Strongly Whig over the Catholic Emancipation Bill, The Times had gone as strongly Tory on the Reform Bill, and was furious at the idea that the Whig Ministry, of which the King could not rid himself, was still likely to keep in power. They were entirely without information as to the character of King William’s successor, and thought, as did most of the world, that England would be ruled by the Duchess of Kent and her circle. What influence these articles may have had upon the Princess there is no written evidence to show, but it is certain that from the moment that this docile little daughter attained the Throne she followed out exactly in this matter the policy thus urged upon her by a paper the general policy of which she did not in the least approve.
When King William died, The Times entirely lost its head. It had struck these sledge-hammer blows at the Duchess of Kent, but it did not believe in the Princess Victoria. The day after the new Queen had read her Declaration, The Times, as The Examiner said, insulted her understanding by declaring that she did not comprehend the import of the words she delivered, and they took particular exception to her statement that she congratulated herself on succeeding a monarch whose “desire to promote the amelioration of the laws and institutions of the country has rendered his name an object of general attachment and veneration.” From their standpoint this was, of course, pure Radicalism, for, as good Tories, they held concerning the laws as Leibnitz did of the world, that the laws we had were “the best of all possible” laws, and needed no amelioration. Neither The Times nor any other paper grumbled when, in 1901, King Edward declared at his first Council that he was determined, “as long as there is breath in my body, to work for the good and amelioration of my people.” Yet Victoria’s was the better sentence. Of course, it is possible to ameliorate people, but it is easier to perform the operation on laws or even on lives.
From Victoria the editorial turned to Lord Melbourne and became really funny, asking, “Has this Whig-Radical Ethiopian changed his skin? this leopard of Popery his spots?” and it finished up with the fine patriotic intimation that it was the strength of devotion to the Constitution which prompted “us to ring the alarm bell throughout the British Empire until we shall have helped to achieve its salvation, have seen it perish, or have ourselves ceased to exist.”
On the evening of June 19th, 1837, King William saw all his children, and at two o’clock on the morning of the 20th he died. We all know the story of how the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham, the Lord Chamberlain, rode to Kensington to convey the news to Victoria that she was now Queen. Miss Wynn, who published her diaries under the pseudonym of “A Lady of Quality,” gives a rather amusing account of the occurrence. The two gentlemen arrived at Kensington Palace at about five in the morning; they knocked, rang, and thumped for a considerable time before they could rouse the porter at the gates; then, having been kept waiting in a courtyard, they were turned into one of the lower rooms and forgotten by everyone. They rang, and desired the attendant who appeared to tell the Princess’s maid that they requested an audience. Nothing followed, and they rang again. The maid, who now answered the bell, said that the Princess was in such a sweet sleep that she could not disturb her. “We are come to the Queen on business of State, and her sleep must give way to that,” was the answer.
In a few minutes Victoria appeared in a loose white nightgown and shawl, her hair falling about her shoulders, her feet in slippers, tears in her eyes, but perfectly cool and collected.
LORD MELBOURNE.
The following morning a Council was called for eleven o’clock, but the summonses were sent out so late that many were not received until the hour appointed. Lord Melbourne, as Prime Minister, had to teach the Queen her part, which he had first to learn himself, and he found her quiet, dignified, and eager to bear herself well. The Lords assembled in one room of Kensington Palace, and were solemnly informed by the Lord President of the events, which they all knew perfectly, that the King was dead, and that they were gathered together to swear allegiance to the new Sovereign. This little form observed, the Lord President, the two Royal Dukes—Cumberland was quite sure now that he had not a chance left at present—the two Archbishops, the Chancellor, and the Prime Minister went into the next room, where with great formality the news of William’s death was conveyed to the girl who stood there alone, not in her nightgown this time, but in a sober garment of black. The doors between the rooms were then thrown open, and the Queen entered that in which stood a great crowd of nobles and office-holders. Greville says, “The Queen entered, accompanied by her two uncles, who advanced to meet her,” which certainly might have been more lucid had it been differently worded.
The Duke of Sussex spoke later of the Queen’s nervousness, saying that she continually took his hand as though to reassure herself; he added that Lord Melbourne never took his eyes off her, and seemed more nervous than she, fearing that she might make a slip. Half a century later, when the Queen was asked if she did not feel nervous at her first Council, she replied, “No, I have no recollection of feeling in the slightest degree nervous.” Nervous or not, she behaved with grace and dignity, as everyone should have expected; but all present seemed to think that something like a scene would take place, or that they were going to swear their loyal oaths to a person wanting in understanding, if we may judge by the chorus of praise which arose later. “It was extraordinary and far beyond what was looked for”; she actually “read her speech in a clear, distinct, and audible voice”; Peel said how amazed he was at her manner and behaviour, at her apparent deep sense of her position, her modesty, and her firmness.
Did these wise men really think that a girl brought up in such an atmosphere of self-control and restriction as Victoria had been would have shamed herself by crying, or stuttering, or fainting, or giggling? Their extenuation lies in the fact that scarcely any among them knew anything at all of the Princess, and that very fact excited such intense curiosity to see how she would behave, that the crowd of Privy Councillors assembled was so great that, according to one who was present, the scene of swearing allegiance was more like that at the bidding in an auction-room than anything else.