Rather more than one mortal lifetime, as we average life in these later days, has elapsed since that June morning of 1837, when Victoria of England, then a fair young princess of eighteen, was roused from her tranquil sleep in the old palace at Kensington, and bidden to rise and meet the Primate, and his dignified associates the Lord Chamberlain and the royal physician, who “were come on business of state to the Queen”—­words of startling import, for they meant that, while the royal maiden lay sleeping, the aged King, whose heiress she was, had passed into the deeper sleep of death.  It is already an often-told story how promptly, on receiving that summons, the young Queen rose and came to meet her first homagers, standing before them in hastily assumed wrappings, her hair hanging loosely, her feet in slippers, but in all her hearing such royally firm composure as deeply impressed those heralds of her greatness, who noticed at the same moment that her eyes were full of tears.  This little scene is not only charming and touching, it is very significant, suggesting a combination of such qualities as are not always found united:  sovereign good sense and readiness, blending with quick, artless feeling that sought no disguise—­such feeling as again betrayed itself when on her ensuing proclamation the new Sovereign had to meet her people face to face, and stood before them at her palace window, composed but sad, the tears running unchecked down her fair pale face.

That rare spectacle of simple human emotion, at a time when a selfish or thoughtless spirit would have leaped in exultation, touched the heart of England deeply, and was rightly held of happy omen.  The nation’s feeling is aptly expressed in the glowing verse of Mrs. Browning, praying Heaven’s blessing on the “weeping Queen,” and prophesying for her the love, happiness, and honour which have been hers in no stinted measure.  “Thou shalt be well beloved,” said the poetess; there are very few sovereigns of whom it could be so truly said that they have been well beloved, for not many have so well deserved it.  The faith of the singer has been amply justified, as time has made manifest the rarer qualities joyfully divined in those early days in the royal child, the single darling hope of the nation.

Once before in the recent annals of our land had expectations and desires equally ardent centred themselves on one young head.  Much of the loyal devotion which had been alienated from the immediate family of George III. had transferred itself to his grandchild, the Princess Charlotte, sole offspring of the unhappy marriage between George, Prince of Wales, and Caroline of Brunswick.  The people had watched with vivid interest the young romance of Princess Charlotte’s happy marriage, and had bitterly lamented her too early death—­an event which had overshadowed all English hearts with forebodings of disaster.  Since that dark day a little of the old attachment of England to its sovereigns had revived for the frank-mannered