d dress.

(2) The character of his relations with, and treatment of, others.

(3) His desire and power to acquit himself creditably in conversation or
whatever is the occupation of the society with which he mixes."

A minute and detailed analysis of these subheadings followed, filling
several pages, and the memorandum ended with a final exhortation to the
gentlemen: "If they will duly appreciate the responsibility of their
position, and taking the points above laid down as the outline, will
exercise their own good sense in acting UPON ALL OCCASIONS all
upon these principles, thinking no point of detail too minute to be
important, but maintaining one steady consistent line of conduct
they may render essential service to the young Prince and justify the
flattering selection made by the royal parents." A year later the young
Prince was sent to Oxford, where the greatest care was taken that
he should not mix with the undergraduates. Yes, everything had been
tried--everything... with one single exception. The experiment had never
been made of letting Bertie enjoy himself. But why should it have been?
"Life is composed of duties." What possible place could there be for
enjoyment in the existence of a Prince of Wales?

The same year which deprived Albert of the Princess Royal brought him
another and a still more serious loss. The Baron had paid his last visit
to England. For twenty years, as he himself said in a letter to the King
of the Belgians, he had performed "the laborious and exhausting office
of a paternal friend and trusted adviser" to the Prince and the Queen.
He was seventy; he was tired, physically and mentally; it was time to
go. He returned to his home in Coburg, exchanging, once for all, the
momentous secrecies of European statecraft for the little-tattle of a
provincial capital and the gossip of family life. In his stiff chair
by the fire he nodded now over old stories--not of emperors and
generals--but of neighbours and relatives and the domestic adventures
of long ago--the burning of his father's library--and the goat that ran
upstairs to his sister's room and ran twice round the table and then ran
down again. Dyspepsia and depression still attacked him; but, looking
back over his life, he was not dissatisfied. His conscience was clear.
"I have worked as long as I had strength to work," he said, "and for a
purpose no one can impugn. The consciousness of this is my reward--the
only one which I desired to ea