Oh,’tis the Maid, who wakes to plaudits loud,
Rich in the treasure of an angel face,
In every gift that makes a nation proud—
A mother’s joy—an honoured Monarch’s grace.”
Elphinstone did not dream that with these lines he was putting the first nail in the coffin of his hopes of a career at Court or in England.
In 1835 the Princess came more to the front, and probably this was caused by the fact that she suffered early in the year from a serious attack of typhoid, striking many people with consternation, and making King William, who was feeling his age, yet more keenly desirous of securing her company. So in June she went to Ascot in the same carriage with the King and Queen. It is amusing to note that, in spite of the simplicity of dress for which she is supposed to have been so conspicuous, and for which everyone has so much praised the Duchess of Kent, the Princess wore on this occasion a large pink bonnet, a rose-coloured satin dress broché, and a pélerine cape trimmed with black. The description, at least, is a little painful. But N. P. Willis, the American literary man, speaks of her that day as being quite unnecessarily pretty and interesting, and deplores the probability that the heir to the English Crown would be sold in marriage for political purposes without regard to her personal character and wishes.
One writer described the Duchess of Kent on the same occasion in the sentimental and fulsome way so much beloved by women writers about Royalty. “Her brow seemed as if it would well become an imperial diadem; such lofty and commanding intellect was there, united with feminine softness and matronly grace. She looked fit to be the mother of the Queen. The expression of maternal pride and delight with which on this occasion she surveyed her child at every fresh burst of the people’s affection is not to be forgotten by those who witnessed it.”
In August, Victoria was confirmed by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London at the Chapel Royal, St. James’s. There is much that is solemn at a confirmation, there should be much that is joyous and brave as well; the girl should feel her responsibility, she also ought to be glad at becoming really a member of God’s Church, and in outward show, at least, a Child of God. But at this confirmation the Archbishop made so solemn, so pathetic, so “parental” an exhortation that the whole company wept. The Duchess of Kent sobbed audibly, the Queen and her ladies also wept aloud, tears ran down the King’s rubicund face, and the poor little Princess was not only drowned in tears, but frightened to death. The whole tone of the affair seems to have suited the spirit of the age, for one lady who was present described it afterwards as a “beautifully touching scene.”
Through this part of the year there seems to have been something like peace between William and his sister-in-law, though at his birthday party there was thrown across the dinner-table a shadow of the storm which later was to descend upon “the duo” from Kensington. William never neglected the opportunity of making a speech; if he had anything to say he said it, whether the moment was propitious or otherwise; if he had nothing to say, he still got on to his feet and talked, probably without any relevance to what was going on, and his matter was often personal. After one dinner he talked disconnectedly about the Turf and his wife, saying that the Queen was an excellent woman as everyone knew. At this birthday party, in 1835, William said, among other things:—
“I cannot expect to live very long, but I hope that my successor may be of full age when she mounts the throne. I have a great respect for the person upon whom, in the event of my death, the Regency would devolve, but I have great distrust of the persons by whom she is surrounded. I know that everything which falls from my lips is reported again, and I say this thus candidly and publicly because it is my desire and intention that these my sentiments should be made known.”