[Victoria is horrified to read about the Irish potato famine]
Dr. Traill: [voiceover, reading his letter in the newspaper] "Famine is advancing with strides so fearful that I verily believe that if some superhuman effort is not made to relieve us, half our population will erelong be blotted from the book of being."
Victoria: Sir Robert, have you read this letter from the rector of Skull? He writes that people in his parish are living off seaweed and nettles.
Trevelyan: As you will see in my memorandum of the 17th, ma'am, nettles contain more nourishment than you might imagine. I believe, when gathered young, the leaves taste like spinach.
Victoria: Doctor Traill writes that people are too weak to bury their dead. And that corpses are left by the side of the road.
Trevelyan: The Irish like to imbibe at funerals. Perhaps that is why they are incapable of digging a decent grave.
Victoria: Aren't you going to do anything, Prime Minister?
Sir Robert Peel: I'm afraid it would not be... desirable for the government to intervene, ma'am.
Trevelyan: [patronisingly] The truth is, ma'am, the population of Ireland has grown beyond its natural limits. It would be immoral of us to interfere in what is an inevitable period of self-regulation.
Victoria: Self-regulation?
Trevelyan: [even more patronisingly] I don't know whether you're familiar with the works of Malthus, ma'am, but this is exactly the sort of situation he predicted. Population growth always outstrips food production, with inevitable results.
[Trevelyan and Peel exchange uncomfortable glances]
Victoria: I think I should like to visit Ireland. I feel I need to see the situation for myself.
Sir Robert Peel: Such a visit would be inadvisable, ma'am.
Victoria: Why not? Surely my presence will bring them some comfort.
Sir Robert Peel: I'm not sure how comforting your presence would be. I could not guarantee your safety.
