of shrinking from no burdens either of his own, or by which he could relieve the Queen, to see how inevitable was his round of work day by day. In one year (1848) we are told, no fewer than 28,000 despatches were received and sent out at the Foreign Office, and all these despatches passed through the hands of the Queen no less than of her Ministers. The Prince shared in all the Queen's anxieties and advised with her in all difficulties. It had been his aim from the first to make his position entirely a part of hers—to fill up any gap which, as a woman, she would naturally leave in the exercise of her

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