The child who, in these not very impressive circumstances,
appeared in the world, received but scant attention.
There was small reason to foresee her destiny.
The Duchess of Clarence, two months before, had given
birth to a daughter, this infant, indeed, had died
almost immediately; but it seemed highly probable
that the Duchess would again become a mother; and
so it actually fell out. More than this, the
Duchess of Kent was young, and the Duke was strong;
there was every likelihood that before long a brother
would follow, to snatch her faint chance of the succession
from the little princess.
Nevertheless, the Duke had other views: there
were prophecies... At any rate, he would christen
the child Elizabeth, a name of happy augury. In
this, however, he reckoned without the Regent, who,
seeing a chance of annoying his brother, suddenly
announced that he himself would be present at the
baptism, and signified at the same time that one of
the godfathers was to be the Emperor Alexander of
Russia. And so when the ceremony took place,
and the Archbishop of Canterbury asked by what name
he was to baptise the child, the Regent replied “Alexandria.”
At this the Duke ventured to suggest that another
name might be added. “Certainly,”
said the Regent; “Georgina?” “Or
Elizabeth?” said the Duke. There was a
pause, during which the Archbishop, with the baby in
his lawn sleeves, looked with some uneasiness from
one Prince to the other. “Very well, then,”
said the Regent at last, “call her after her
mother. But Alexandrina must come first.”
Thus, to the disgust of her father, the child was
christened Alexandrina Victoria.
The Duke had other subjects of disgust. The meagre
grant of the Commons had by no means put an end to
his financial distresses. It was to be feared
that his services were not appreciated by the nation.
His debts continued to grow. For many years he
had lived upon L7000 a year; but now his expenses
were exactly doubled; he could make no further reductions;
as it was, there was not a single servant in his meagre
grant establishment who was idle for a moment from
morning to night. He poured out his griefs in
a long letter to Robert Owen, whose sympathy had the
great merit of being practical. “I now candidly
state,” he wrote, “that, after viewing
the subject in every possible way, I am satisfied
that, to continue to live in England, even in the quiet
way in which we are going on, without splendour,
and without show, nothing short
of doubling the seven thousand
pounds will do, Reduction being
impossible.” It was clear that he would
be obliged to sell his house for L51,300, if that
failed, he would go and live on the Continent.
“If my services are useful to my country, it
