In the Days of Queen Victoria

by Eva March Tappan

The Queen was aroused from her sorrow over what she ever looked upon as a disgrace to her country by the approaching marriage of Princess Beatrice to Prince Henry of Battenberg. Their wedding was quite different from those of the other royal children, for it was celebrated at the country church near Osborne. No one knew how to manage a royal wedding in a little village church, and there were all sorts of momentous questions to be settled before the arrangements were complete. It all came out well in the end, however. There was not room for quite so many royalties as usual, but the wedding day was a delightful holiday for the people of the Isle of Wight, for there were fireworks, bands, a dinner and a dance for all the tenants and servants on the estate, and a most beautiful display of sailing vessels and steamers. Tennyson's home was on the Isle of Wight, and the Queen sent him a charmingly informal invitation to the wedding. "It would give me the greatest pleasure," she wrote, "if you would come over for the wedding in our village church, but I fear you won't do that? But pray come and see me when all is quiet again." Tennyson did not attend the wedding, but the Princess must have counted among her choicest gifts his message, "To the royal bride the old poet sends his blessing." This marriage alone of all those in the royal family was not to bring separation, for it was agreed that the Princess and Prince Henry should remain with the Queen.

This Queen and Empress had now been on the throne for nearly half a century, and throughout her dominions there was a feeling that so rare an event ought to be celebrated with fitting magnificence. The Jubilee feeling was in the air. Every town and every little village wished to mark the time by something that should remain as a lasting memorial. Libraries, hospitals, and museums were founded, and parks were purchased and thrown open to the public. Memorial clocks, statues, schools, and towers sprang into being in every corner of the land, and in all the colonies. "God Save the Queen" was sung in Hindustanee on the shores of Asia and in Hebrew in the synagogues of London. Addresses of congratulation and loyalty came in by the score; representatives of all the colonies flocked to England, as sons and daughters hastened homeward to a family gathering.

The part to be taken in the celebration by associations, cities, and kingdoms had all been planned when it occurred to the editor of one of the London newspapers that nobody had remembered the children. "Let us give the boys and girls of London a feast and an entertainment in Hyde Park," he suggested. "You can't do it," declared the grumblers. "It is a foolish, wicked scheme. There will be a crush, accidents will happen, and hundreds will be injured." Nevertheless, people subscribed so generously that soon all the money needed had been provided. When the children came to the Park, they were taken in groups to great tents; and when they came out, each one had a paper bag which contained "a meat pie, a piece of cake, a bun, and an orange." Their little hands must have been full, for besides the eatables, each one received a little medallion portrait of the Queen and a Jubilee mug. The mugs saw hard service among the thirsty little folk, for all day milk, lemonade, and ginger beer were free to every child who presented his empty mug. The children were amused by all sorts of games and shows. Dukes and princes and representatives of powerful kingdoms came to see the good time; and at last the Queen herself came and gave a special greeting, not to the grown folk, but every word of it to the children. Long before bedtime had come, every one of the twenty-seven thousand small people was safe in his own home, and the grumblers grumbled no more.

June 21, 1887, was "Jubilee Day." Fifty years had passed since the young girl had been aroused from her sleep to hear that she was Queen of a mighty nation; and now, in all the glory of her half century of successful sovereignty, she was to go to Westminster Abbey to thank God for his help and protection.

She now represented, not a kingdom, but an enormous empire, and every corner of it wished to do her honor. The streets of London were spanned by triumphal arches. They were made into a fairyland of flowers, banners, drapings of silk and velvet and tapestry. Staging for seats had been put up all along the route, and every seat was filled. Fabulous prices were paid for a house, a window or even a few square inches on a rough plank. Thousands of people had been out since sunrise to secure a place to see the grand procession; and at last it came in sight, moving slowly toward the multitude that waited all a-tremble with excitement and with devotion to the noble woman who was the symbol of home and country.

First came the carriages containing the dark-faced princes of India, robed in cloth of gold, and shaded with turbans glittering with priceless jewels. Many carriages followed, filled with kings, queens, crown princes, and grand dukes. There were equerries, aides-de-camp, an escort of Life Guards, and a guard of honor composed of princes riding three abreast, the Queen's sons, grandsons, sons-in-law and grandsons-in-law. Towering up among them was the superb figure of Prince "Fritz," Crown Prince of a united Germany. His uniform was of pure white, his helmet of burnished steel, and on it was the Prussian eagle with outspread wings. At last the woman for whom all were waiting came in sight. The splendid robes of her coronation were fifty years behind her, but even in her plainer dress she looked every inch a queen. The Princess Alexandra and the Crown Princess of Germany were with her. For twenty-five years the sovereign had so rarely appeared in public that to her subjects this was more than a mere royal procession, it was the coming back to them of their Queen. A great wave of devotion and loyalty swept over the hearts of the throng. "Not the Queen, but my Queen," they said to themselves, and such a greeting was given her as few monarchs have received.

The Abbey had been filled long before. Rich strains of music were coming from the organ. There was a moment's silence, then the silver trumpets of the heralds were blown, and the church resounded with Handel's march from the "Occasional Oratorio." The Queen entered. She was preceded by archbishops, bishops, and deans, all in the most elaborate vestments of their offices. The guard of royal princes walked slowly up the nave, three abreast, the Prince of Wales and his two brothers coming last. Slowly the Queen to whom all the world was doing honor, ascended the steps of the throne. The vast assemblage was hushed, and stood for a moment with heads bowed in reverence.

A short, simple service followed of praise and thanksgiving. Then her sons and daughters, who had been grouped around the Queen, came forward one at a time to bow before her and kiss her hand. As they rose, she gave each of them a kiss, not of state, but of warm, motherly affection that in this crowning moment of her career could not be satisfied with the restrictions of ceremony.

That evening there were fireworks and illuminations in all the principal cities. England shone literally from shore to shore, for a beacon fire was lighted on Malvern Hills, and in a moment, as its distant gleam shone on other hills, other beacons blazed, till from Land's End to the Shetland Islands it was rejoicingly written in letters of fire that for fifty years the realm had been under the rule of a pure and upright womanhood.

At last the day was fully ended. "I am very happy," said the Queen; and well she might be, for this day had shown her that she was sovereign, not only of the land and its treasures, but of the loving hearts of her subjects.