Victoria declared that it was perfection. 'Every year,' she wrote, 'my heart becomes more fixed in this dear paradise, and so much more so now, that _all_ has become my dear Albert's _own_ creation, own work, own {194} building, own laying-out; ... and his great taste, and the impress of his dear hand, have been stamped everywhere.'[14] And here, in very truth, her happiest days were passed. In after years, when she looked back upon them, a kind of glory, a radiance as of an unearthly holiness, seemed to glow about these golden hours. Each hallowed moment stood out clear, beautiful, eternally significant. For, at the time, every experience there, sentimental, or grave, or trivial, had come upon her with a peculiar vividness, like a flashing of marvellous lights. Albert's stalkings--an evening walk when she lost her way--Vicky sitting down on a wasps' nest--a torchlight dance--with what intensity such things, and ten thousand like them, impressed themselves upon her eager consciousness! And how she flew to her journal to note them down! The news of the Duke's death! What a moment!--when, as she sat sketching after a picnic by a loch in the lonely hills, Lord Derby's letter had been brought to her, and she had learnt that '_England's_, or rather _Britain's_ pride, her glory, her hero, the greatest man she had ever produced, was no more!' For such were her reflections upon the 'old rebel' of former days. But that past had been utterly obliterated--no faintest memory of it remained. For years she had looked up to the Duke as a figure almost superhuman. Had he not been a supporter of good Sir Robert? Had he not asked Albert to succeed him as Commander-in-Chief? And what a proud moment it had been when he stood as sponsor to her son Arthur, who was born on his eighty-first birthday! So now she filled a whole page of her diary with panegyrical regrets. 'His position was the highest a subject ever {195} had--above party,--looked up to by all,--revered by the whole nation,--the friend of the Sovereign ... The Crown never possessed,--and I fear never _will_--so _devoted_, loyal, and faithful a subject, so staunch a supporter! To us his loss is _irreparable_ ... To Albert he showed the greatest kindness and the utmost confidence ... Not an eye will be dry in the whole country.'[15] These were serious thoughts; but they were soon succeeded by others hardly less moving--by events as impossible to forget--by Mr. MacLeod's sermon on Nicodemus,--by the gift of a red flannel petticoat to Mrs. P. Farquharson, and another to old Kitty Kear.[16]