By and by a band in showy uniform came in and stood opposite the
entrance. At the end of a tedious interval of waiting trumpets sounded
outside, there was some shouting, the band played half of “God Save the
Queen,” and then the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and a dozen gorgeous
Persian officials entered. After a little the young Prince Arthur came,
in a blue uniform, with a whole broadside of gold and silver medals on
his breast--for good behavior, punctuality, accurate spelling,
penmanship, etc., I suppose, but I could not see the inscriptions. The
band gave him some bars of “God Save the Queen,” too, while he stood
under us talking, with altogether unroyal animation, with the
Persians--the crowd of people staring hungrily at him the while--country
cousins, maybe, who will go home and say, “I was as close to him as I am
to that chair this minute.”
Then came the Duke of Teck and the Princess Mary, and the band
God-Save-the-Queen’d them also. Now came the Prince of Wales and the
Russian Tsarina--the royal anthem again, with an extra blast at the end
of it. After them came a young, handsome, mighty giant, in showy
uniform, his breast covered with glittering orders, and a general’s
chapeau, with a flowing white plume, in his hand--the heir to all the
throne of all the Russias. The band greeted him with the Russian
national anthem, and played it clear through. And they did right; for
perhaps it is not risking too much to say that this is the only national
air in existence that is really worthy of a great nation.
And at last came the long-expected millennium himself, His Imperial
Majesty the Shah, with the charming Princess of Wales on his arm. He had
all his jewels on, and his diamond shaving brush in his hat front. He
shone like a window with the westering sun on it.