It was in relation to this and to Brougham’s desire for political promotion that Henry Reeve said: “Brougham is less manageable than usual; for though he has had a resurrection, he may and must despair of an ascension.”
On an earlier occasion Brougham scored neatly off another of the Royal Dukes. The Duke of Gloucester was conversing with him on the burning topic of the Reform Bill, and grew so warm in the argument that at length he observed hastily that the Chancellor was very near a fool. Brougham readily replied that he could not think of contradicting the Duke, as he fully saw the force of His Royal Highness’s position.
Lord John Russell, the Home Secretary, was of a very different type. Theodore Hook first gave him the nickname of “the Widow’s Mite,” as he was very small, and had married the widow of Lord Ribblesdale, herself also of small size. Creevy talks of meeting them somewhere: “In came the little things, as merry-looking as they well could be, but really much more calculated, from their size, to show off on a chimney-piece than to mix and be trod upon in company.” But those who looked at John Russell from a different aspect found him equal to every occasion, strong in principle, clear in his ideas, bold and straightforward in his disposition, and afraid of no one.
Not the least noteworthy of the men who influenced politics in the early part of the Queen’s reign was Sir Robert Peel, who declared at the beginning of her first Parliament that if the Government tried to carry through any further measures of reform he would resist them to the utmost. Like Melbourne, he was not a whole-hearted party man, and when in power disappointed everyone by trying to steer a middle course. He was shy, reserved, cautious, and unable to be really decisive; also by his lack of cordial manners he was unfortunate enough to accentuate in the Queen’s mind every prejudice she held against the Tories, for, unlike Melbourne, he had no idea of how to please a woman.
Among the Queen’s women were one or two worthy of mention, chief of whom was the First Lady of the Bedchamber, the Duchess of Sutherland. In spite of the want of punctuality, she was a most attractive woman, giving an impression of something very plenteous and sunny in her appearance. She was tall, large, and carried herself with a good-natured stateliness; her hair was blond, her features large and well-chiselled, her smile beaming, and benevolence in every look and word. In 1853 Henry Reeve said of her: “In our time there has been nobody who continues to surround herself with a sort of fictitious dignity like the Duchess of Sutherland. She is not clever, and in anyone else her affectations might be laughed at. But she is neither worldly nor ambitious; is very good-natured, and has a thoroughly kindly heart; all of which, added to her beauty and high character, gives her an influence in society far beyond what wealth and rank could claim for her.”
HARRIET, DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND.
It is a pity that the Marchioness of Tavistock, later Duchess of Bedford, whom Her Majesty had known many years, had not rather more than she had of Lady Sutherland’s kindliness; she might then have saved the Queen from one of the most painful episodes in her life. One writer called her a gaby, modifying it, however, by saying that she was all truth and daylight; and Lady Cardigan speaks of the charming recollection she could conjure up of her, saying that it was at her house that she heard Tom Moore sing and play his Irish melodies. Lady Tavistock was driving one Sunday in the carriage which followed the Queen, when the latter, being cold, got out to walk, and, of course, all the ladies had to do the same. It had been raining, and presumably Victoria was properly shod for the occasion; Lady Tavistock was not, however, and soon her shoes and stockings were wet through and covered with mud. When at last they got back to the Castle the shivering Lady Tavistock found that her maid was out, the cupboards were all locked up, and there was nothing to do but to go to bed until she could get dry stockings!
The Queen was of quick temper and wilful. Her half-sister once wrote: “I was much amused at your tracing the quickness of our tempers in the female line up to Grandmamma (the Dowager Duchess of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld), but I must own that you are quite right.” Thus she never forgot that she was the Queen, and went her own way irrespective of other people. Palmerston said in conversation that any Minister who had to deal with her (the Queen) would soon find out that she was no ordinary person; and on a lady giving the credit to the Duchess of Kent, he added that Her Majesty had an understanding of her own which could have been made by no one. “A resolute little tit,” one diarist of the time dubbed her.
Once the first freshness of being Queen was dulled, Victoria set herself to enjoy life as much as possible. Theatres, the opera, balls, and parties were the order of the evening. She rode every day, generally accompanied by the Duchess of Kent, and often with Melbourne on one side of her and Lord Palmerston on the other. Her usual riding habit was of dark green cloth, and she wore a black beaver hat without veil or trimming. Once when riding, and having sixteen people in her train, she passed over Battersea Bridge, the toll-taker counted the party and demanded the toll from the groom who brought up the rear. The man had no money, but, taken by surprise, and perhaps unaware that the Monarch had a “free pass” over the roads of the kingdom, he parted with a silk handkerchief as a pledge of future payment.