As to the “spotless character” upon which the Prince insisted from the men forming the new Tory Administration, it naturally caused terrible mortification and anger among those able men who could not show a clean bill morally; and in spite of the excellent principle it contained it was likely to be a public danger, as it is by no means proved that the most moral man is also the best statesman. However, the Prince adhered to this all his life, thus doing much to purify English society, and after his death the Queen became much more strict than he had been on this point; indeed, it is doubtful whether Mrs. Norton would have been as kindly received in 1870 as she was in 1840. Lady Cardigan remarks that in 1857 “the Court was as narrow-minded as when poor Flora Hastings had been the victim of its lying slander.” But there was a difference; in 1839 the persecution of Flora Hastings had nothing to do with principle, it was caused by impulse and prejudice; in later years it became a principle that no woman, innocent or guilty, against whom slander had breathed, should set foot within the Palace. It was not so much a horror of sin itself as a conventional idea that the Court must set a good example, and according to the lax standard of Victorian times it was enough that the woman should suffer, the man was only banished if he were extremely and publicly bad. Even now our standard has risen, and we are beginning to think a light man as odious as a light woman, and are certainly not in favour of punishing one and letting the other off.
One curious prejudice that the Queen developed was her strong sentiment against a second marriage, she herself being the child of a happy second marriage, and feeling a great affection for her half-sister. This must have arisen from the sentimental side of her love for her husband, making her feel that so intimate a union as that of marriage could only be possible with one person, only she translated “possible” into “moral.” I do not think it was caused by any excess of religious convictions, for the Queen was not a slave to religious form, though she was devout. In 1844 she held a Drawing Room on the 25th of March, which was not only in Lent, but on the day of the Annunciation. “The Calverts are so shocked, and seem to think that Her Majesty will come to a sense of the enormity she is committing as Head of the Church and put off the Drawing Room. However, that remains to be seen!” writes a chronicler of small events.
Victoria gradually became absorbed in her new Government and new Prime Minister, and by 1844 had forgotten the old party almost as though it did not exist; indeed, in spite of the desire for aloofness from party politics expressed by Albert, she now seemed to regard the Whigs much as she once had regarded the Tories. Thus when the Russian Emperor came to England, and she gave parties in his honour, she invited all the Tories to meet him, and made a sparing choice among her old friends. So Lord John Russell, the then most noted leader among the Whigs, was left out of everything, and was never presented to the Emperor at all. Melbourne was, however, included, and the Emperor thanked him for coming to the breakfast and affording him the opportunity of meeting him.
But as the years went, Her Majesty saw less and less of the man without whom at one time she seemed unable to exist; the letters between them became restricted to the briefest notes at long intervals, and four years after their official parting a contemporary noted that Melbourne could not speak of the Queen without tears in his eyes, and another remarked, “She never cared a farthing for any of the late Cabinet but Melbourne, and has apparently ceased to care for him.”
This was not really according to fact; the Queen always felt an affection for her old Prime Minister, but as she grew more experienced she realised that his advice, though the best he could give, had not always been perfect, and that she in her girlish enthusiasm had not always seen things in their right proportion; thus, too late, she grew critical, and that somewhat altered her estimation of him. She also became more and more confident of Peel’s power to help her, and had little time to spend in writing to the man who was no longer of importance. “She never forgot to write him on his birthday,” one biographer announces triumphantly, but she did more than that, though the poor lonely Melbourne brooded sometimes until he felt himself neglected. It was unfortunate that he allowed his mind to dwell so much on his few years of Royal companionship and favour, that he found the knowledge of his failing powers so painful, and that he ever dreamed of taking the leadership of the House again. When the O’Connell trial was nearing its close, he remarked:
“There is not much chance of the House of Commons coming to a vote against Government; but still such a thing is possible, and I was kept awake half the night thinking, suppose such a thing did occur, and I was sent for to Windsor, what advice I should give the Queen.”... “It kept me awake,” he repeated, “and I determined that I would advise her not to let Mr. O’Connell be brought up for judgment.”
Once the Queen’s prejudice against Peel had disappeared, she felt more comfortable under his Government and its large majorities than she had done with the Whigs; and when Peel resigned at the end of 1845 in consequence of the publication by Delane of his new Corn Law policy, she felt as upset, they say, as when Melbourne resigned in 1839. She could do nothing, however, but send for Lord John Russell, and knowing how Melbourne would feel about being left out she wrote to him, saying that she knew that his health would preclude his taking office, but she hoped he would come and give her his counsel. She was at Cowes at the time, and he replied that he could not face the little crossing, it would be as bad for him as a voyage over the ocean. However, in spite of Russell’s gallant attempts, the somewhat overbearing Palmerston stood in the way of a Whig Cabinet. The Queen feared his foreign policy, and many of his colleagues disliked him. “Lord Palmerston is redeemed from the last extremity of political degradation by his cook,” was the spiteful saying of one of his opponents. So Peel came to the Queen’s assistance, and she received him back as joyfully almost as she had received Melbourne in 1839. It was not the Queen’s ladies this time, but the Queen’s Foreign Minister, who reinstated the old Government.
In 1842 the Queen and the Prince went on a visit to Scotland by boat. They were from all accounts charming on the journey, which was a slow one, taking three days; they took great interest in the ship, dining on deck in the midst of the sailors, making them dance, talking to the boatswain, &c. But Victoria got tired and impatiently wanted to land; as it was useless to do that before she arrived at Grantham Pier she became annoyed; as Greville says, her fault was impatience, inability to bear contradiction, and a desire always to go ahead. Thus as soon as she got into her carriage at Edinburgh, orders were given that the coachman should drive as fast as possible. At first they could scarcely move, for in its enthusiasm the crowd broke all bounds, pressed the soldiers out of the procession, and crushed close up to the carriage. When at last it was disengaged, the coachman went at a gallop through the city, the Queen being seen by no one. People had then, as now, been foolish enough to give great sums for windows and seats, the crowds which lined the streets had been waiting for hours, great labour had been spent to decorate the place, and all that a carriage might dash along bearing a Queen who did not see her subjects through a multitude of people who did not believe that she would have treated them so badly.
Honestly I think the explanation of her motive given by Greville and others is wrong, and that the dash through Edinburgh was caused by nervousness. Paisley was looked upon as one of the centres of disaffection, and Peel was in a state of fear about the whole expedition, acknowledging at the end of one day that “we have just completed the very nervous operation of taking the Queen in a low open carriage from Dalkeith to Dalway, sixteen miles through Canongate and High Street, and back by Leith in the evening.”
Thus when the street crowd hustled the soldiers and pressed so unceremoniously upon the Royal cortège, I think the whole party was inspired with fear for the Queen’s safety, and got out of the town as quickly as possible. This very nearly brought about the result dreaded, for the Edinburgh people were very angry; they talked of abandoning the illuminations, and a public riot nearly took place. This was prevented, however, by the immediate arrangement being made for a great procession on another day.