By nine o’clock, the route along which the procession is to pass is the most thickly populated part of the globe that I have yet seen. The broad sidewalks and streets are a solid mass of humanity. The large parks, sometimes covering acres, are filled with men, women and children, packed to suffocation. The streets, steps, verandas, windows, and housetops are all filled. At 9:30, all are driven out of the streets proper, crowded back on the sidewalks, into the lanes, by-ways, open squares, and public parks along the route. Persons on the opposite sidewalks face each other. Just in front of the crowd, close back to the curb-stone on either side, stands a line of large, able-bodied policemen, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, the two lines facing each other.
In front of the police force, is a line of armed infantry, standing at “attention,” with fixed bayonets. Still in front of these, is stationed a line of cavalrymen, all splendidly dressed and well mounted. Each has a gun and a pistol buckled to his saddle, and a glittering sabre in his hand. Thus the whole route, extending for miles and miles, is flanked on either side by three columns of armed men. Buntings of every color, and the flags of all nations, are fluttering in the breeze. The richest floral designs that art can fashion, or that money can purchase, adorn the way. The route is lined from end to end with wealth, beauty, and chivalry of the English Isles. See! Far in the distance the royal trumpeters are coming, on black chargers, flourishing their golden trumpets, and shouting to the expectant multitude, “The Queen is coming!” The shout is taken up and repeated by a thousand times a thousand voices: “The Queen is coming! The Queen is coming!” The enthusiastic cries come rolling down the avenue like waves on the ocean. It strikes the fibres of every heart. The electric current flashes along the whole line—every man feels the shock. The welkin rings with deafening cheers.
CHAPEL OF HENRY VII, WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
The procession itself defies description. It consists of some fifty or sixty regal carriages all filled with royal personages—kings, queens, and crown princes. Each carriage is drawn by four—some of them by eight—large horses wearing silver-mounted harness. Each carriage is attended by thirty life-guards, well mounted, and armed to the teeth. The Queen’s escort consists of thirty royal princes. The procession passes on to Westminster Abbey, and there, in the presence of the congregated royalty of earth, Victoria is crowned Queen of England and of India, after having been fifty years a sovereign.
Every civilized nation under heaven has contributed to the pageantry of this occasion. For the last half century, Victoria has been weaving for herself a crown which the nations of the earth do this day rejoice to place upon her brow. She has magnified her office. Is she jealous? it is of her honor. Is she ambitious? it is for the glory of her country. Is she proud? it is of what her people have accomplished. Is she mighty? it is to succor the oppressed. She is exalted, yet humble; dignified, yet courteous; a sovereign, yet a willing subject of the lowly Nazarene. Elizabeth is called England’s greatest queen; but Victoria is, unquestionably, her best. And,
“Howe’er it be, it seems to me
’Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.”
The Victorian era will be known to posterity as “the golden period of English history.” Victoria has been a mother to her children and a benefactor to her people. She has developed her country, advanced the arts and sciences, and founded hospitals and asylums. May the good Queen live long to rule righteously, to glorify motherhood, and adorn her palace with Christian virtues. And may the angel of peace long guard her realms!