or Judge Jeffreys figured? Should we disguise
our contempt as Harry the Eighth strode
onward to plight his troth for the fourth or fifth
time, or as the Second Charles passed along,
surrounded by worthless court favourites and court
panders? Would the arrogant strut and defiant
looks of the nobles of Henry's court impress us?
Should we look with approval on the ladies
who surrounded the Merry Monarch when he
came abroad? Nay, to come down to later
times, what should we have to say to another
merry monarch who flourished much more
recently, and held his sway when some of us were
young? What should we say to him who last
held the prince's plume? Should we call him
the first gentleman in Europe now?

Be the cause what it may, and the influence
that has brought the thing about whose it may,
the thing is certain, that we live in an age when
to excel in riot and debauchery is no longer a
claim on men's esteem and favour; in an age
when to pursue a straight course—which is
difficult—is universally creditable; and when
to pursue a crooked course—which is easy—
is universally discreditable; an age when men
must earn our respect if they would enjoy
popularity, and must win a victory over themselves
before they win the approbation of the people.

But stop—away with even the remembrance
of those bad "old times." Let us clear our
memory even of the recollections which have
been haunting us. Let the very mention of the
Merry Monarch be hushed. Let me forget even
the name of the bloated king who made the
headsman judge in his Divorce Court, and who
stepped over the corpse of one wife to take the
hand of another at the altar. For behold! the
curtain—that curtain which has had so much to
do to-day—is parted once again, and the
procession of the Bride appears.

I have never seen—I question whether any one
has ever seen—anything to equal the intense
subdued feeling of that assembly of persons when
those curtains opened for the fourth time. I
question whether any one saw even the first part
of this procession, or heard the sound of the braying
trumpets at the head of it; there was expectancy,
and nothing else, until the moment came
when, quite slowly and softly, the Princess of
Denmark, with a cluster of ladies around her,
appeared in the western doorway. Her
progress was so slow, that she seemed at first to be
standing there for a moment motionless, though
she was moving all the time, no doubt.

You have had enough of description of this
young lady's personal appearance, and doubtless
by this time her portraits have penetrated
even to where you are residing. So I shall not
attempt that perfectly hopeless performance—
the description of a face. Indeed, on occasions
like this, separate features are for the most part
as little defined before one as separate articles
of attire. People saw a sort of large and soft
nest of some undefined white substance; they
saw a ring of ladies with rich white drapery
held in the midst among them, and one a
little out of that circle and in advance of the
rest; they saw rosebuds, and lace, and white
flowers, and green leaves intermingled with them.
They were struck by a face that was very pale
and full of a sort of awe and wonder, but the
face of no ordinary bride, not simply a timid
shrinking girl, but one with character, distinctive
of her own, conscious that hers was a most
marked and uncommon lot; prepared, if I
mistake not, to act a great part greatly, and
something awe-struck to find that at nineteen years
of age she was no longer a young girl, but a
woman singled out and marked from among the
millions on the earth as one to whom a most
special destiny was assigned. There was this
look surely. There is always something very
much the reverse of gay about a wedding, though
people will talk of "gay weddings" nevertheless.
Attaching to the bride there is always a
sense of an indefinite romance, which mingles
with the admiration of those who see her
pass along. There is something of the votive
offering about her appearance as decorated
with garlands, and accompanied like Jephthah's
daughter by the maidens, her companions, she
goes on her way to the altar.

Was it physical weakness, the result of great
agitation; was it that the company might see
better her whom they had come to see; or was it
some singular tact and instinct teaching this lady
what was right—which of these things was it that
caused her to move along the chapel nave so very,
very slowly? I believe no one expected this. By
none of those who had preceded the princess in
the other processions, had they been taught to
expect it. I think it took every one by surprise,
and I think there was no one present who did
not feel the effect of that slowness of progress
which carried the Bride so gradually and with
such almost imperceptible movement past them.
Once or twice, and more particularly as she
neared the steps that led into the choir, she
seemed to pause altogether, and then she was
seen for a moment at the other end of the church
passing behind the screen, to appear no more as
the Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Over the whole of this, there was a subtle
influence shed by the foregoing story at which we
have already glanced. When the young princesses
went through the entrance that led into the
choir; when the Prince of Wales ascended
those steps; when the Bride passed out of
sight; they all looked to that opening in the
wall from which the lady dressed in mourning
watched the scene; and, as they looked, they did
obeisance to her love and her sorrow. Surely,
remembering all these things, this was a remarkable
and touching scene, and one that justified
the enthusiasm with which those who stood by
regarded it. On all, no doubt, whether they
could see it or not, that dark figure had an
unconscious influence, and in every heart was
reflected, to some extent at least, the shadow on
the chancel wall.

Upon us who waited outside in silence, the
faint sound of the voice of him who administered
those solemn vows to the Prince and
Princess, had a strange and mysterious