It was on the night of December 14, 1861, that the beloved Prince-Consort
passed away,--quietly and apparently painlessly, from the station he had
ennobled, from the home he had blessed. Unconsciously he drifted out on
the unknown, mysterious sea, nor knew that loving feet followed him to
the strand, and that after him were stretched yearning arms.
That death-bed scene passed in a solemn hush, more mournful than any
outcry of passionate grief could be. On one side, knelt the Queen,
holding her husband's hand, trying to warm it with kisses and tears; on
the other, knelt the Princess Alice. At the foot of the bed, the Prince
of Wales and the Princess Helena were kneeling together. It is probable
that all the younger children were sleeping in quiet unconsciousness of
the presence of the dread angel in the Castle. The Dean of Windsor,
Prince Ernest Leiningen,--secretaries, physicians and attached attendants
were grouped around. All was silent, save that low, labored breathing,
growing softer and softer, and more infrequent, and then--it ceased
forever.
I have been told by a lady who had had good opportunities of knowing
about the sad circumstances of that death, that the Queen retained
perfect possession of herself to the last, and that after the lids had
been pressed down over the dear eyes whose light had passed on, she rose
calmly, and courteously thanked the physicians in attendance, saying that
she knew that everything which human skill and devotion could accomplish,
had been done for her husband, whom God had taken.
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