Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, May 31, 1890

The line of carriages bound for Buckingham Palace is moving by slow stages down the Drive. A curious but not uncritical crowd, consisting largely of females, peer into the carriages as they pass, and derive an occult pleasure from a glimpse of a satin train and a bouquet. Other spectators circulate behind them, roving from carriage to carriage, straining and staring in at the occupants with the childlike interest of South Sea Islanders. The coachmen and footmen gaze impassively before them, ignoring the crowd to the best of their ability. The ladies in the carriages bear the ordeal of popular inspection with either haughty resignation, elaborate unconsciousness, or amused tolerance, and it is difficult to say which demeanour provokes the greatest resentment in the democratic breast.
Chorus of Female Spectators. We shall see better here than what we did last Droring-Room. Law, 'ow it did come down, too, pouring the 'ole day. I was that sorry for the poor 'orses!... Oh, that one was nice, Marire! Did you see 'er train?—all flame-coloured satting— lovely ! Ain't them flowers beautiful? Oh, Liza, 'ere's a pore skinny-lookin' thing coming next—look at 'er pore dear arms, all bare! But dressed 'andsome enough.... That's a Gineral in there, see? He's 'olding his cocked 'at on his knee to save the feathers—him and her have been 'aving words, apparently ... Oh, I do like this one. I s'pose that's her Mother with her—well, yes, o' course it may be her Aunt?
A Sardonic Loafer. 'Ullo, 'ere's a 'aughty one! layin' back and puttin' up 'er glorses! Know us agen, Mum, won't you? You may well look—you ain't seen so much in yer ole life as what you're seein' to-day, I 'll lay! Ah, you ought to feel honoured, too, all of us comin' out to look at yer. Drored 'er blind down, this one 'as, yer see—knew she wasn't wuth looking at!
First Comic Cockney. Ow, I s'y—you 'ave come out in bloom, Johnny!
Second C. C. Ah, they've bin forcin' 'im under glorse, they'ave! 'Is Missis 'll never find 'im under all them flowers. Ow, 'e smoiled at me through the brornches!