In the afternoon we attended St. George's Chapel. In one of the stalls we saw again that sadly noble lion-face--no one ever mistakes Gladstone. He sat wrapped in the deepest meditation. He is very pale, haggard, and careworn--the weight of empire upon him!
"I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs, When this snow melteth there shall come a flood."
I could not help applying to him Milton's lines:
... "with grave Aspect he rose, and in his rising seem'd A pillar of state: deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat and public care; And princely counsel in his face yet shone, Majestic though in ruin."
He has work to do yet. If he were only fifty instead of seventy odd! Well, God bless him for what he has done; may he rule England long!
A memorable event occurred at Windsor, Sunday, June 19th--the Queen Dowager reached her seventy-first year. At breakfast Mr. B. rose, and addressing himself to her, made one of the sweetest, prettiest speeches ever heard. He presented to her an exquisite silver cup, ornamented with birds and flowers, and inscribed: "Presented to Mrs. M. C. at Windsor, by the members of the coaching-party, upon her seventy-first birthday." Mr. B.'s reference to her intense love of nature in all its glorious forms, from the tiny gowan to the extended landscape, was most appropriate.
We were completely surprised; and when the speaker concluded, the Scribe was about to rise and respond, but a slight motion from Her Majesty apprized him that she preferred to reply in person. She acquitted herself grandly. Her speech was a gem (Mem.--it was so short). After thanking her dear friends, she said:
"I can only wish that you may all have as good health, as complete command of all your faculties, and enjoy flowers and birds and all things of nature as much as I do at seventy-one." Here the voice trembled. There were not many dry eyes. The quiver ran through the party, and without another word the Queen sat slowly down. I was very, very proud of that seventy-year old (I am often that), and deeply moved, as she was, by this touching evidence of the regard of the coaching-party for her.
This incident led to some funny stories about presentation speeches. Upon a recent occasion, not far from Paisley, Aggie told us, a worthy deacon had been selected to present a robe to the minister. The church was crowded, and the recipient stood expectantly at the foot of the pulpit, surrounded by the members of his family. Amid breathless silence the committee entered and marched up the aisle, headed by the deacon bearing the gift in his extended arms. On reaching the pulpit a stand was made, but never a word came from the deacon, down whose brow the perspiration rolled in great drops. He was in a daze, but a touch from one of the committee brought him back to something like a realizing sense of his position, and he stammered out, as he handed the robe to the minister: