It seems to me that the life of Queen Victoria cannot well be told
without a prefacing sketch of her cousin, the Princess Charlotte,
who, had she lived, would have been her Queen, and who was in many
respects her prototype. It is certain, I think, that Charlotte
Augusta of Wales, that lovely miracle-flower of a loveless
marriage, blooming into a noble and gracious womanhood, amid the
petty strifes and disgraceful intrigues of a corrupt Court, by her
virtues and graces, by her high spirit and frank and fearless
character, prepared the way in the loyal hearts of the British
people, for the fair young kinswoman, who, twenty-one years after
her own sad death, reigned in her stead. Through all the bright
life of the Princess Charlotte - from her beautiful childhood to
her no less beautiful maturity - the English people had regarded
her proudly and lovingly as their sovereign, who was to be; they
had patience with the melancholy madness of the poor old King, her
grandfather, and with the scandalous irregularities of the Prince
Regent, her father, in looking forward to happier and better things
under a good woman's reign; and after all those fair hopes had been
coffined with her, and buried in darkness and silence, their hearts
naturally turned to the royal little girl, who might possibly fill
the place left so drearily vacant. England had always been happy
and prosperous under Queens, and a Queen, please God, they would
yet have.
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