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FREEDOM’S BEACON
‘To-day, to-day it speaks to us! Its future auditories will be the generations of men, as they rise up before it and gather round it’
Webster.
‘To-day it speaks to us!’
Of ‘the times that tried men’s souls,’
When hostile ships rode where yon bay
Its deep blue waters rolls:
When the war-cloud dark was lowering
Portentous o’er the land;
When the vassal troops of Britain came
With bayonet, sword and brand.
‘To-day it speaks to us!’
Of brave deeds nobly done,
When patriot hearts beat high with hope,
Ere Freedom’s cause was won:
Of the conflict fierce, where fell
New-England’s valiant men,
Who waved their country’s banner high,
Though warm blood dyed it then!
And will its voice be still
When the thousands of to-day,
Who have come like pilgrim-worshippers,
From earth shall pass away?
Oh no! ‘the potent orator’
To future times shall tell
Where Prescott, Brooks, and Putnam fought,
Where gallant Warren fell.
’Twill speak of these, and others—
Of brave men, born and nurst
In stormy times, on Danger’s lap.
Who dared Oppression’s worst:
Of Vernon’s chief, and he who came
Across the Atlantic flood,
To offer to the patriot’s God
A sacrifice of blood.
Long as the ‘Bay State’ cherishes
One thought of sainted sires,
Long as the day-god greets her cliffs,
Or gilds her domes and spires;
Long as her granite hills remain
Firm fixed, so long shall be
Yon Monument on Bunker’s height
A beacon for the free!
A WINTER TRIP TO TRENTON FALLS
IN THREE SCENES
SCENE FIRST
Morning; eight on the clock. Billing’s Hotel, Trenton. Outside, a clear bright sun glancing down through an atmosphere sparkling with frost, upon as fine a road for a sleigh-ride as ever tempted green-mountain boys and girls for a moonlight flit. Inside, a well-furnished breakfast-table, beef-steak, coffee, toast, etc., etc. On the one side of it your correspondent; serious, as if he considered breakfast a thing to be attended to. He is somewhat, as the lady on the other side of the table says, somewhat in the ‘sear leaf,’ by which name indeed she is pleased to call him; but there is enough of spring in her, to suffice for all deficiencies in him. Like the morning, she is a little icy, but sunshiny, sparkling, exhilarating, thoughtful, youthful—and decided. She takes no marked interest in the breakfast.
‘Sear leaf!’ Madam, say on.
‘I wish to go to the Falls.’
‘To what!’
‘To the Falls—to Trenton Falls.’
He drops his knife and fork. ‘Whew! what! in winter?—in the snow?—on the ice?’
‘Certainly; that is just the season.’
‘Crazy! You were there in the summer–’
‘I know it; every one goes there in summer. I must see them now. There’s no time like it; in their drapery of snow and ice; in the sternness and solitude, the wild grandeur of winter!’
‘How you run on! You’ll miss the cars at Utica.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You’ll be a day later in New-York.’
‘I don’t care. I must see them in their hoary head.’
‘You wish to see if they look as well in gray hairs as I do, perhaps.’
‘Yes.’
‘You really must go?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are a very imperious young lady; and allow me to say, that although some young gentlemen–’
Lady, interrupting him: ‘Shall I ring the bell?’ She rings it. Enter landlord. She orders the horse and cutter.
SCENE SECOND
Enter landlord: ‘All ready, Sir.’
‘Will you allow me to ask if your feet are warmly clad, Madam?’
‘I am ready for the ascent of Mont Blanc, or a ramble with a hunter upon the shore of Hudson’s Bay.’
‘Very well; now for the cutter.’
‘Landlord, just step round, if you please, and put that buffalo-robe a little more closely about the lady. Hold fast, hostler! That horse likes any thing better than standing still.’
‘Ay, ay, Sir.’
‘Now we are ready. Let go! Away we dash; ‘on for the Falls!’ Gently, my good horse, gently round this corner; now ‘go ahead!’ How do you like my steed, Madam?’
‘A rein-deer could not transact this little business better.’
‘Is not this a glorious morning?’
‘Vivifying to the utmost! How far we fail of becoming acquainted with the face of nature, when we only come to look upon it in summer! It is as if one should only look upon the human face in the hues of youth, and never upon the gray head; on the brow where high thoughts have left their impress; on the face which deeper and sterner knowledge, research, patience, have made eloquent, while stealing away the rose. As for me, though I am but a girl, I like to see sometimes an old man; one who in the trial-hour of life has kept his integrity; and when the snows of age fall on him, he gently bends beneath their weight, like those old cedars yonder by the way-side, beneath their weight of snow. Wherever the eye can pierce their white vesture, all is still deep spring-green beneath; unchanged at heart—strong and true. So I like to look on you, Sere Leaf.’
‘Thank you! You have a gift at compliments.’
‘Summer reminds one of feeling and Lalla Rookh; Winter; of intellect and Paradise Lost.’
‘How your voice rings in this clear air! Do you know what Dean Swift says a sleigh-ride is like? ‘Sitting in the draft of a door with your feet in a pail of cold water!’’
‘Abominable! libellous! Exhilaration and comfort are so blended in me that– But is not that the house?’
‘Ay; here we are! Smoke from the chimney; some one is there to welcome us, no doubt. Gently, my Bucephalus, through this gate! There comes the landlord. Treat my horse well, if you please; we are going to the Falls.’
SCENE THIRD
‘Madam, are you ready for the woods?’
‘Quite. How still the air is! Why don’t you thank me for insisting on coming? You have no gratitude. There’s not two inches of snow on the ground. It all seems piled upon these grand old trees. There! see that tuft of it falling and now spreading into a cloud of spangles in the sun-light which streams down by those old pines. Hark! the roar of waters! The sound seems to find new echoes in these snow-laden boughs, and lingers as if loth to depart.’
‘This way, Madam; the trees are bent too low over the path to allow a passage there. We are near the bank which overlooks the first fall. Take my arm; the brink may be icy. Lo! the abyss!’
‘Magnificent! What a rush of waters! How the swollen stream foams and rages!’
‘And see! the pathway under the shelving rock where we passed in summer is completely colonnaded by a row of tall ice pillars; gigantic, symmetrical—fluted, even. What Corinthian shaft ever equalled them! What capital ever rivalled the delicacy or grace of those ice-and-hemlock wreaths about their summits!’
‘And see those pines, rank above rank, higher and higher; stately and still and snow-robed like tall centinels! Perhaps, Sear Leaf, the Old Guard might have stood thus in the Russian snows over Napoleon, when he bivouacked on the hill-side, and sought rest while his spirit was as wildly tossed as the waters that dash beneath us.’
‘Yes, Lady; or it may be that these trees in their perpetual green, in their calmness and dignity, may be emblematic of the way in which the angels who watch on earth look down on man. Perfect rest on perfect unrest.’
‘Ah! you grow gloomy.’
‘Took I not my hue from you? On, then, for the higher fall!’
‘These trees seem to have increased in stature since the summer we were here. As we proceed, the snow lies thicker on them, and the branches seem closer locked; the roof overhead more complete. How still the woods are! Our very foot-fall is noiseless.’
Influenced by the scene, they pass on in silence along the path which leads round the foot of the cone-like hill toward the cottage by the higher Falls, whose deep roar now breaks upon the ear, and rolls through the motionless forest. Thus then the Lady to Sear Leaf:
‘Has God any other temple like this?’
‘Never a one, reared by any hand save His!’
‘What organ ever rolled so deep a bass through arches so grand! See how the sunlight glances amid the gnarled branches of the roof, and here and there falls through on the floor below; making those low icy forms look like the shrubs of the valley of diamonds in the eastern story. Just so it is that the light of truth struggles through entangled and dark mazes of human error, and here and there illuminate some humble mind with its pure ray; while others, tall and strong and haughty, like those old trees, are left darkened.’
‘You have a noble nature, and should be nobly mated. But here we are upon the brow of the hill which leads to the cottage. The snow is deeper here: gently, now; a slide down this bank might check even your enthusiasm. Take my arm; there—so; safe at the bottom! Let us go forward upon the platform of the cottage over the Falls. No bench? Well, sit upon my cloak.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘You must. There; be pleased to sit and rest. What a gorgeous display of frost-work and flashing light on fantastic forms of ice! How the spray rises and waves and changes its hues in the sun! And the trees, how delicately each sprig of the evergreens is covered with a dress so white and shining ‘as no fuller on earth could whiten them.’’
‘Even so, Sear Leaf; And I love to think that the same one who wove the glorious dress to which you refer, to gladden Peter, made this dazzling drapery, and gave us eyes to look upon it. It recalls to my mind the song of the Seraphim: ‘The whole earth is full of thy glory!’’
‘Did they not, Lady, sing of a moral glory?’
‘No; decidedly no. There was no moral glory in the earth when they sang that song. Even the chosen people of God are then and there denounced as having abandoned Him. No; it was the glory of the works of His hands, such as we look upon this day, which elicited their praise.’
‘I believe your exegesis is right. The scene is glorious. Summer in all her loveliness has no dress like this. She has no hues equal to the play of colors on these walls and columns of ice, extending far as the eye can reach down the ravine, and towering in more than colossal grandeur. The water is in treble volume, and force and voice; and as it rolls its white folds of spotless foam down the valley, it reminds one of the great white throne of the Revelations, and this wavy foam the folds of the robe that filled the temple.’
‘It is inexpressibly, oppressively beautiful, Sear Leaf!’
‘Speaking of Revelation, how accurate is the description in Manfred of this scene!’
‘Let me hear it:’
‘It is not noon; the sun-bow’s rays still arch
The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
And roll the sheeted silver’s waving column
O’er the crags headlong perpendicular,
And fling its lines of foaming light along
And to and fro, like the pale courser’s tail,
The giant steed to be bestrode by Death,
As told in the apocalypse.’
‘Well, Madam, why are you silent? Shall we go?’
‘No. I could stay here till nightfall. I was thinking of the lines succeeding those you have repeated:
–‘No eyes
But mine now drink the sight of loveliness,’’
‘Am I nobody?’
‘We are alone here. How many of the light of heart, in youth and strength and beauty, climbed these rocks, shouted in these old woods, and gathered the summer flowers along these banks—and passed away! Where are they now! Some who wrote their names in the traveller’s book in this cottage, have them now written by others on their tombstone. One I knew well, who, full of health and beauty, passed up this wild ravine, who has faded like the flowers she culled, and is now in her father’s house, to pass in a few more days to heaven. And of all the rest, did we know their history, what a picture would it give of life!’
‘You are thoughtful for one so young.’
‘Are not twenty years enough to make one a moment thoughtful? Tell me now, thou of the gray head, of what art thou thinking?’
‘Of earth’s fairest scene, blent with her fairest daughter.’
‘Bravo! For what fair lady on your native mountains did you frame that compliment twenty years ago?’
‘Madam!’
‘Well?’
‘It is time to return.’
G. P. T.
THE RUINS OF BURNSIDE
Sadly, amid this once delightful plain,
Stern ruin broods o’er crumbling porch and wall,
And shapeless stones, with moss o’ergrown, remain
To tell, Burnside, the story of thy fall:
These ancient oaks, although decaying, green,
Like weary watchers, guard the solemn scene.
Where cowslip cup and daisy sweetly bloomed,
Hemlock and fern, in rank luxuriance spread;
Where rose and lily once the air perfumed,
Wild dock and nettle sprout, no fragrance shed:
And here no more the throstle’s mellow lay
Awakes with gladsome song the jocund day.
O’er yon church wall the ivy creeps, as fain
To shield it from thy withering touch, Decay;
No pastor ever more shall there explain
The sacred text, nor with his hearers, pray
To the Eternal Throne for grace divine;
Nor sing His praise, nor taste the bread and wine.
And here of yore the parish school-house stood,
Where flaxen-pated boys were taught to read;
At merry noon, in wild unfettered mood,
They rushed with boisterous glee to stream or mead;
The care-worn teacher homeward wends his way,
And freer feels than his free boys at play.
Yon roofless cot, which still the alders shade,
While all around is desolate and sere,
Perchance the dwelling of some village maid,
Who fondly watched her aged parents here;
And with her thrifty needle, or her wheel,
Earned for the lowly three the scanty meal.
Close by yon smithy stood the village inn,
Where farmers clinched each bargain o’er a glass;
And oft, amid mirth’s unrestricted din,
Would Time with softer foot, and swifter pass.
The husband here his noisy revel kept,
While by her lonely hearth the good wife wept.
At lazy twilight, ’neath yon ancient elm,
The village statesmen met in grave debate,
And sagely told, if at their country’s helm,
How bravely they would steer the ship of state
From treacherous quicksands or from leeward shore,
And all they said, betrayed their wondrous lore.
I’ve seen the thoughtless rustic pass thee by;
In thee, perhaps, his ancestors were bred,
And, at my question, point without a sigh,
Where calmly rest thy unremembered dead;
I asked thy fate, and, as he answered, smiled,
‘Thus looked these ruins since I was a child.’
Methinks, Burnside, I see thee in thy prime,
When thou wert blessed with innocent content,
Thy robust dwellers, prodigal of time,
Yet still with cheerful heart to labor went;
Nor envied lordly pomp, with courtly train,
Of empty rank and fruitful acres vain.
Methinks I see a summer evening pass,
When thou wert peopled, and in sinless glee
Methinks the lusty ploughman and his lass
Dance with unmeasured mirth, enraptured, free,
While seated from the joyous throng apart,
The blind musician labors at his art.
Though fancy, wayward as the vagrant wind,
May picture scenes of unambitious taste,
Yet vainly now, we look around to find
Thy early beauty mid this dreary waste;
Unmourned, unmissed, thus in thy fallen state,
Thou art an emblem of the common fate!
Before the stern destroyer all shall bow,
And sweet Burnside, like thine, ’twill be my lot
To lie a ruin, tenantless and low,
By friends unmentioned, and by foes forgot:
As earth’s uncounted millions I shall be—
No mortal think, no record speak of me!
Kenneth Rookwood.
CORONATION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH
BY THE LATE WILLIAM ABBOTT
There is one great and peculiar characteristic in all the movements of John Bull. A more gullible epitome of the human race does not exist. Let the case be right or wrong, only apply to him an inflammatory preparation, through the medium of a little exaggerated truth, and his frame is prepared to receive the largest dose of monstrous improbabilities that can possibly be administered; and till he has had his ‘full swing’ in the expression of his outraged feelings and boiling indignation, you might as easily attempt to check the mighty torrent of Niagara. John, however, is a free agent, and on the truest principles of freedom will hear but one side of the question as long as his prejudices continue; and after all, I believe it may fairly be put down to an honest impulse in favor of the oppressed, and a determination that no man, however elevated in rank, shall be screened from that equal justice which England delights in according. But the scales of justice, though equally balanced in the courts, get so bruised and bespattered in the minds of the fickle multitude, that time alone will bring them to their proper equilibrium. Let us travel back to the impeachment of the Duke of York, in the case of the celebrated Mrs. Clark. To attempt to palliate the acts of His Royal Highness was to commit an overt act of treason against the sovereign people; to admit his indiscretions, but deny his guilty participation, or even knowledge of the peculations committed in his name, would expose one to the reputation of being either a fool or a madman. The sage counsellors of the city, those bright constellations immortalized in all ages, not only set the noble example of awarding the freedom of the city to the immortal Colonel Wardle for his wholesale calumnies, but services of plate poured in from all parts; and even a portion of the legislators of Great Britain were offering up their humble adoration at the shrine of an accomplished courtezan. What was the result? Reflection gradually triumphed; all the gross and filthy exaggerations were sifted through the dirty channels which had given rise to them; a sober judgment at length was given; and the Duke, though not freed from the responsibility of having been betrayed into great errors, was honorably and universally acquitted of all intentional wrong. From that moment a more popular prince was not in existence; and with the exception of those human infirmities ‘which flesh is heir to,’ few men descended to the grave more really beloved. The chief of the gang of persecutors, Colonel Wardle, shrunk into miserable retirement, and died ‘unwept, unhonored, and unsung.’
This, however, was nothing when compared with the mighty fever of excitement produced in the public mind by the arrival of Queen Caroline in England. Here was political diet to satisfy the cravings of all parties; a stepping-stone to popularity in which all ranks participated. The peer, the lawyer, the church-warden, down to the very skimmings of the parish; sober rational people; the class so honorably prized in England, the middle class, also became enthusiasts in the cause of the ‘most virtuous Queen that ever graced these realms.’ The independent voters of Westminster; the illustrious class of donkey-drivers; the retailers of cats’-meat; all, all felt a noble indignation at the treatment of ‘Keveen Caroline.’ Days that if allotted to labor would have increased the comforts of their homes and families, were freely sacrificed to processions in honor of Her Majesty. Addresses poured in from every parish in the vast metropolis; representatives of virtuous females were hired, all dressed in white—sweet emblem of their purity! Perhaps England was never nearer the brink of engulphing ruin. The high Tory aristocracy almost stood alone at this momentous period. The public sentiment took but one tone at the theatres; and ‘God save the Queen’ was continually called for. At Covent-Garden and Drury-Lane an occasional struggle was made against the popular cry, but it was speedily drowned in clamor. The trial commenced, and an unfortunate witness appeared on behalf of the crown, who obtained the universal cognomen of ‘Non mi Ricordo.’ This added fuel to the fire; and the irritation of the public mind was roused into phrenzy by the impression that perjured witnesses were suborned from foreign countries to immolate the Queen upon the altar of vengeance. If the Queen’s counsel had been satisfied with allowing the evidence for the prosecution to remain uncontradicted, and suffered the case to stand upon its own merits, Her Majesty must have been acquitted; but ‘by your own lips I will condemn you’ was made too manifest in the defence. The division left so small a majority, that ministers wisely abandoned any farther prosecution of the case. I heard most of the speeches of the defence; and it was curious to observe the different modes of argument adopted. Brougham was an advocate, pleading eagerly a doubtful cause; Denman was the enthusiastic defender of a Queen conscious of her innocence, and setting all personal considerations at defiance. The public feeling, no longer fed by an opposing power, calmly settled down, and men began to wonder at the cause of their phrenzy. The innocence of the Queen did not appear so manifest, as the unwise and heartless treatment she experienced. ‘A widowed wife, a childless mother;’ these were powerful enough to excite the deepest sympathy; and certainly a much harder lot could not have befallen the humblest of her sex. Theatres are very commonly the touchstones by which one may discover the bearing of the public mind; and Her Majesty, by way of proving it, visited all the minor theatres, which were densely crowded upon each attendance. A play was then commanded at the two Theatres Royal. The effect produced at Drury-Lane I do not recollect; but it is certain that the announcement at Covent-Garden reduced rather than increased the receipts. The pit was but moderately attended, and the boxes nearly deserted. This was a touchstone from which there was no escaping; and it was really a mortifying scene to witness the utter neglect with which majesty was received. But alas! the bitter cup of mortification was to be drained to the very dregs; and the Queen’s own rashness, or the bad advice of wrong-headed counsellors, hastened the catastrophe.
A short period had elapsed, when the public attention was gradually directed toward the Coronation. The court papers teemed with descriptions of the expected magnificence. The length of time that had intervened between the coronation of George III. and the intended pageant of George IV., excited all the feeling of novelty. The known magnificence of the King, his undisputed taste, and his gallant, princely bearing, all kept attention on the qui vive. The unfortunate Queen, who obstinately rejected all compromise, remained in the country; and like an ignis fatuus, disturbed the serenity of men’s minds, and kept alive a feeling of anxiety. Mr. Harris, the manager and one of the proprietors of Covent-Garden, was gifted with a tact always ready to take advantage of scenes of passing interest. He lost no time in reviving the second part of Henry IV., with all the splendor of the coronation. The champion on this occasion excited much more interest than all the beauties of Shakspeare, and the theatre was nightly crowded to suffocation. The whole company of performers paraded in the procession; and though a member of the peerage, I cannot exactly call to mind the title I bore; which, however, with my accustomed good fortune, I exchanged for a real character at the real coronation. Having the honor of being known most particularly to the Earl of Glengall, he with the greatest kindness made me his page upon that memorable occasion. This certainly was a very distinguished mark of his friendship, for only one Esquire was allotted to each peer, and the greatest interest was made to obtain those appointments.
The eventful morning came; and London presented at day-break crowds of carriages of every description, and its floating population pouring in dense masses to every point that possessed the slightest degree of interest. Lord Glengall, in order to avoid the misery of passing through crowded streets, and of being every moment impeded in his course, engaged apartments in Lambeth, at Godfrey and Jule’s, the boat-builders, where he slept the night preceding. His lordship had appointed me to breakfast with him there, at six o’clock on that eventful morning; I was resolved to be in time, and at half past two, A. M., I left my home and fell in with a line of carriages on my way toward Westminster bridge. I found that many of them had been there from twelve the preceding night; peers and peeresses in their robes, gently moving, not hastening, to the desired spot. After waiting some two hours with exemplary patience, and finding my case entirely hopeless, I wisely took the precaution of driving to the water-side at Chelsea, for the purpose of procuring a boat. As it is possible that some of the distinguished artists of the day may wish to convey my appearance to posterity, I will give a description of my dress; and I shall also feel greatly obliged, if at the same time they will select the best-looking portrait of me for the likeness: a scarlet tunic, embroidered with gold-thread; a purple satin sash, with a deep gold fringe; a ruff à la Elizabeth; white satin pantaloons; shoes with crimson rosettes; black velvet hat and feathers. My hair, not naturally curling, had been put in graceful papillote the preceding evening. As I write in the reign of Queen Victoria, the reader will readily believe that people are not much in the habit of walking about the streets in such a costume. Imagine therefore my arrival at the watermen’s landing very soon after five o’clock in the morning; a splendid sun pouring, if not absolutely a flood of light, yet its lovely beams upon my person. Crowds of little girls and boys instantly gathered on the spot, receiving me with small voices but loud huzzahs, as I descended from the carriage. A boat was immediately ordered; but as there were several at the landing, all but the one engaged naturally felt the cruelty of not being permitted to come in for their share of extortion on such an occasion.
‘I say, Sir,’ said one of the unwashed, ‘them’s a pretty pair of red ribbands in your shoes; I want just such a pair for my little ’un at home.’
I knew there was only one way of dealing with them; I therefore put on one of my blandest smiles, and gently replied: ‘Well, my good fellow, if you will give me your address, I will send you a pair to-morrow.’ This settled the affair in good humor, and I was suffered to reach the boat without farther annoyance. We had put into the stream but a short distance, when I encountered a boat-full of roysterers; for old father Thames was thickly studded on this occasion with boats of all classes; when one turned to another in the boat and cried out in the most lugubrious accents, which did not fail to excite shouts of laughter:
‘I say, Bill, is that ’ere feller a man or a voman?’
I thought now I had fairly passed my ordeal and might go on in peace; but no; we were obliged to pull in near shore, as we were rowing against tide. Milbank was crowded, and from the midst of the polite assemblage a gentle female voice cried out:
‘My eyes! Tom! if there isn’t one of Astley’s riders!’
I at length arrived at my place of appointment, and had a good hearty laugh at breakfast over my little annoyances. While engaged in that interesting meal, the shouts of the people passed across the water. It was occasioned by the arrival of the Queen, who was refused admittance to the Abbey. Almost all parties blamed her for the attempt, nor did she produce the sensation she had evidently calculated upon. It was like trying to renew a lost game, when all interest had subsided. It was the final blow to all her ambitious aspirations, which speedily ended, where all our vanities must end, in the silent grave. I wish it to be perfectly understood that I have no idea of entering into a rivalry with Hume, in giving another History of England; but as these events of stirring interest passed within my own time, and of which I was a close observer, I trust the introduction will not appear misplaced; taking into consideration that I profess to give my general reminiscences, and not simply to confine them to my profession. Perhaps it would be wise on my part to drop a veil over the gorgeous spectacle; for like a visit to the Falls of Niagara, the most enlarged description a prudent person ought to indulge in, would be simply, ‘I have seen the Falls;’ so if I were to show my prudence, I should say, ‘I saw the Coronation.’ But how is it possible to refrain from giving expression, however slight and sketchy, to scenes of such unexampled magnificence?
We crossed the river at seven o’clock, and had the advantage of passing through the private residence of one of the principal officers of the House of Commons, and marched on to Westminster Hall without impediment. I had a distinct ticket for the Abbey where I had no duty to perform; and indeed throughout the day it was purely nominal. I had therefore all the advantages of passing and repassing at my own will and discretion, and of paying visits to the Palace-Yard to different friends who had secured places to witness the procession. On first entering that most magnificent of halls, it was impossible not to be struck with its gigantic proportions and superb embellishments. Galleries were erected for the peeresses, foreign ambassadors, and the most distinguished visitors. Admirable arrangements were also made for that portion of the public who had been so fortunate as to procure a Lord Chamberlain’s ticket. Costume also was strictly attended to here, no gentleman being admitted save in full court-suit or military uniform; and the ladies of course shone in all the splendor that gave grace to their lovely forms, and added a native lustre to all the artificial aids which gave such light and brilliancy to the glowing scene.
The monotony of the early part of the morning was relieved by the absurd evolutions of the gentlemen from the cinque-ports who had the privilege of carrying the Canopy of the Cloth of Gold over His Majesty. If truth may be told on state occasions, it must be said that they did not perform their movements with much grace. They were not regularly disciplined troops, but fairly occupied the position of the ‘awkward squad.’ It had the effect, however, of exciting a good deal of merriment; indeed I have seldom seen a rehearsal produce such striking effects. The high and imposing ceremonies of the Church, partaking largely of the grand and mystic formula which belonged to our cathedral service before the Reformation, and which again bids fair, at least partially, to occupy its altars, impressed upon the vast and brilliant assemblage gathered beneath the Gothic roof a mingled feeling of royalty and devotion, which was in former days the very essence of chivalry, and which seemed to have taken new growth in this advanced age, from the associating link of ancient costume, which met the eye at every turn. The austere and solemn silence of the place was lost in the mingled feelings which occupied all hearts; and as the lofty chants of the church swelled into divine melody, a half-breathing, a solemn, suppressed emotion, spoke deeply to the heart of other realms above. It is impossible to hear the loud swell of the organ and exquisite melody of the varieties of the human voice harmoniously blended, and bursting forth together in one loud and glorious song of praise, without feeling that our destiny is more than earthly. It should be taken into consideration that there is a vast multitude on the outside, who are really getting impatient for their part of the pageant. It is true, those who have secured places in the different splendid pavilions erected in the immediate vicinity of the platform, are more at their ease, and with the aid of long purses can indulge in all the luxuries so amply provided by liberal caterers; but still ‘fair play’ is our motto; and we will at once throw open the abbey-doors and marshal forth the most brilliant cortége that ever issued from its sacred walls; the herb-woman, Miss Fellows, and her attendants, strewing the path with flowers, blending the red rose and the white together, symbolical of the fact, that ‘no longer division racked the state,’ but that unreserved allegiance was due to the monarch before them. The excitement of the morning with respect to the Queen had not entirely subsided; and some few greetings must have caught the King’s ear, that were not expressive of unbounded loyalty; but these formed a very slight proportion of the people. Lord Castlereagh came in also for his share of these unseemly greetings; but his noble glance and really majestic appearance; his smile, not of disdain, but which marked an unflinching firmness of resolve; speedily converted their anger into applause. The Duke of York and Prince Leopold excited great interest by their dignified and elegant deportment. The King, as he passed up the hall, was greeted with the most enthusiastic cheering and the waving of handkerchiefs from the élite of both sexes; but he appeared oppressed and worn down with fatigue, in which doubtless anxiety had its portion. His Majesty then retired to an apartment prepared for his reception, to take some repose during the royal banquet.
