Some Memories of the Queen's Childhood and Marriage. 119 From The Cornhill Magazine. SOME MEMORIES OF THE QUEEN'S CHILDHOOD AND MARRIAGE. I think it must be seventy-two years ago since I first saw the Princess Victoria, then about six years old, and one month younger than myself. I was taken by my grandmother, Lady Radnor, who had, I believe, been on int!mate terms with the old Royal family, to Kensington Palace, when she paid a visit to the Duchess of Kent. The room, which I remember with some distinctness, had a large window, I think a bay, in which a little girl was playing by herself, and whom I joined, while the elders conversed together. I do not know whether I may have shown a too easy familiarity of manner in my ignorance of court etiquette, but the young princess quickly and warningly told me, referring to the toys scattered around, "You must not touch those, they are mine; and I may call you Jane, but you must not call me Victoria." Being by nature inclined to obedience, I hope, and think, I did not transgress in these matters, but I have no recollection of how the visit passed off, nor how we parted. When I was about fourteen or fifteen -that is over sixty-two years ago-my mother went from Wiltshire to the Isle of Wight to hold a stall, I think, at a bazaar patronized, and I believe attended, by the Duchess of Kent, to raise funds to meet distress in Ireland. From the sale my mother brought me back an impression from a drawing on stone by the Princess Victoria, whose signature is lithographed in the corner. It is a pretty picture of a village child leaning against a projection of a cliff, while a pitcher on the ground is being filled with water from a pipe let into the rock. In a moment of folly, years afterwards, I pasted the picture on to a screen, where I fear I must now leave it; but one day I hope somebody will have it carefully removed and framed, for its own sake, and that of the hand that executed it. I have often wondered whether many copies of it now exist, and, if so, where. passed a winter at Ramsgate, where the Duchess of Kent and her daughter were also staying, and with whom my parents one evening went to dine, while I, not quite emancipated from the schoolroom, was left at home. To my surprise and somewhat, no doubt, to my consternation, mingled with pleasure, a message came back to say the carriage was to call for me and take me to join the party in the evening. Not an evening dress fit for "society" did I possess, at any rate not there; but for that there was no help, so I was attired, if I remember rightly, in a frock of washed white book-muslin, as the material was then called, without sash or bows to brighten it, black silk mittens for my hands and arms, and probably black prunella shoes on my feet, with sandals crossing over the instep and fastened round the ankle, and away I went. We danced a quadrille while some one of the company I think played, and I dare say I most conscientiously pointed the toes of my prunella shoes, rounded my arms into two semicircles, and held up the skirt of the washed muslin frock, in strict accordance with the teaching of my kind old French dancing master. Dancing was dancing in those days, not skirmishing! The princess joined in the quadrille, but I cannot recall any other particular clrcumstance relating to the part she took that evening, and the few guests dispersed early. The strongest impression I brought away with me was the gracious, smiling, gentle kindness of the Duchess of Kent, which always seemed to shine in her face whenever we afterwards met. When our queen was married, I was named to be one of her twelve bridesmaids, an honor the sense of the greatness of which has strengthened with passing years. We were at the time living in Berkshire, and my mother and I had then our first experience of railroad-travelling-as after posting. I think to Reading, we joined the Great Western line, not, however, entering a When I was seventeen my family public carriage. To have done so then 120 Some Memories of the Queen's Childhood and Marriage. would, I imagine, have startled our friends as unpleasantly as a very few years ago staid grandmammas and demure aunts were startled by hearing of granddaughters and nieces skip ping into omnibuses or climbing to their tops, and so careering along London streets. On this occasion our own carriage was placed on a truck; in this we sat, and so steamed to town. The morning of the wedding, the twelve bridesmaids assembled in St. James's Palace some considerable time before our services were required; so when we perceived that one of our number had her rose on the wrong side of her head, we had plenty of leisure to remedy the mistake, the victim most good-humoredly submitting to our criticism and amateur hairdress ing. She was one of those eight of our number who have passed away since then to the "unknown land." How simple our dress was! A double skirt of white tulle over white silk, the upper one looped up on one side and fastened by a large white rose with green leaves similar to the one worn on the head, though maybe bigger. They were placed on the right side of those who were to walk on the left, and on the left side of the six on the opposite side of the train. Holding up that train we walked along the corridor with spectators ranged in tiers along the wall, and turned into the chapel, when for a moment came a startling discordant crash, as the band in the passage did not stop playing outside before the organ took up a totally different strain within. I dare say the bride heard nothing of it, for doubtless heart and thoughts were too deeply engrossed to notice any outward matter. Like our attire, all was simple and plain in the chapel. There were no ballroom-like decorations, no glitter or pomp, ecclesiastical or otherwise, no light but that from Heaven. But there was calm seriousness, deep tender interest, and a reverent hush, save the reading of the Prayer-book service. 1 Since the above was written, by the death of 1.ady Foley the number has become nine. The great lady-the very great lady knelt, visibly trembling, before the communion rails, and a noble woman and a noble man were joined together in holy matrimony and by the bond of a consecrated love. Ah me! what years of happiness followed, and then what mourning and woe! It was God's will that our sovereign should be visited by a crushing sorrow; but we may well praise and thank him, that, in spite of the bitter trial, he of his grace and mercy spared her to the affection, and the veneration of her people, and to tender love of her children. the or after I cannot recall what passages apartments we passed through the ceremony, but we finally found ourselves in a room with the queen and prince with no guests or relatives present. They were standing by a table, when an attendant brought in what looked like a plain colored baize or cloth bag, and gave it to the queen, who drew from it, one at a time, a little dark blue velvet case, giving one to each of us. Then she and the prince passed out at a side door, and we saw them no more. The cases contained brooches in the form of a spread eagle studded with turquoises, with ruby eyes and holding a pearl in each claw. The royal initials and the date were engraved at the back. We afterwards received permission to wear them in a white rosette on our shoulder, as a kind of bridesmaids' order. But the use of this privilege gradually died out. I hazard the conjecture that under similar circumstances in these days the gifts would be brought in with stately ceremony, resting on a richly embroidered velvet cushion lying on a golden salver. Yet I rejoice to remember it was not so then, and look back with respectful admiration to the unostentatious, simple habits of those times. But, "autres temps, autres mœurs," I had a great appreciation of the beauty of the royal bridegroom, as I have also of his upright character, marked mental endowments, and practical wisdom; but I had other personal knowledge of his charm. no In the evening a banquet was held in the palace, to which I was escorted by my step-brother-in-law, Colonel Buckley, one of the earliest equerries of her Majesty. There were little tables, at one of which we sat with others, but I have no recollection who were our companions; while at a large table, presided over, I think, by the Duchess of Kent, were the greater folk. After the feast the guests departed, and so the wedding day was ended. Since then kind words in the sweet and gentle voice of our Royal Mistress have been spoken to me, when I have felt almost too shy and nervous to hear them; but that belongs to a far away past. I have a possession I value much. It is a slight pencil sketch drawn by the queen and sent to me through my brother-in-law, to show what the bridesmaid's dress was to be. It is on note-paper, stamped with a gold crown in one corner. I was told that one of the other bridesmaids had a similar gift, but whether there were more I never heard. When I am gone hence, I hope this little treasure will pass to a near relative of my own who already possesses a letter written by Queen Elizabeth to one of her maids of honor. I think it would be fitting that the same house should contain a letter written by Queen Elizabeth the Great and a drawing from the hand of Queen Victoria the Greatly Beloved. JANE HARRIETT ELLICE. From Macmillan's Magazine. ON THE ABUSE OF DIALECT. What is the function in literature of dialect, or of what King James the First, writing of his own tongue, calls Upland Speech? Accepting, provisionally, the theory of language which says that we think in words, all dialects may be regarded as expressions of distinct types of character; and as they are less remote from the lowest stratum of speech, so they reflect more vividly than the literary language can do, certain phases of human experience. The history of all dialects is similar, but for the purposes of illustration we may take the Scottish as typical. Mr. Freeman says: The Scottish, that is the northern form of English is, in the strictest sense, a dialect. That is to say, it is an independent form of the language which might have come to set the standard, and become the polite and literary speech, instead of that form of the language to which that calling actually fell. Or rather as long as Scotland was politically distinct from the southern England, the northern form of English actually did set the standard within its own range. was the polite and literary speech within the English-speaking lands of the Scottish kings. It Even then, however, a aistinction was made between literary Scotch and vernacular Scotch. Nor was this all. It has been pointed out by trustworthy authorities, that in the sixteenth century written Scotch began to differentiate itself markedly from the common English (Inglis), which was employed at an earlier period throughout the old kingdom of Northumbria. The change is traceable to political causes. An intense feeling of hostility to everything English set in after the great national disaster at Flodden. The nation was driven in upon itself. A spirit of literary separatism came into play, and patriotic writers made it a boast that they did not write in English but in Scottish, that they had discarded the southern in favor of their Own language. This spirit, which has survived to our own time, and obtrudes itself too often in Scottish dialect literature, is a very different thing from the patriotism which inspired Burns to sing a song for Scotland's sake. What is and what is not classical Scottish, it may be left to students of the dialect to determine. It is sufficient to recognize the fact that there was once a Scottish language which was the literary speech within the English-speaking lands of the Scottish kings. The old conditions cannot be to the doctrine that we think in words, we may discover a sound principle underlying the advice that in writing of rural affairs we should make use of rural speech. The dialect which lives in the mouths of the rural population, whether it be the dialect of Scotland or Cumberland, of Lancashire or Lincoln, of Somersetshire or Devon, reflects a different world from that which is imaged in the standard language. revived. The reformation and the union of the crowns made it inevitable that the northern should succumb to the southern form of the common English speech; and Scotch, as it is now spoken and written, cannot be treated as differing from other English dialects in kind. The question whether and to what extent it is admissible in contemporary literature to employ Scotch is to be tested by the same canons as are applied to any similar departure from the literary language. Long ago (in 1584-5), King James wrote his "Essayes of a Prentise in the Divine Art of Poesie," and attempted to lay down rules and cautions (cautelis) for the literary use of his mother-tongue. Of these rules there are two which particularly deserve attention. The royal critic advises poetic aspirants that if their purpose be of love, they are "to use common language with some passionate words," while, if their purpose be to write of "landward affairs," they ought "to use corruptit and uplandis words." The first of these rules is sound in principle, and justified by practice. A Scot, when under the influence of strong emotion, resorts instinctively to a purer form of speech than he is in the habit of employing. In his finest songs, and when the element of humor does not enter, Burns approaches pure English in form and phrase. There is, for instance, little or nothing in the dictation of "Mary Morison" or "Ae Fond Kiss," two of the best love-songs ever written, which an Englishman can find difficulty in understanding. Passion dictates pure speech, and tact should tell a lover that it is no compliment to his mistress to court her in the rudest and broadest form of the vernacular. Of the other rule, that, in speaking of landward or rustic affairs, the poet should use corrupt and upland words, the validity is not so apparent. If we take it as meaning that a writer is deliberately to adopt a corrupt form of the language, it is obviously vicious. But that is not the only meaning that can be taken out of it; and if we revert Landward affairs may be taken as including not only external nature and man's relation to it, but also rural character and manners. The use of dialect for the description of external nature, is necessarily confined to those who speak it as their native language. The most gifted writer, if his mothertongue be a dialect which does not embody the best thought of the time, works under limitations. Although within the limits imposed upon him he may approach perfection, he can never attain his fullest development. His spirit is cabined by the speech in which it seeks to image itself. But confined though he be to a dialect of which the growth has been checked, there are some things he may do as well as a writer who uses the standard literary speech. Dialect must inevitably connote less than the standard language; as an expression of all that is meant by mind, it must be less intense. Yet if we recall the fact that the lowest stratum of speech reflects the external universe as primitive man saw it, we shall see how it is possible that a dialect may express more clearly than the standard language the phenomena of nature. A Wordsworth does not see less in nature than a Burns; he sees more; he finds thoughts that lie too deep for tears in the meanest flower that blows. Burns does not; but what he does see is perfectly vivid to him, and has all the qualities of an immediate sensation. And his dialect, like the language of earlier Scottish and English writers, suffices to reflect this direct vision of nature. The mirror is not too small for the object. It is for this reason, perhaps, that critics are so unanimous in acknowledging the adequacy of the Scottish vernacular, in the hands of Burns, as the image of the vivid perception of the objective world. And sometimes they are apt to put extravagantly high the claims of the dialect in this respect. The late Principal Shairp, in his monograph on Burns, has an interesting passage which may serve as an illustration. "What pure English words," he asks, "could so completely and graphically, describe a sturdy old mare in the plough, setting her face to the furzy braes, as the following: the vernacular exercises over those who are familiar with it. One can quite appreciate the force of the contention that to Burns the toiling life of the ploughman and his horse was a most vivid experience, and that he has made it live forever in his vernacular verse as he could not have done had he written in the standard English. Only let us remember that the secret of the power of Burns lies in clear vision and genial sympathy, not in the use of a particular vocabulary. The fact that his genius has made the Scottish dialect immortal is no proof that in other writers the excessive use of up Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' land words is not a blemish. fliskit, Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' riskit, Paraphrasing the verse, the principal a A lavish use of dialect in narrative and dialogue is a vice akin to the free introduction of technical phrases in a work which is intended to be purely literary. We have a remarkable example of this blemish in Falconer's "Shipwreck;" and as Falconer was a Scot, one is tempted to ask whether an excessive love of detail may not be a Scottish failing of which the too liberal employment of the vernacular is only a symptom. Charles Lamb says of the Caledonian: "He brings his total wealth into company and gravely unpacks it. His riches are always about him. His conversation is as a book." In the opening of "The Tempest," Shakespeare, by a few vivid strokes, paints a ship driving before the wind on a lee-shore. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough. Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try with main course. ... Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her to courses off to sea again; lay her off. There is the scene, and it could not be described without all this sailors' talk of sails and courses. At the same time there is no display of minute knowledge of navigation. Shakespeare says enough to bring before the mind's eye of seaman and landsman alike the peril of the ship and the efforts of the crew to bring her off; and he succeeds |