When the grant for the Albert Memorial came before the House of Commons, Disraeli, as leader of the Opposition, eloquently supported the project.  He was rewarded by a copy of the Prince’s speeches, bound in white morocco, with an inscription in the royal hand.  In his letter of thanks he “ventured to touch upon a sacred theme,” and, in a strain which re-echoed with masterly fidelity the sentiments of his correspondent, dwelt at length upon the absolute perfection of Albert.  “The Prince,” he said, “is the only person whom Mr. Disraeli has ever known who realised the Ideal.  None with whom he is acquainted have ever approached it.  There was in him a union of the manly grace and sublime simplicity, of chivalry with the intellectual splendour of the Attic Academe.  The only character in English history that would, in some respects, draw near to him is Sir Philip Sidney:  the same high tone, the same universal accomplishments, the same blended tenderness and vigour, the same rare combination of romantic energy and classic repose.”  As for his own acquaintance with the Prince, it had been, he said, “one of the most satisfactory incidents of his life:  full of refined and beautiful memories, and exercising, as he hopes, over his remaining existence, a soothing and exalting influence.”  Victoria was much affected by “the depth and delicacy of these touches,” and henceforward Disraeli’s place in her affections was assured.  When, in 1866, the Conservatives came into office, Disraeli’s position as Chancellor of the Exchequer and leader of the House necessarily brought him into a closer relation with the Sovereign.  Two years later Lord Derby resigned, and Victoria, with intense delight and peculiar graciousness, welcomed Disraeli as her First Minister.

But only for nine agitated months did he remain in power.  The Ministry, in a minority in the Commons, was swept out of existence by a general election.  Yet by the end of that short period the ties which bound together the Queen and her Premier had grown far stronger than ever before; the relationship between them was now no longer merely that between a grateful mistress and a devoted servant:  they were friends.  His official letters, in which the personal element had always been perceptible, developed into racy records of political news and social gossip, written, as Lord Clarendon said, “in his best novel style.”  Victoria was delighted; she had never, she declared, had such letters in her life, and had never before known everything.  In return, she sent him, when the spring came, several bunches of flowers, picked by her own hands.  He despatched to her a set of his novels, for which, she said, she was “most grateful, and which she values much.”  She herself had lately published her “Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands,” and it was observed that the Prime Minister, in conversing with Her Majesty at this period, constantly used the words “we authors, ma’am.”  Upon political questions, she was his staunch supporter.