Great Britain and Her Queen | Page 4

servant, whose loyal and chivalrous devotion at once
conciliated her regard, and who only used the influence thus won to
impress on his Sovereign's mind "sound maxims of constitutional
government, and truths of every description which it behoved her to

learn." The records of the time show plainly that Lord Melbourne, the
eccentric head of William IV's last Whig Administration, was not
generally credited with either the will or the ability to play so lofty a
part. His affectation of a lazy, trifling, indifferent manner, his
often-quoted remonstrance to impetuous would-be reformers, "Can't
you let it alone?" had earned for him some angry disapproval, and
caused him to be regarded as the embodiment of the detested
laissez-faire principle. But under his mask of nonchalance he hid some
noble qualities, which at this juncture served Queen and country well.
Considered as a frivolous, selfish courtier by too many of the suffering
poor and of their friends, he was in truth "acting in all things an
affectionate, conscientious, and patriotic part" towards his Sovereign,
"endeavouring to make her happy as a woman and popular as a Queen,"
[Footnote] telling her uncourtly truths with a blunt honesty that did not
displease her, and watching over her with a paternal tenderness which
she repaid with frank, noble confidence. He was faithful in a great and
difficult trust; let his memory have due honour.
[Footnote: C. C. F. Greville: "A Journal of the Reign of Queen
Victoria."]
Under Melbourne's pilotage the first months of the new reign went by
with some serenity, though the political horizon remained threatening
enough, and the temper of the nation appeared sullen. "The people of
England seem inclined to hurrah no more," wrote Greville of one of the
Queen's earliest public appearances, when "not a hat was raised nor a
voice heard" among the coldly curious crowd of spectators. But the
splendid show of her coronation a half-year later awakened great
enthusiasm--enthusiasm most natural and inevitable. It was youth and
grace and goodness, all the freshness and the infinite promise of spring,
that wore the crimson and the ermine and the gold, that sat enthroned
amid the ancient glories of the Abbey to receive the homage of all that
was venerable and all that was great in a mighty kingdom, and that
bowed in meek devotion to receive the solemn consecrating blessing of
the Primate, according to the holy custom followed in England for a
thousand years, with little or no variation since the time when Dunstan

framed the Order of Coronation, closely following the model of the
Communion Service. Some other features special to this coronation
heightened the national delight in it. Its arrangements evidently had for
their chief aim to interest and to gratify the people. Instead of the
banquet in Westminster Hall, which could have been seen only by the
privileged and the wealthy, a grand procession through London was
arranged, including all the foreign ambassadors, and proceeding from
Buckingham Palace to Westminster Abbey by a route two or three
miles in length, so that the largest possible number of spectators might
enjoy the magnificent pageant. And the overflowing multitudes whose
dense masses lined the whole long way, and in whose tumultuous
cheering pealing bells and sounding trumpets and thundering cannon
were almost unheard as the young Queen passed through the shouting
ranks, formed themselves the most impressive spectacle to the
half-hostile foreign witnesses, who owned that the sight of these
rejoicing thousands of freemen was grand indeed, and impossible save
in that England which, then as now, was not greatly loved by its rivals.
An element which appealed powerfully to the national pride and the
national generosity was supplied by the presence of the Duke of
Wellington and of Marshal Soult, his old antagonist, who appeared as
French ambassador. Soult, as he advanced with the air of a veteran
warrior, was followed by murmurs of admiring applause, which
swelled into more than murmurs for the hero of Waterloo bending in
homage to his Sovereign. A touch of sweet humanity was added to the
imposing scene within the Abbey through what might have been a
painful accident. Lord Rolle, a peer between seventy and eighty years
of age, stumbling and falling as he climbed the steps of the throne, the
Queen impulsively moved as if to aid him; and when the old man,
undismayed, persisted in carrying out his act of homage, she asked
quickly, "May I not get up and meet him?" and descended one or two
steps to save him the ascent. The ready natural kindliness of the royal
action awoke ecstatic applause, which could hardly have been heartier
had the applauders known how true a type that act supplied of Her
Majesty's future conduct. She has never feared to peril her dignity by
descending a step