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I understand now, why he was unpopular; for he hits hard at the weak points of his countrymen.'

This was written on the 1st of August, on which day Parliament was prorogued by Commission, and on the eve of the Queen's departure on her first visit to Ireland. The Prince continues:

... I call a farewell to you to-day, before we take to the sea, which is to carry us to Ireland. We embark in a few hours; and rejoice the wind has rather gone down, which gives promise of a quiet passage.'

Lady Lyttelton, left behind with the younger children (the four eldest having accompanied the Queen), and watching from the windows of Osborne the Royal Squadron as it steamed out of sight, writes:-'It is done! England's fate is afloat; and we are left lamenting. They hope to reach Cork to-morrow evening, the wind having gone down, and the sky cleared, the usual weather compliment to the Queen's departure.'

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Queen and Prince visit Ireland-Correspondence between Prince and Sir Robert Peel as to Irish University

MANY and eager were the eyes that watched the Royal Squadron as it steamed into the Cove of Cork, in the fading light of a beautiful summer evening, and anchored alongside the flagship Ganges, a stately two-decker of 84 guns. Showers of rockets streamed into the air, and the bonfires on the surrounding heights burned brighter and fiercer, as the peasantry, wild with delight to know that their Queen was actually among them, piled turf, faggot, and tar-barrel higher and higher, to give earnest of their welcome. It was a fitting prelude to the enthusiastic loyalty which hailed the Royal visitors at every stage of their Irish progress.

Her Majesty, in the published Leaves from a Journal, reports, that the next morning (3rd August) was grey and the air heavy. But the Journal does not state, what was noted with much interest at the time, that when she first set foot upon the shore at Cove, the sun broke out suddenly from the clouds with unusual splendour. The quaint picturesque old place thus received its new name of Queenstown under the brightest auspices. Kingstown had owed its title to its being the spot where George IV. had disembarked on his visit to Dublin, and the Queen yielded to the natural desire of her subjects in the South, that a similar record of her first introduction to Irish soil should be left with them. The people were taken somewhat by surprise by the arrival of the Royal Squadron sooner than expected; but good news fly fast, and when the Royal party proceeded in the afternoon in the Fairy up the river Lee to Cork, they found its beautiful shores everywhere crowded, and were received with wild shouts, mingled with the firing of cannons and small arms, and the ringing of bells, which gave an air of singular animation to the scene. In Cork, so lately a stronghold of disaffection, the same de

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lighted excitement was everywhere seen. The streets, balconies, windows, and most of the housetops were lined with people, all cheering lustily and in excellent humour. Surrounded by a crowd, 'noisy, excitable, but very good-humoured, running and pushing about, and laughing, talking and shrieking,' the Royal visitors did not fail to observe one distinguishing feature of the race. 'The beauty of the women is very remarkable, and struck us much; such beautiful dark eyes and hair, and such fine teeth; almost every third woman was pretty, and some remarkably so.'-(Leaves, p. 251.)

Next day the Royal Squadron started at ten for Waterford Harbour, which was reached about four. It anchored about ten miles below the city, to which the Prince sailed up in the Fairy with the two Princes, but did not land. Only the previous year the Stromboli, one of the vessels of the Royal Squadron, had been anchored off Waterford, ready to quell the expected rising there, and now Waterford, like Cork, was all alive with loyal enthusiasm. The sight of the fort at Duncannon, opposite to which the Royal yacht lay at anchor, recalled thoughts of the last King of the Stuart race, who embarked here for France, in July, 1690, a trembling fugitive, after his final defeat on the Boyne.

At seven o'clock next evening (5th August) the Royal Squadron steamed into the magnificent harbour of Kingstown. For some time before Kingstown was reached, the sea had been alive with boats, yachts, and steamers, laden to the water's edge with eager crowds. The wharfs where the landing place was prepared,' Her Majesty writes (Leaves, p. 254), were densely crowded; altogether it was a noble and stirring spectacle. The setting sun lit up the country, the fine buildings, and the whole scene with a glowing light, which was truly beautiful.' Next morning at ten, the Queen and Prince landed under a salute from all the men-of-war in the harbour. 'It was a sight,' says the chronicler of The Times, never to be forgotten-a sound to be recollected for ever. Ladies threw aside the old formula of waving a white pocket-handkerchief, and cheered for their lives; while the men, pressing in so closely as to throng the very edges of the pavilion, waved whatever came first to hand-hat, stick, wand, or coat (for the day was very hot)-and rent the air with shouts of joy, which never decreased in energy till their Sovereign was out of sight. . . . The Royal children were objects of universal attention and admiration. "Oh! Queen, dear!"

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174

ENTRY INTO DUBLIN.

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screamed a stout old lady, "make one of them Prince Patrick, and all Ireland will die for you." The railway conveyed the Royal party to Dublin in a quarter of an hour, and they proceeded in open carriages from the Sandymount Station, some distance out of Dublin, to the Viceregal Lodge in the Phoenix Park. The sun shone brightly. Every window, roof, and platform from which the procession could be seen, was thronged with cheering crowds. Every hedgerow in the suburbs was festooned with flags; the poorest cottages had their wreaths of flowers and evergreens. In the capital of a country which had so recently been 'in open revolt and under martial law,' nothing but the most demonstrative loyalty was to be noted. 'It was,' the Queen writes, 'a wonderful and striking spectacle, such masses of human beings, so enthusiastic, so excited, yet such perfect order maintained; then the numbers of troops, the different bands stationed at certain distances, the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, the bursts of welcome which rent the air-all made a never-to-be-forgotten scene.'-(Leaves, p. 255.)

The feeling in Her Majesty's mind at the moment must have been akin to that which drew the well-known exclamation from Charles II., as he passed through the crowds that lined his passage across Blackheath on his way to London after the Restoration-'How is it they and I have been kept so long apart!' At such a time the reasons for the separation, cogent as they might be, were not likely to be remembered.

The four days spent in Dublin were one continual jubilee. Tuesday was passed in visiting the public institutions. Of these none excited greater interest than the National Model Schools, where the Royal visitors were received by the Archbishop of Dublin and the Roman Catholic Archbishop Murray, then eighty-two years of age, a man whose worth seemed written upon his benignant features, which were made more venerable by long white hair that fell down to his shoulders. The Prince was familiar with the admirable character of Dr. Murray, and knew how much he had done to encourage and maintain these excellent schools against the bigoted opposition of others of his creed.' The Queen records in her Jour

1 In a contemporary memorandum by Sir James Clark (furnished to us by the kindness of his son), he mentions that Lord Clarendon had assured him, that but for the exertions of Dr. Murray 'these admirable schools could not have been kept up.' Dr. Murray, Lord Clare told Sir James Clark,' was a man of great firmness of mind, and had his feelings under excellent command.

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nal (Leaves, p. 257), with marked satisfaction, the proofs that were given of their excellent system of instruction, and the Prince more than once expressed the same feeling to those about him, who shared his always lively interest in the subject of education.

A levee, at which no fewer than four thousand persons were present, filled up the next day. The morning of Thursday was devoted to a review of over six thousand troops in the Phoenix Park, the finely broken ground of which lends itself admirably to such military displays. After the review the Prince visited the Royal Irish Academy, the Royal College of Surgeons, and inspected their museums. He then went to the Royal Dublin Society, of which he was a vicepatron, and at whose cattle-shows he had been a competitor. In replying to the address which was presented to him by the Society, the Prince gladly seized the opportunity to dwell upon the value he attached to its operations, as calculated to raise the productive powers of the country and increase its wealth, giving at the same time remunerative employment to its labouring population, and encouraging habits of industry. The concluding words of his reply produced a marked impression at the time:

'It is impossible,' he said, 'not to feel deeply the marks of enthusiastic attachment which have been displayed to the Queen and myself by the warmhearted inhabitants of this beautiful island; and I most sincerely hope that the promise of a plentiful harvest, of which your fields bear such hopeful evidence, may be the harbinger of a termination to those sufferings under which the people have so lamentably, and yet with such exemplary patience, laboured.'

He then spent nearly an hour in examining the Society's show of cattle and agricultural implements. It was particularly gratifying to him to find that the animals which had carried prizes had been chiefly bred in Ireland, and he urged strongly the importance of pressing forward the improvement

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Want of success did not affect him. He went on his course steadily. In fact I believe he is,' continues Sir James, one of those men, who act on principle, but whose feelings do not enter much into the part they take in life. They are neither much elated by success, nor depressed and annoyed by failure. They are not anxious. They can quietly bide their time without fretting. These are the men who live long. It is anxiety, and fretfulness, and oversensitiveness that wear out the man. Anxiety is the waster of life, and young persons of anxious mind should be educated to suppress their feelings as much as possible, at least to get them into training by bringing the reasoning faculties into play, to show the uselessness of their anxieties and their injurious action on health.' Dr. Murray died 26th March, 1852, aged eighty-four.