On the 17th of July, Parliament was prorogued by the Queen in person.  Her Majesty’s first Speech from the Throne referred to friendly relations with Foreign Powers, the diminution of capital punishment, and “discreet improvements in ecclesiastical institutions.”  It was read in a clear and musical voice, with a fascinating grace of accent and elocution which never faded from the memory of those who heard it.  As long as her Majesty continued to open and prorogue Parliament in person the same perfection of delivery was always noticed.  An old M.P., by no means inclined to be a courtier, told me that when her Majesty approached the part of her speech relating to the estimates, her way of uttering the words “Gentlemen of the House of Commons” was the most winning address he had ever heard:  it gave to an official demand the character of a personal request.  After the Prince Consort’s death, the Queen did not again appear at Westminster till the opening of the new Parliament in 1866.  On that occasion the speech was read by the Lord Chancellor, and the same usage has prevailed whenever her Majesty has opened Parliament since that time.  But on several occasions of late years she has read her reply to addresses presented by public bodies, and I well recollect that at the opening of the Imperial Institute in 1893, though the timbre of her voice was deeper than in early years, the same admirable elocution made every syllable audible.

In June 1837 the most lively emotion in the masses of the people was the joy of a great escape.  I have said before that grave men, not the least given to exaggeration, told me their profound conviction that, had Ernest Duke of Cumberland succeeded to the throne on the death of William IV., no earthly power could have averted a revolution.  The plots of which the Duke was the centre have been described with a due commixture of history and romance in Mr. Allen Upward’s fascinating story, God save the Queen.  Into the causes of his intense unpopularity, this is not the occasion to enter; but let me just describe a curious print of the year 1837 which lies before me as I write.  It is headed “The Contrast,” and is divided into two panels.  On your left hand is a young girl, simply dressed in mourning, with a pearl necklace and a gauzy shawl, and her hair coiled in plaits, something after the fashion of a crown.  Under this portrait is “Victoria.”  On the other side of the picture is a hideous old man, with shaggy eyebrows and scowling gaze, wrapped in a military cloak with fur collar and black stock.  Under this portrait is “Ernest” and running the whole length of the picture is the legend:—­

    “Look here upon this picture—­and—­on this,
    The counterfeit presentment of two sov’reigns.”