For the long strain and the unceasing anxiety, brought by the war, made themselves felt at last.  Endowed by nature with a robust constitution, Victoria, though in periods of depression she had sometimes supposed herself an invalid, had in reality throughout her life enjoyed remarkably good health.  In her old age, she had suffered from a rheumatic stiffness of the joints, which had necessitated the use of a stick, and, eventually, a wheeled chair; but no other ailments attacked her, until, in 1898, her eyesight began to be affected by incipient cataract.  After that, she found reading more and more difficult, though she could still sign her name, and even, with some difficulty, write letters.  In the summer of 1900, however, more serious symptoms appeared.  Her memory, in whose strength and precision she had so long prided herself, now sometimes deserted her; there was a tendency towards aphasia; and, while no specific disease declared itself, by the autumn there were unmistakable signs of a general physical decay.  Yet, even in these last months, the strain of iron held firm.  The daily work continued; nay, it actually increased; for the Queen, with an astonishing pertinacity, insisted upon communicating personally with an ever-growing multitude of men and women who had suffered through the war.

By the end of the year the last remains of her ebbing strength had almost deserted her; and through the early days of the opening century it was clear that her dwindling forces were only kept together by an effort of will.  On January 14, she had at Osborne an hour’s interview with Lord Roberts, who had returned victorious from South Africa a few days before.  She inquired with acute anxiety into all the details of the war; she appeared to sustain the exertion successfully; but, when the audience was over, there was a collapse.  On the following day her medical attendants recognised that her state was hopeless; and yet, for two days more, the indomitable spirit fought on; for two days more she discharged the duties of a Queen of England.  But after that there was an end of working; and then, and not till then, did the last optimism of those about her break down.  The brain was failing, and life was gently slipping away.  Her family gathered round her; for a little more she lingered, speechless and apparently insensible; and, on January 22, 1901, she died.

When, two days previously, the news of the approaching end had been made public, astonished grief had swept over the country.  It appeared as if some monstrous reversal of the course of nature was about to take place.  The vast majority of her subjects had never known a time when Queen Victoria had not been reigning over them.  She had become an indissoluble part of their whole scheme of things, and that they were about to lose her appeared a scarcely possible thought.  She herself, as she lay blind and silent, seemed to those who watched her to be divested of all thinking—­to have glided already, unawares,