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T I LONDON'S SORROW, i I I UNPARALLELED GRIEF. An esteemed correspondent favours us with the following description of the scenes of mourning in the Metropolis on Friday and Saturday :—A black City-that was the first idea as we wandered through the streets of London on Friday-black on the people's clothes, black in the shop windows, black shutters to the shops, black on the whips of every cab, cart, and omnibus driver that passes, black everywhere one could see, and not only that, but, as was said in one of the great daily papers, crape upon Her people's hearts." Everywhere the signs of mourning were to be seen, from the flags floating half-mast high to the white and violet flowers in the street- sellers' baskets, until at last the feeling becomes almost too intense, and we, and all the hundreds we meet, seem to be engaged in one vast funeral, as indeed we are, for is not I to-morrow the day on which all that is mortal of our best beloved Qaeen is to be taken to its last resting-place at Windsor, the home and sepulchre of Kings ? And so, full of sad, regretful thoughts, we drift on and find our- selves almost without knowing in St. James's- street, but here a change comes o'er the spirit of our dream! True, the same black crowds are here, but the houses are hung, in obedience to the Kingly Chief Mourner, with imperial purple, a fitting tribute to Her who has been the greatest Ruler that ever ruled. And so it is all along the line that the procession is to pass, every house is draped in that glorious colour, and the wreaths of evergreens, made by countless will- ing hands and hung on every lamp post, shew fresh and green against that vivid background, and one's thoughts are lifted from the black depths of boundless sorrow for our loss to the splendour of the past reign and of the life-work ? which is now finished. And then its last aars- ness falls on the great city, united as never before, in one great sorrowful expectation of the morrow. And the morrow comes at last—intensely cold and sunless, but without the dreaded fog— and very early we find ourselves among the countless numbers, all clad in deepest black, that fill the streets, all hurrying in one J direction, and nearly all grave and quiet and awestruck. No words can describe and no numbers adequately portray the countless multitudes that throng the way along which the funeral cortege is to pass. Enough to say, that as far as the eye can see, from a balcony overlooking the park, there stretches one vast mass. increasing every moment as the hours roll by, but orderly and for the most part quiet. So we waited in the bitter cold, and as j the first minute gun boomed out its intima- tion the procession had started, the sun shone out and thousands of Her subjects J re-called how it had always shone for Her great j ceremonials and appearances among Her people. But ala.s She will never more make one of Her royal progresses among us, and as if to mark this, a cloud passed over the sungand we saw it no more. Sullenly the guns boomed on, every minute telling a year of her life, and as they did so, a hush tell on the multitudes. And now the head of the procession is seen approaching, and there pass before us an imposing array, every branch of the Army and Navy being represented. In solemn silence they march slowly by, and as from our point of vantage no sound is heard, th-iv seem like some ghostly procession of I departed heroes. There is little colour in these cloaked figures; but bye-and-bye the Life Guard3 make welcome splashes of red, and among the foreign attaches are seen strange and gorgeous uniforms. But the tension is growing greater, for now the wail of Beethoven's Funeral March is heard in the distance, and the roll of muffled drums. One figure is dis- tinguished—Lord Roberts riding alone, except for an attendant horseman-and then, far in the distance, the eye catches the gleam of white, and gold, and red, and the supreme moment is come. Slowly passes all that is mortal of the great Queen, drawn for the last time by the historic cream coloured horses, one mass of gold and red trappings. And as we gazed at the little coffin, covered with a white pall in memory of her stainless life, with the Royal Standard laid on it, and the crown, orb, and sceptre, emblems of Her Qaeenly state, thoughts crowded through our minds, too deep even for tears—memories of the glorious pageants in which she had been the centre of the loving enthusiasm of thousands; memories of Her Imperial State and Majesty—and now, in obedience to the call which comes alike to Queen and peasant, only this little coffin borne onwards in the Majesty of Death. We saw nothing of that glittering throng of Kings and Princes which followed as chief mourners. Long after the last of the procession had passed, and we had found our way sorrowfully homewards, our gaze seemed to see only this-the last passing of Queen Victoria through Her loving people, and, perhaps, in the long years of Her great reign, it has here been shewn so supremely how she possessed the hearts of Her people, as when Her dead body passed between silent and sorrow- ing and weeping multitudes, to where it will rest, side by side with Her beloved husband, until the day breaks and the shadows flee away.