Nobody was frightened by Lord Russell’s roaring, least of all Bismarck—he knew how soon the voice would be “aggravated.” “L’Angleterre ne fera pas la guerre,” he said to M. de Talleyrand, the French Ambassador at Berlin. Foreign statesmen knew that Lord Palmerston was now grown old. He was no longer the doughty champion of the Don Pacifico days, when he electrified the House of Commons and the world with the famous _Civis Romanus sum_ speech; moreover, he was hampered by the shufflings of his Foreign Secretary, and in the background was the Queen, never a negligible quantity in foreign affairs, whom all men knew to be a strong ally of Germany, and who, still animated by the spirit of the dead Prince Consort, naturally felt with Germany. Read what the Prince Consort wrote to the King of Prussia on the 12th March, 1861: “My hope, like that of most German patriots, rests upon Prussia, rests upon you” (“Life of the Prince Consort,” Vol. V., p. 314). Those words in the mouth of the Prince were intelligible enough, but why should Lord Russell be a German patriot? And so we drifted, whither we knew not, though others did. M. de Massignac, a clever diplomatist, a man whom I knew well, who was French Chargé d’Affaires at St. Petersburg, on the 9th of February, 1864, sent a despatch to M. Drouyn de Lhuys in which he recorded certain confidential talks which he had had with some of his German colleagues upon the situation. He urged that if the Duchies were to unite themselves with Prussia, it would be unwise for France to interfere, because such a territorial extension would enable Germany to create a navy, which in given circumstances might unite with the fleets of the other Continental Powers to destroy England’s preponderant power at sea! (“Origines Diplomatiques,” etc.). Meanwhile, England and Prussia were both courting Louis Napoléon. Palmerston expressed to the Prince de la Tour d’Auvergne, the French Ambassador in London, his regret that Great Britain and France could not come to a complete understanding, but Lord Russell kept the same Ambassador in a state of mystification. Bismarck, on the other hand, was maintaining such intimate relations with M. de Talleyrand as to draw from Drouyn de Lhuys the warmest congratulations. The Emperor stroked his _barbiche_ and held the balance. Poor Emperor! It was for him that the witches’ cauldron was bubbling. And Denmark? In the Spring of 1863, King Frederic the Seventh had died, and King Christian, the father of our Queen Alexandra, ruled in his stead. Seldom has a monarch been called to the throne in more untoward circumstances. Only eleven years had passed since all the great Powers—Prussia and Austria, of course, included—gathered together in conclave in London, had solemnly bound themselves to guarantee the integrity of his dominions.