mayor, with the city mace in hand, the Garter in his coat of arms; and then
Lord William Howard--Belted Will Howard, of the Scottish Border, Marshal of
England. The officers of the queen's household succeeded the marshal in
scarlet and gold, and the van of the procession was closed by the Duke of
Suffolk, as high constable, with his silver wand. It is no easy matter to
picture to ourselves the blazing trail of splendour which in such a pageant
must have drawn along the London streets,--those streets which now we know
so black and smoke-grimed, themselves then radiant with masses of colour,
gold, and crimson, and violet. Yet there it was, and there the sun could
shine upon it, and tens of thousands of eyes were gazing on the scene out
of the crowded lattices.

Glorious as the spectacle was, perhaps however, it passed unheeded. Those
eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew near. In an open
space behind the constable there was seen approaching "a white chariot,"
drawn by two palfreys in white damask which swept the ground, a golden
canopy borne above it making music with silver bells: and in the chariot
sat the observed of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this
glittering homage; fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of
England--queen at last--borne along upon the waves of this sea of glory,
breathing the perfumed incense of greatness which she had risked her fair
name, her delicacy, her honour, her self-respect, to win; and she had won
it.

There she sate, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair flowing loose
over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a light coronet of gold
and diamonds--most beautiful--loveliest--most favoured perhaps, as she
seemed at that hour, of all England's daughters. Alas! "within the hollow
round" of that coronet--

Kept death his court, and there the antick sate,
Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp.
Allowing her a little breath, a little scene
To monarchise, be feared, and kill with looks,
Infusing her with self and vain conceit,
As if the flesh which walled about her life
Were brass impregnable; and humoured thus,
Bored through her castle walls; and farewell, Queen.

Fatal gift of greatness! so dangerous ever! so more than dangerous in those
tremendous times when the fountains are broken loose of the great deeps of
thought; and nations are in the throes of revolution;--when ancient order
and law and tradition are splitt