ggle might have followed
in which the Monarchy would have been shaken to its foundations. Or, on
the other hand, Disraeli's hypothetical prophecy might have come true.
"With Prince Albert," he said, "we have buried our... sovereign. This
German Prince has governed England for twenty-one years with a wisdom
and energy such as none of our kings have ever shown. If he had outlived
some of our 'old stagers' he would have given us the blessings of
absolute government."

The English Constitution--that indescribable entity--is a living thing,
growing with the growth of men, and assuming ever-varying forms in
accordance with the subtle and complex laws of human character. It is
the child of wisdom and chance. The wise men of 1688 moulded it into the
shape we know, but the chance that George I could not speak English
gave it one of its essential peculiarities--the system of a Cabinet
independent of the Crown and subordinate to the Prime Minister. The
wisdom of Lord Grey saved it from petrifaction and destruction, and
set it upon the path of Democracy. Then chance intervened once more; a
female sovereign happened to marry an able and pertinacious man; and
it seemed likely that an element which had been quiescent within it for
years--the element of irresponsible administrative power--was about
to become its predominant characteristic and to change completely the
direction of its growth. But what chance gave chance took away. The
Consort perished in his prime; and the English Constitution, dropping
the dead limb with hardly a tremor, continued its mysterious life as if
he had never been.

One human being, and one alone, felt the full force of what had
happened. The Baron, by his fireside at Coburg, suddenly saw the
tremendous fabric of his creation crash down into sheer and irremediable
ruin. Albert was gone, and he had lived in vain. Even his blackest
hypochondria had never envisioned quite so miserable a catastrophe.
Victoria wrote to him, visited him, tried to console him by declaring
with passionate conviction that she would carry on her husband's work.
He smiled a sad smile and looked into the fire. Then he murmured that
he was going where Albert was--that he would not be long. He shrank into
himself. His children clustered round him and did their best to comfort
him, but it was useless: the Baron's heart was broken. He lingered for
eighteen months, and then, with his pupil, explored the shadow and the
dust.

II

With ap