clothes with a scene-shifter inside them—just
as we know that every necklace or diadem that
one saw was a thing of actual value such as
it looked, and not a composition of bits of glass
with coloured tinsel behind them.

It was a sort of combined sensation of getting
married, of going to the play, of standing
godfather, and simply going to church, all mixed
up together, with a suspicion of morning
concert, and a faint dash of flower-show. Here
were ladies in opera-cloaks—it must be a play
we were going to see; but they had smart
bonnets on—it was a morning concert. No, we
were standing in a Gothic porch, and there were
pinnacles, and trefoils, and other ecclesiastical
ornaments, in all directions—we were going to
church; but then none of us had prayer-books,
and several, on the other hand, carried opera-
glasses. At any rate, we were all jammed close
together waiting at a door, which was not yet
opened, and we were complaining that our feet
were very cold, and that the carriages which
continued to set down fresh arrivals every moment
were pressing much too closely on us. Yet, with
all this close packing and dim suggestion of a pit
entrance on the occasion of some popular
performance, it was evident that we were in good
company; for a little lady alongside me was
murmuring in a soft tone the words, "It's Lady
Jane;" and an old gentleman accompanying the
little lady responded eagerly, "Is she looking
this way?" and the little lady replied despondently,
"Not just now;" and a moment afterwards
began to nod and smile maniacally,
whereupon the old gentleman asked feverishly,
"Did she see you?" and the little lady replied,
"Yes;" and they both remained breathless with
joy from that time until the moment when the
door in front of us was opened, and we moved
on at last, and found ourselves after all in a
church—a church with a carpet on the floor
though, and between the columns of the nave
rows of seats, rising one above another, and
covered with red cloth. Soon we were all
distributed over these seats, and eagerly watching
the proceedings of certain gentlemen in blue
coats, with stand-up collars all over gold; and of
certain other gentlemen, who ingeniously
combined two different periods in their costume—
their upper halves being clad in dress-coats and
white chokers of our own period, and their lower
halves resembling the extremities of the
Reverend Mr. Sterne, deceased. These gentlemen
appeared to have a great deal on their minds,
and were continually disappearing behind a
curtain which hung over the western entrance
of the chapel in which we were seated, and
reentering with countenances suggestive of a great
deal—though what, it would be difficult to say
with precision. In due time their position was
considerably strengthened by a detachment of
beefeaters, each of whom courageously took
charge of one of the pillars which supported
the roof, with an evident determination to stand
or fall by it. Nor was it long before the scene
was further enlivened by the appearance of some
gentlemen who rather resembled the knaves in
a pack of cards, and these personages were also
somewhat given to a polyglot view of costume,
combining the herald's tabard of the fourteenth
century with the trouser of 1863, and the shirt
collar of 1825. However, it was all very
imposing and grand, and what followed was
wondrously free from defect, unaffected, and real.

There is no doubt that the effect of what was
to come was much brightened by the long, long
interval which elapsed between the time when
we took our places on each side of that carpeted
central avenue, and the moment when the little
knot of trumpeters assembled at the curtain
suddenly stepped aside, at the command of one
among them who had been peeping behind the
drapery. A moment afterwards, a hand came
from between the curtains and motioned
impatiently to the men whose office it was to
undraw them.

They opened, and the wedding guests passed
slowly and separately along in order. There
was no music, no flourish of trumpets, no
announcement even of names or titles. It would
be idle to speak of this preliminary procession.
There were bright jewels and splendid
garments, and gallant gentlemen and noble
gentlewomen to grace them. We who stood by
to look were all perfectly quiet, and the carpeted
floor gave no sound of footfall, and so this band
of guests in bright clothing passed on in silence
the completest that can be imagined, and
ascending the steps that led into the choir of
the chapel, presently disappeared from view.

That curtain, covering the western entrance
of the building, fell as the last guest passed
before us; but it was anxiously watched; for
the procession next expected was one of more
interest than the last. Indeed, the arrangement
of these four processions, though entirely natural,
was also organised as if with a view to dramatic
effect: each in succession exceeding in interest
that which preceded it. When we had waited
a little time after the company of guests had
passed, the trumpeters formed into line, two
and two. For this next procession the
trumpeters were to head, playing a flourish as they
led the way in front. They were followed
by the heralds, and by the different members of
the Queen's household, a long array of equerries
and ushers and kings of arms—and then came
the Princess Mary of Cambridge.

There are some people in this world whom
everybody likes. There are some people of
whom the public knows next to nothing, to
whose side it goes over almost without consideration.
They have never courted approbation,
never in any way "stooped to conquer," nor had
recourse to artful practices in order to win
applause. But somehow or other we feel that
those whom we have elected our favourites are
what are familiarly called people of the right
sort. We feel sure of them. We know that
if an occasion came when something right had
to be done, they would do it, and do it without
grudging. It is so with the lady I have
mentioned. When the Princess Mary appears