Then,
leaning on the arm of her noble daughter, the Queen walked about the
pleasant gardens, till she fixed upon the spot, where now stands the
magnificent mausoleum, which, splendid and beautiful as art can make it,
is like a costly casket, for the dust, infinitely more precious to her
than all the jewels of her crown. It was sweet for her to feel that thus
under the shadow of her mother's dear home, the two most sacred loves and
sorrows of her life would be forever associated.
There was great and sincere mourning in England among all classes, not
alone for the Queen's sake, but for their own, for the Prince-Consort had
finally endeared himself to this too long jealous and distrustful people.
They had named him "alien," at first; they called him "angel," at last.
He was not _that_, but a most rare man, of a nature so sweet and
wholesome, of a character so well-balanced and symmetrical, of a life so
pure and blameless, that the English cannot reasonably hope to "look upon
his like again," not even among his own sons.
Some of his contemporaries, while admitting his grace and elegance, were
blind to his strength of character, forgetting that a shining column of
the Parthenon may be as strong as one of the dark rough-hewn columns of
Paestum.
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