All eyes, all thoughts, turned towards the Princess Victoria; but she still remained, shut away in the seclusion of Kensington, a small, unknown figure, lost in the large shadow of her mother’s domination.  The preceding year had in fact been an important one in her development.  The soft tendrils of her mind had for the first time begun to stretch out towards unchildish things.  In this King Leopold encouraged her.  After his return to Brussels, he had resumed his correspondance in a more serious strain; he discussed the details of foreign politics; he laid down the duties of kingship; he pointed out the iniquitous foolishness of the newspaper press.  On the latter subject, indeed, he wrote with some asperity.  “If all the editors,” he said, “of the papers in the countries where the liberty of the press exists were to be assembled, we should have a crew to which you would not confide a dog that you would value, still less your honour and reputation.”  On the functions of a monarch, his views were unexceptionable.  “The business of the highest in a State,” he wrote, “is certainly, in my opinion, to act with great impartiality and a spirit of justice for the good of all.”  At the same time the Princess’s tastes were opening out.  Though she was still passionately devoted to riding and dancing, she now began to have a genuine love of music as well, and to drink in the roulades and arias of the Italian opera with high enthusiasm.  She even enjoyed reading poetry—­at any rate, the poetry of Sir Walter Scott.

When King Leopold learnt that King William’s death was approaching, he wrote several long letters of excellent advice to his niece.  “In every letter I shall write to you,” he said, “I mean to repeat to you, as a fundamental rule, to be firm, and courageous, and honest, as you have been till now.”  For the rest, in the crisis that was approaching, she was not to be alarmed, but to trust in her “good natural sense and the truth” of her character; she was to do nothing in a hurry; to hurt no one’s amour-propre, and to continue her confidence in the Whig administration!  Not content with letters, however, King Leopold determined that the Princess should not lack personal guidance, and sent over to her aid the trusted friend whom, twenty years before, he had taken to his heart by the death-bed at Claremont.  Thus, once again, as if in accordance with some preordained destiny, the figure of Stockmar is discernible—­inevitably present at a momentous hour.

On June 18, the King was visibly sinking.  The Archbishop of Canterbury was by his side, with all the comforts of the church.  Nor did the holy words fall upon a rebellious spirit; for many years his Majesty had been a devout believer.  “When I was a young man,” he once explained at a public banquet, “as well as I can remember, I believed in nothing but pleasure and folly—­nothing