There can hardly ever have been so self-contained a Court as that of the Queen and Prince Consort in the early days of their married life. Outside of the Ladies- and Gentlemen-in-Waiting there were very few intimates. Of these the chief was Baron Stockmar, the retired physician, who had been Court Doctor to King Leopold and the Princess Charlotte of Wales, and who afterwards became mentor and political tutor to Prince Albert. At Windsor or Buckingham Palace he came and went as he pleased; his room was always ready and he was always welcome. As to that, there was not a little jealousy, and that jealousy was accentuated by his privileges, notably in that whereas the English grandees had to wear knee-breeches and silk stockings, the Baron was allowed to encase his lean and shrivelled limbs in the warmth of trousers! A terrible outrage, intolerable to the said grandees; the intimacy was bad enough, but the trousers were galling! Another welcome guest was the Prussian Minister, Baron de Bunsen, a really remarkable man. But perhaps the friend who came next to old Baron Stockmar in the estimation, or perhaps I might say affection, of the Prince Consort, was M. Sylvain Van de Weyer, the Belgian Minister, who was not only a diplomatist of conspicuous ability, but also a bibliophile and an accomplished man of letters. He was one of the most agreeable men that I ever knew, and the power of his personal charm upon the Court was enhanced by the fact that he was the representative of the dearly-loved and venerated uncle both of the Queen and Prince. The English statesmen were invited for short visits to Windsor or to dinner at Buckingham Palace, and, as was necessary, there was a Minister in attendance at Balmoral or Osborne, but after Lord Melbourne and until Lord Beaconsfield’s time, long after the death of the Prince Consort, who had no liking for him, there was no familiar intercourse with any Cabinet, Whig or Tory. Both the Queen and the Prince Consort worked indefatigably, but it was chiefly desk work—work in the dark. The long, silent night of sorrow in which the Queen spent the forty years which remained to her after the death of the husband who had been the dayspring and the bright glory of her life, more than ever estranged her from taking any delight in that personal intercourse which is the chief lure of society. I remember as a boy seeing a drawing which impressed me greatly. On a mountain-top sat a solitary female figure, draped in black—was she a Sibyl, a Witch, a Norn? I know not. Her face rested on her right hand and her weary, yearning eyes looked out upon the world beneath her, a figure of mystery mounting guard. Queen Victoria in her loneliness, watching from on high over the welfare of her people, reminded me of that tragic figure. She was one of those “Princes” who, as Bacon said, “do keep due sentinel.”