_ worse!

The constant intercourse of _forty-one_, years cannot cease without
the _total want_ of _power_ of _real enjoyment_ of _anything_. A sort
of cloud which hangs over you, and seems to _oppress_ everything--and
a positive _weakness_ in the powers of reflection and mental exertion.
The doctors _tell_ me I _must not_ attempt to _force_ this. Long
conversation, loud talking, the talking of many people together, I
_can't_ bear yet. It must come _very_ gradually....

I try to be, and very often am, quite _resigned_--but dearest Uncle,
this is a life sorrow. On _all_ festive or mournful occasions, on
_all_ family events, _her love_ and _sympathy_ will be so _fearfully
wanting_. Then again, except Albert (who I very often don't see but
very little in the day), I have _no human_ being except our children,
and that is not the same _Verhaeltniss_, to _open_ myself to; and
besides, a _woman_ requires _woman's_ society and sympathy sometimes,
as men do _men's_. All this, beloved Uncle, will show you that,
without _dwelling_ constantly upon it, or _moping_ or becoming
_morbid_, though the _blank_ and the _loss to me_, in my isolated
position especially, is _such_ a _dreadful_, and such an _irreparable
one_, the worst _trials_ are _yet_ to come. My poor birthday, I
can hardly think of it! Strange it is how often _little trifles_,
insignificant in themselves, upset one more even than greater
things....

But the general sympathy for _me_, and approval of the manner in
which I have shown my grief, as well as the affection and respect for
dearest Mamma's memory in the country, is _quite wonderful and most
touching_. Ever your devoted Niece,

VICTORIA R.

[Pageheading: RENEWED GRIEF]

_Queen Victoria to the King of the Belgians._

BUCKINGHAM PALACE, _30th March 1861_.

MY DEARLY BELOVED UNCLE,--It is a comfort for me to write to you, and
I think you may like to hear from your poor motherless child. It is
_to-day_ a _fortnight_ already, and it seems but yesterday--_all_ is
before me, and at the same time _all, all_ seems _quite impossible_.
The blank--the desolation--the fearful and awful _Sehnsucht und
Wehmuth_ come back with redoubled force, and the _weeping_, which day
after day is my welcome friend, is my greatest relief.

We have an immense deal to do--and everything is in the greatest
_order_; but to _open her_ drawers and presses, and to look at all her
dear jewels and trinkets in order to identify everyth