At this particular moment when the great Timepiece of the Universe strikes away for us one era and rings in another, it is well for us that we should be brought to consider exactly where we stand in our national life, and to remember that England has just completed a thousand years of historical upward progress. From Alfred the Great to Edward VII, one thousand years intervene, and during that immense period the rise of the English nation has been steady, glorious, and supreme. And in this present year of our Lord, 1901, when we not only enter upon the accession of Edward VII, but are also preparing to celebrate the thousandth anniversary of Alfred the Great, it is curious and instructive to turn back to very ancient records, and read what such an old-world chronicler as Stow says in his “Annales of Englande” of the Monarch, who though dead and buried for such a vast period of time is still remembered for his good and useful deeds. In an edition of the antique volume dated 1605 occurs the following passage:—
“The victorious Prince, the studious provider for widowes, orphanes, and poore people, most perfect in Saxon poetrie, most liberall, endued with wisdome, fortitude, justice, and temperance, the most patient bearer of sicknesse, wherewith he was dailie vexed, a most discreete searcher of truth in executing judgment, a most vigilant and devout Prince in the service of God, Alfrede, the XXIX yeere and sixt moneth of his raigne departed this life, the XXVIII day of October and is buried at Winchester. He ordained common schooles of divers sciences in Oxonford, and turned the Saxon laws into English with divers other Bookes. He established good lawes by the which he brought so great a quietnesse to the country that men might have hanged golden bracelets and jewels where the ways parted and no man durst touch them for feare of the lawe.”
Since then we may assert that we have made much progress; but assuredly our progress has not been of such a character that we can “hang up golden bracelets and jewels at the parting of the ways and no man durst touch them.” We have discovered a good many things and invented a good many things; we have secured many little comforts and conveniences for the greater ease of the lazy and the slothful, and our mechanical appliances and contrivances for reducing human labour are ingenious and numerous. Nevertheless, while gaining some little useful information, we have lost much high faith and a good deal of happiness. Some of us seem to be, as it were, “born tired,” and the fatigue of our minds does not lessen with increasing knowledge. There is a deep symbolical truth in the old Biblical legend which tells us how man, after having eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, was driven out of the Garden of Eden, and that now, “lest he put forth his hand and take also of the Tree of Life, and eat and live for ever,” there is indeed a “flaming sword” turning every way to keep him from the fulfilment of his heart’s desires and dreams. East and West, North and South, the sword turns invincibly, and we can never pass it, save as Victoria, by the Grace of God, has passed it, across the dark river we call death. For ever we strive to be what we consider “happy,” and the majority of us strive in vain. Much of our restlessness combined with discontent is our own fault, because so many of us go the wrong way to work with our lives, and try, not to help each other, but to overbear each other down. Simplicity of life is best; natural and innocent pleasures are best; and happiness comes quickest to those who are not seeking it. Our late Queen chose a simple life because she knew it was the wisest, the healthiest, and the nearest to God; she disapproved of vanity, ostentation, and extravagance, because she knew that these things have only one ending, vice and ruin. Her long and magnificent reign is much more than a great Sovereign’s rule; it is a matchless Example which will shine in history like a great Light for all time. None who saw it will ever forget the great British Navy’s farewell to the little yacht Alberta as it bore across the glittering Solent the “robed and crowned” coffin which held all that was mortal of England’s Greatest Queen; none will ever forget the massed crowds of loyal, patient, sympathetic people in London who rose in their thousands in the chilly winter’s dawn, content to stand where they could and how they could for hours and hours, just to breathe a prayer as that same robed and crowned coffin passed them by. For many of them could not see it; many could only feel, with deep and tender awe, the momentary presence of their dead Sovereign. It was a wonderful sight; nothing so wonderful has ever been witnessed before in England. It was the most eloquent, touching, and magnificent testimony of the strong loyalty, love and truth of the British people that has ever been chronicled in history.
There are more reasons than our personal sense of deep loss which make us linger round the tomb of Victoria the Great and Good, with aching hearts and tearful eyes. Under the fragrant wreaths of violets and the great garlands of lilies, by the side of the husband she loved so well, the body of our noble Queen rests, in peace and honour, while her Soul has “passed,” like Arthur’s,—
“To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea.”
The golden gates of Heaven have opened to receive Her who was so long England’s Good Angel; she has entered into her well-earned joy and rest. Age has fallen from her as falls a worn-out garment; and she has taken upon herself the nature of immortal youth, eternal love, and endless happiness. But for us who remain behind, striving to peer beyond “the portals of the sunset;”—for us who enter on a new era without her, there are dim shadows of fear and doubt which we cannot altogether dismiss from our minds. They may be vain shadows,—deceptive and transitory like the mists which sometimes herald the breaking of a glorious summer day, but they are sufficient to make such of us as take the trouble to think about anything but ourselves, pause ere we turn away from the grave of our late beloved Monarch, and with all our hearts and minds, in loyalty and faith and hope, pray beside that grave for our Sovereign Lord, the King. Who can forget his careworn face, as he rode, Chief Mourner for the noble dead, behind his Mother’s coffin,—who was there amid all the gazing thousands that watched him on that memorable Funeral Day that did not feel the deepest compassion for the grief which so visibly and heavily weighed upon him! Never was a sadder countenance than that of him whom we have loved as our ever genial, ever kindly, ever popular Prince of Wales; and when we think of the immense burden of public duty now laid upon his shoulders, the thousand and one things which claim his attention, the importance and necessity of his constant and unremitting study of all the affairs of State, we shall do well to remember once and for all that he is about the most hard-worked man in the realm, with the least independence, and the smallest chance of having any relaxation from the routine of his onerous splendor. Hating ceremony, he must now always be surrounded by it; loathing the servility of courtiers and the etiquette of Court functions, he must now of all these things be the chief and centre; loving freedom, peace and privacy, he must now be everywhere in evidence, with every word commented upon, and every action noted. His position, stately and magnificent and imperial as it, is less to be envied than that of any “gentleman at ease” living on his private means, with liberty to do as he likes,—for while a monarch is not always made aware of disloyal hearts, he has ever found it difficult to be sure of true ones, inasmuch as “they do abuse the king that flatter him.”