JUNE 22nd, 1897.
Riding three-and-three, came a kaleidoscope of dazzling horsemen,
equerries, aides-de-camp, attaches, ambassadors and princes, all the
pomp of all the nations of the earth—scarlet and gold, azure and gold,
purple and gold, emerald and gold, white and gold—always a changing
tumult of colors that seemed to live and gleam with a light of their
own. It was enough. No eye could bear more gorgeousness. No more
gorgeousness could there be, unless princes are to clothe themselves in
rainbows and the very sun.
The prelude was played, and now the great moment was at hand. Already
carriages were rolling up full of the Queen’s kindred, full of her
children and children’s children, but we hardly looked at them. Down
there, through an avenue of eager faces, through a storm of white,
waving handkerchiefs, through roaring volleys of cheers, there was
approaching a carriage drawn by eight cream-colored horses. The roar
surged up the street, keeping pace with the eight horses. The carriage
passed the barrier; it entered the churchyard; it wheeled left and then
right. It drove up to the very steps of the Cathedral.
We all leaped up. Cheers broke into screams, and the enthusiasm swelled
to delirium. The sun, watery until now, shone out suddenly, clear and
dry, and there was a little, plain, flushed old lady, all in black, with
a silver streak under her black bonnet, and with a simple white
sunshade, sitting quite still, with the corners of her mouth drawn
tight, as if she was trying not to cry; but that old lady was the Queen
and you knew it. You did not want to look at the glittering uniforms
now, nor yet at the bright gowns and young faces in the carriages, nor
yet at the stately princes, though by now all these were ranged in a
half-circle round her. You could not look at anybody but the Queen, so
very quiet, so very grave, so very punctual, and so unmistakably every
inch a lady and a Queen.
It was almost pathetic, if you will, that small, black figure, in the
middle of these shining cavaliers, this great army, this roaring
multitude, but it was also very glorious. When other kings of the world
drive abroad, an escort rides close at the wheels of their carriages.
The Queen drove through her people quite plain and open, with just one
soldier at the curbstone between her and them. Why not? They are quite
free. They have no cause to fear her. They have much cause to love her.
Was it not all for her; gala trappings of the streets, men, horses, guns
and the living walls of British men and women? for the Queen summed up
all that had gone before—all the soldiers and sailors, the big-limbed
colonials, and the strange men from unheard-of islands over the sea. We
know now what that which had come before all stood for. We know as we
had never known before what the Queen stands for. The Empire had come
together to revere and bless the mother of the Empire; the mother of the
Empire had come to do homage to the one Being more majestic than she.
There were the archbishops, bishops and deans, in gold and crimson caps,
and white, orange and gold embroidered vestments, waiting on the steps.
There, through gaps in the pillars and scaffoldings, you could see all
her Ministers and great men, a strange glimpse of miniature faces, as in
some carefully labored picture, where each face stands for an honored
name.
All stood, and the choir sang the Te Deum. Next rose up a melodious
voice intoning prayers. The Queen bowed her head, and then the whole
choir and the company outside the Cathedral and the whole company in the
stands, at the windows, on the house tops, and away down the street, all
standing, all uncovered, began to sing the One Hundredth Psalm: “Come ye
before Him and rejoice.” The Queen’s lips were tight, and her eyes,
perhaps it was fancy, looked dim; but then, “Three cheers for the
Queen,” and the Dean, pious man, was wildly waving that wonderful
crimson cap, and the pillars and roofs were ringing as if they must come
down. Then “God Save the Queen,” a lusty peal, till you felt drowned in
sound.
The Queen looked up and smiled, and the Queen’s smile was the end of it
all—a smile that broke down the sad mouth—a smile that seemed
half-reluctant, so wistful, yet so kind, so sincere, so motherly.—_G.
W. Steevens in London Daily Mail._