Writing for my own sex, my greatest ambition was to have offered this first attempt to the noblest and most beloved of our sex, our Nation’s Idol, Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. I visited Vienna in May, 1873, partly—I may say chiefly—with the object of obtaining the desired permission, but Her Royal Highness was not there.
At last a bright idea dawned upon me. I would embody my petition in a letter, and send it through the Embassy, and then—I was ashamed of pushing myself forward (a good old English feeling, I believe)—my petition and I disappeared together in the wild, struggling, nnsympathizing crowd.
So my wish was never spoken; and I lay this work, the offering of the firstfruits of my pen, where I lay all the other events and actions of my life, great and small, on the Grave of the best and dearest of women—
MY MOTHER.
