Thus Victoria, before she is out of her teens, takes up the arduous and exacting duties of her high office. Read the letters which she wrote in those early days to her relatives and statesmen, and you will marvel at the clear judgment, the strong will, and the sound common sense of the girl-queen. Her reign opens in times of national distress and political unrest, and below a certain social level there is no sentiment of loyalty to the Crown. But all this will suffer a wondrous change in the years that are to come. Prosperity hitherto undreamed of will bless the land, and year by year freedom will slowly broaden down from precedent to precedent; and through all the changes and chances of national life Victoria will play her part with a courage, steadfastness, and rectitude that will evoke universal approbation and passionate loyalty. The time will come when she will be the idol of her people, and the richest jewel in her crown will be a nation’s love. * * * * * SIXTY YEARS AFTER. “_And ever when mid-June’s musk roses blow_ _Our race will celebrate Victoria’s name,_ _And even England’s greatness gain a glow_ _From her pure fame!_” You are in London on the twenty-second day of June in the year 1897, and again it is in festal array. The whole nation is making holiday to rejoice in the completion of sixty years of peace and prosperity under the beneficent sway of a dearly-loved queen. Ten years ago great public thanksgivings signalized her jubilee; now that she has occupied the throne longer than any of her predecessors, and has reigned for more years than any other monarch known to history, the nation’s delight and gratitude know no bounds. You are standing in a favoured position gazing on the front of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Afar off you hear the dull roar of cheering. The queen is making her progress through the capital of her vast Empire. She rides in state to-day amidst evidences of almost filial loyalty, and her eyes are wet with tears of love and gratitude as she perceives how dear she is to the hearts of her people. On the steps of the cathedral are the City Fathers, the Colonial Premiers, and a white-robed throng of bishops, priests, and choristers, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury at their head. The noise of cheering grows louder and louder, a troop of Household Cavalry clatters by, and you hear the loud cry, “THE QUEEN! THE QUEEN!” Every head is bared as the state carriage with its eight horses appears; the huzzas that go up from thousands of throats almost deafen you.