Chapter XIX.
WELLINGTON.
“Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,
Let the long long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow:
The last great Englishman is low.”
T is a bleak November day in the year 1852. Vast multitudes, most of them in the garb of mourning, throng the streets of London, and stand for hours waiting for a great funeral procession to pass by. The muffled bells of the churches are tolling a knell, cannon are booming their last farewells, buildings are draped with black, the flags fly at half-mast, and all business is suspended. Now you see the long procession approaching, soldiers with reversed arms leading the way, and marching with slow, reluctant step to the roll of drums and the solemn wail of the “Dead March.” Behind them come men representing all the rank, talent, and dignity of Great Britain, as well as the distinguished mourners which foreign sovereigns have sent to represent them on the solemn occasion. Many of the older spectators barely stifle their sobs as a riderless steed is led by, with reversed jack-boots in the stirrups. He who has bestridden this war-charger was well known to them. They remember all his greatness in the past; they recall him as a familiar figure in the streets and in Parliament. But, hush! here is the towering car upon which lies all that remains of him. Every head is bared, and in deep, solemn silence the sad pageant passes.