the more stirring strain of lively cheering; now
we, who have a good view, glance down to the
great door, where the curtains have been drawn
up, and see the flitting by of many figures
against the daylight. Now, at last, a strong
corps of trumpeters make their instruments
blare—a flourish that echoes down the nave and
floats up again. Now the organ, and the drums,
and trumpets, and voices break out, and one
of the most picturesque processions
conceivable begins to come up slowly; seeming to
gather as it goes by, in magnificence—beginning
with humble retainers, beadles, and vergers,
and sober colours, and becoming gradually
gorgeous and golden. Soldiers, maces, "household"
in the golden robin-redbreast coat; the
"Esquires," great Life-guardsmen and guardsmen,
two to each knight, and the knights
themselves—noblemen of the best blood in
the land, their sky-blue mantles sweeping
behind them, their stars glittering. Then the
genius of the whole—"Ulster"—who rules
the heraldic world, unrivalled in a pageant of
this sort, supported by his two assistants.
No one so skilled in those mysteries—so firm,
yet so courteous. Then the Grand Master,
the stately Viceroy—a true Hamilton—his train
carried by Gainsborough blue boys—three
miniature little noblemen, in slashed satin doublets
and trunks; then the state sword, carried by a
nobleman; then the prince's cloak and sword,
carried by more esquires; then the Postulant
himself, and, finally, the great ladies whom the
English Earl of Shrewsbury, becoming here
"Grand Seneschal of Ireland," has marshalled.
So they continued to pass by for many minutes
into the chapter-room.

Then, after some formalities, they emerge
again; and, to some pretty and dramatic organ
music, the ceremony goes on. Every knight
passes to his stall; in front of him stand his
two esquires, over his head his own banner and
sword. Then the new knight is brought to the
Grand Master, and kneels before him while the
sword is girded on and the blue robe and collar
are adjusted. Other blue mantles cluster
round, and archbishops read the mystic forms.
The most picturesque moment is when the
esquire stands in the middle and unfurls the
knight's gaudy banner, swinging it in defiance,
and the trumpets twang out a cheerful blast,
and Ulster, coming to the front, proclaims the
style and titles of "the most puissant" knight.
Best of heralds!

Then it begins to pass away. The tall knights
and their squires, the little blue pages,
supplemented by more, to bear up the new knight's
train; the dignified Grand Master; the three
brilliant ladies in snowy white; the pale lady in
deep blue, who is most of all interested, vanish
in succession. It seems like a soft dream, and we
are sorry the spell has been broken. It looks
like going back to a mediæval time; yet there
were few there to whom it seemed such. With
so much poetry going out of the world, it was
pleasant to have such a relic left. Even a
doctrinaire would have been moved. It may have
disturbed the grim ghost of the great dead dean.
But to the crowd, Celtic and perfervid, it was
deeply and poetically interesting.

EASTER MONDAY AT PORTSMOUTH.

IT is not a pleasant thing to go to bed knowing
that by four o'clock next morning you must
not only be up and dressed, but actually at a
railway station which is some two and a half
miles off. It is not pleasant to wake again and
again, as I did on the night of last Easter
Sunday, each time believing that you have over-
slept yourself, and that you will be too late for
the train by which, and by which only, you have
any chance of getting a place. It is still further
from pleasant—no matter how much you may
"make believe" that it is not unpleasant—to get
up at three A.M. on a cold north-windy morning,
to dress as best you can by candlelight, to break
your fast upon some coffee which is half cold,
half sediment, and wholly bad. Least of all is
it pleasant to find yourself at four A.M. shivering
on the platform of the Victoria Station,
and to find out that, what between the military
and the volunteer authorities, you, being a mere
civilian, have no more chance of getting away
by the train which you suffered so much to
be in time for, than you have of being made
Archbishop of Canterbury or Lord Mayor of
London.

May every blessing through life attend upon
that railway official—I don't know whether he
was a simple porter, or the station-master, or
the chairman of the Board of Directors, but a
man in authority over others (saying to this
guard, "Come," and he came, and to that
driver, " Go," and he went)—may every blessing
in life, and, as a Spaniard once added to
me, "the advantages of a happy death," attend
upon that man. He saw my forlorn, unbrushed-
up, and non-volunteer appearance, and asked
me whether I was not "a gentleman connected
with the press," to which I replied, with a
most unblushing untruth, that I was. He then
hustled me forward, pushed me back, shoved
me to the right, pulled me to the left, spoke some
words to a very pompous military man (all
cocked-hat and Piccadilly weepers), who looked
at me as if I was many degrees more inferior
than nothing, and at last got me into a first-
class railway carriage, into which then poured
five gallant volunteers, with their muskets,
pouch-boxes, havresacks, and heaven knows
what besides. And a more cheery set of
travelling companions it was never my lot to
journey with. They all seemed to know each
other, and, although evidently surprised at
my being amongst them, were as kind and
hearty as if I had been one of themselves.
They asked me no questions.—I believe they
took me to be some railway magnate going down
with them to see that everything was properly
managed. And as they did not interrogate me,
I did the same by them. I did not even ask
them the name of their corps. One or two of