[Illustration: Balmoral Castle.]
'Prince Alfred sent for me last night to see him before going away. Thank God, I spoke fully and frankly to him—we were alone—of his difficulties, temptations, and of his father's example; what the nation expected of him; how, if he did God's will, good and able men would rally round him; how, if he became selfish, a selfish set of flatterers would truckle to him and ruin him, while caring only for themselves. He thanked me for all I said, and wished me to travel with him to-day to Aberdeen, but the Queen wishes to see me again.'
In his Journal of May 14, he wrote: 'After dinner I was summoned unexpectedly to the Queen's room. She was alone. She met me, and with an unutterably sad expression which filled my eyes with tears, at once began to speak about the prince. It is impossible for me to recall distinctly the sequence or substance of that long conversation. She spoke of his excellences—his love, his cheerfulness, how he was everything to her; how all now on earth seemed dead to her. She said she never shut her eyes to trials, but liked to look them in the face; how she would never shrink from duty, but that all was at present done mechanically; that her highest ideas of purity and love were obtained from him, and that God could not be displeased with her love. But there was nothing morbid in her grief. I spoke freely to her about all I felt regarding him—the love of the nation and their sympathy; and took every opportunity of bringing before her the reality of God's love and sympathy, her noble calling as a queen, the value of her life to the nation, the blessedness of prayer.'
On the Monday following the Sabbath services, Dr Macleod had a long interview with the Queen. 'She was very much more like her old self,' he writes, 'cheerful, and full of talk about persons and things. She, of course, spoke of the prince. She said that he always believed he was to die soon, and that he often told her that he had never any fear of death…. The more I learned about the Prince-Consort, the more I agree with what the Queen said to me about him, "that he really did not seem to comprehend a selfish character, or what selfishness was."'
It was Dr Macleod's feeling that the Queen had a reasoning, searching mind, anxious to get at the root and the reality of things, and abhorring all shams, whether in word or deed. In October 1866, he records: 'After dinner, the Queen invited me to her room, where I found the Princess Helena and Marchioness of Ely. The Queen sat down to spin at a nice Scotch wheel, while I read Robert Burns to her: "Tam o' Shanter," and "A man's a man for a' that," her favourite. The Prince and Princess of Hesse sent for me to see their children. The eldest, Victoria, whom I saw at Darmstadt, is a most sweet child; the youngest, Elizabeth, a round, fat ball of loving good-nature. I gave her a real hobble, such as I give Polly. I suppose the little thing never got anything like it, for she screamed and kicked with a perfect furore of delight, would go from me to neither father nor mother nor nurse, to their great merriment, but buried her chubby face in my cheek, until I gave her another right good hobble. They are such dear children. The Prince of Wales sent a message asking me to go and see him…. All seem to be very happy. We had a great deal of pleasant talk in the garden. Dear, good General Grey drove me home.'
In a letter written in 1867, he expresses himself thus:
'I had a long interview with the Queen. With my last breath I will uphold the excellence and nobleness of her character. It was really grand to hear her talk on moral courage, and on living for duty.' The Queen, on hearing of Dr Macleod's death, wrote: 'How I loved to talk to him, to ask his advice, to speak to him of my sorrows, my anxieties! … How dreadful to lose that dear, kind, loving, large-hearted friend! I cried very bitterly, for this is a terrible loss to me.'
Both the Queen and Prince-Consort have had a hearty appreciation of literary men of eminence and all public benefactors. We have already noted their appreciation of Tennyson.
The Queen, after a long interview with Charles Dickens, presented him with a copy of her Leaves, and wrote on it that it was a gift 'from one of the humblest of writers to one of the greatest.'
In December 1850, Dr Livingstone wrote to his parents: 'The Royal Geographical Society have awarded twenty-five guineas for the discovery of the lake ('Ngami). It is from the Queen.' Before this he had written: 'I wonder you do not go to see the Queen. I was as disloyal as others when in England, for though I might have seen her in London I never went. Do you ever pray for her?' In 1858 Livingstone was honoured by the Queen with a private interview. An account says, 'She sent for Livingstone, who attended Her Majesty at the palace, without ceremony, in his black coat and blue trousers, and his cap surrounded with a stripe of gold lace…. The Queen conversed with him affably for half-an-hour on the subject of his travels. Dr Livingstone told Her Majesty that he would now be able to say to the natives that he had seen his chief, his not having done so before having been a constant subject of surprise to the children of the African wilderness. He mentioned to Her Majesty also that the people were in the habit of inquiring whether his chief was wealthy; and that when he assured them she was very wealthy, they would ask how many cows she had got, a question at which the Queen laughed heartily.'