The small space below us was full now--it could accommodate no more
royalty. The august procession filed down the aisle in double rank, the
Shah and the Princess of Wales in the lead, and cheers broke forth and a
waving of handkerchiefs as the Princess passed--all said this
demonstration was meant for her. As the procession disappeared through
the farther door, the hundred eleven-dollar maniacs rushed through a
small aperture, then through an anteroom, and gathered in a flock on the
stage, the chorus striking up “God Save the Queen” at the same moment.
We stood in a mighty bandbox, or a Roman coliseum, with a sea of faces
stretching far away over the ground floor, and above them rose five
curving tiers of gaudy humanity, the dizzy upper tier in the far
distance rising sharply up against the roof, like a flower garden trying
to hold an earthquake down and not succeeding. It was a magnificent
spectacle, and what with the roaring of the chorus, the waving of
handkerchiefs, the cheering of the people, the blazing gas, and the
awful splendor of the long file of royalty, standing breast to breast in
the royal box, it was wonderfully exhilarating, not to say exciting.
The chorus sang only three-quarters of a minute--one stanza--and down
came the huge curtain and shut out the fairyland. And then all those
eleven-dollar people hunted their way out again.