By Charles Palmer

All the national pride and the power, the love of country, the growth of Empire, the loyalty, and the kinship which has characterised the reign of Queen Victoria, was exemplified or expressed in the memorable events that marked the Sixtieth Anniversary of Her Majesty’s Accession to the Throne. To tell the story of those days of joyous enthusiasm, which culminated in the triumphal progress of the Sovereign to London’s Cathedral of St. Paul’s on 22nd June 1897, is to write the record of a time of unexampled rejoicing throughout the Empire, and of scenes of pomp and splendour in the British Capital such as perhaps the world, and certainly England, had never before witnessed.

To attempt to trace the inception of so unique and historic a celebration would be impossible. It had no discernible beginning. The spirit of loyalty to the Throne, of love and devotion towards its illustrious occupant, had grown with advancing years, keeping pace with the artistic, the material, and the moral development of the Victorian Era.

On 23rd September 1896 Her Majesty’s reign had exceeded that of any other English monarch, George III., whose fourth son, Edward Duke of Kent, was the father of the Queen, having died in the fifty-ninth year of his occupancy of the throne. It was the Queen’s expressed desire, however, that the national rejoicing which would naturally signalise so auspicious a day should be postponed until the sixtieth anniversary of her accession. As soon as the Royal wish in this regard was made known, spontaneous preparations commenced over all her vast Empire with a view to celebrating in a manner worthy the nation and the nation’s Sovereign so great and glorious a reign. Side by side with extension of Empire there had been the growth of Imperial sentiment among the masses of the English people, and of love for the mother-country on the part of her Colonial sons. The invitation to the Premiers of Australia, Canada, the Cape, New Zealand, and Newfoundland to visit England and take a personal share in the national celebration was one which consequently met with a ready and hearty response. They were to bring with them representatives of the fighting forces of the Colonies and Dependencies—of the brave fellows who were helping to maintain that Greater Britain beyond the seas—and were to come as guests of the nation. They came, and they brought with them something else more valuable than all—the desire for closer union and for a united defence. Canada, through its Premier, Mr. Laurier, unfolded a scheme of preferential tariffs for the commerce of the mother-country; and Sir Gordon Sprigg carried with him the request that Cape Colony should be permitted to contribute towards the maintenance of the Imperial Navy—proofs of practical loyalty which none could mistake.

In England and in the capital it was felt that some good work should be inaugurated which might form a lasting memorial of a memorable time, and at the right moment the Prince of Wales broached a scheme for freeing the great London hospitals from debt, and providing these voluntary institutions with a more sufficient income—a proposal that at once received support from all sections of the people.

There was yet another scheme which owed its origin to the kindly thought of a member of the Royal Family, one that awoke responsive feelings in every heart, for it was the poor of London whom the gracious Princess of Wales considered above all others. She wrote, on 29th April 1897, from Marlborough House, to the Chief Magistrate of the City, urging that “in the midst of the many schemes and preparations for the commemoration of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, when everybody comes forward on behalf of some good cause,” it seemed to her “one class had been overlooked, namely, the poorest of the poor in the slums of London.” The Princess pleaded that the poor beggars and outcasts “should be provided with a dinner or substantial meal” during the week of the 22nd of June, and headed the subscription list with £100.

As the historic 22nd of June drew nearer, London put on the gayest and brightest attire. From every house-top and window floated the Union Jack, or fluttered flags and bunting, while on the line of route mapped out for the triumphal progress of the Sovereign decorations had been arranged on a scale of beauty and magnificence never equalled in the history of the capital. Wherever timber could be safely fashioned into temporary seats, there stands had been erected,—some of immense size holding as many as five thousand persons, others of towering height, some on roofs of Government offices, and some resting against sides of church steeples, or built on the few vacant spots to be found amid the bricks and mortar of an overcrowded city. For days the streets were thronged with eager sightseers from all parts of England, from Europe and America. Foreign Princes, distinguished Ambassadors, and special Envoys arrived at the invitation of the Sovereign and the Government; there is feasting and jubilation, and London for once at any rate is the gayest of gay cities.

Sunday 20th June 1897, the Sixtieth Anniversary of the Queen’s Accession to the Throne, was observed as a day of general Thanksgiving throughout the country. In the morning Her Majesty, attended by many of her children, went to St. George’s, Windsor, to return thanks in the historic chapel of the Castle for all the blessings and glories of her reign. In London the members of the House of Peers were present in their robes of scarlet and ermine in Westminster Abbey; Her Majesty’s “faithful Commons” went to the Church of St. Margaret’s, near neighbour to the Abbey; and the Judges attended St. Paul’s Cathedral, at which the Prince and Princess of Wales were also worshippers.

When Commemoration Day broke, dull and cloudy, London was already awake; and thousands were pouring in from the suburbs to take their places on the line of route, the privileged on seats and stands, the rest by the roadside. Those who had slept out in the open in St. James’s Park, anxious to be the first to greet their Sovereign on this auspicious day, saw the Royal Standard floating under the gray sky and above Buckingham Palace, where the Queen had passed the night. Soon there is life and movement behind the great gates, a passing to and fro of servants in brilliant scarlet liveries, and the coming of Royal carriages bringing the distinguished guests who are to ride in the Royal procession. The crowds grow denser under the line of trees standing out in the green perspective of the Park; as the morning wears on, although there is no sun, the heat becomes stifling and oppressive. There is the marching and counter-marching of troops to the sounds of military music, the slow approach of those “war-worn veterans,” the pensioners of Chelsea Hospital, for whom kindly forethought has provided benches within the Palace gates, and the hurrying here and there of Court functionaries and Chiefs of Police, until, just as Big Ben, in the Clock Tower of the House of Commons, chimes out the first quarter after nine, the strains of the National Anthem herald the approach of the Colonial procession. It had been so arranged that these sturdy representatives of the guardians of peace and power over-sea should be the first to reach the Cathedral, there to line the roadways, so as to be able to gaze upon the Queen’s cortege as it went by and then to fall in behind; thus not only seeing, but ultimately participating in, the Sovereign’s progress.

Cheers rend the air as, by way of the tree-shaded Mall, comes this mighty force of Empire personified, this moving column from the greatest volunteer army the world has ever seen. Men in red coats, men in blue, soldiers in the serviceable Kharki, men with glistening helmets, or with turbans, carrying guns or holding lances,—the stern Zaptiehs from Cyprus, the diminutive and yellow-skinned Dyaks from North Borneo, the troops from Hong-Kong in their curious hats sitting like mushrooms on their heads, those big-limbed fighters the Hausas and the Maoris, the handsome forms of the Australian troopers, the Cape Mounted Rifles (fit bodyguard for the Colony’s Premier), the Rhodesian Horse, whose participation in the recent troubles in South Africa secures for them a cheer of particular heartiness,—men from Natal, from Canada, from every quarter where the British flag flies and the English tongue is heard, move along between the unbroken lines of a joyous people, ready to acclaim them brothers in patriotism and loyalty as well as by blood and the ties of race.

It is a stirring scene, one which makes the pulse beat faster, and the face flush with pride and excitement. But a greater and a grander is yet to come. While these brave sons are on their way to St. Paul’s, the Queen is preparing for her historic and triumphal progress along the same gaily-decked streets, now packed with a moving mass of loyal people. There is but a short interval of increased expectancy between the passing of the Colonials and the appearance of the front of the military pageant which is to accompany Her Majesty to the steps of the Cathedral, where praise and thanksgiving are to be rendered to an Almighty God for the blessings of an unparalleled reign.

It is the British Army in miniature, at the head of which, by desire of the Prince of Wales, rides the tallest man in the service, Captain O. Ames of the Life Guards, proud of his six feet eight inches, and having as an escort four troopers of exceptional stature. Blue-jackets dragging their naval guns are followed by detachments of Cavalry regiments; and then in imposing array, in what seems to be a never-ending line, mounted men pass in review—Hussars, Dragoons, Lancers, and Horse Artillery—with bands playing and pennants flying, and high above the martial music rises the proud cheers of a people justly glorying in this spectacle of military strength.

With the appearance of the foreign suite, aides-de-camp, equerries, and gentlemen in attendance on the Royal personages, the procession gains in stateliness and colour, every nation contributing its distinctive and gorgeous uniforms, making up a moving picture of unequalled splendour as these high dignitaries, some hundreds in number, precede the first of the Royal carriages. In these latter are seated the special Envoys of Greece and Central America, Mexico and Brazil, Chang Yin Hun, the Chinese Ambassador, in handsome Eastern robes; Mr. Whitelaw Reid, the United States special Ambassador, affording a contrast amid all this magnificence by the plainness of his black coat and prosaic silk hat. Next follow the great Officers of State and yet more carriages containing Royal Princesses, the Queen’s children and her children’s children, Princesses from every Court in Europe, and the widowed daughters of Her Majesty—the Empress Frederick, whose beloved consort formed so noble a figure in the other procession ten years earlier, and Princess Henry of Battenberg, discarding for this joyous day her sombre attire and dressed in white. Sixteen carriages, all drawn by four horses, richly caparisoned and with postillions, serve to carry this noble company. Next come the Royal Princes and representatives, mounted and riding three abreast, the Duke of Fife and the Marquis of Lorne being among the first of this exalted group, which numbers forty in all, and includes in its later ranks the Prince of Naples, Prince Albert of Prussia, the Grand Duke Serge of Russia, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary, and the Grand Duke of Hesse, all present to do honour to England’s Queen.

An escort of Indian Cavalry, richly dressed and splendidly horsed, follows, and then there is a slight break in the procession, for the seventeenth and last carriage is that containing the beloved Sovereign on whom all thoughts and hearts are centred.

Elaborate arrangements had been made so that Her Majesty, just before leaving Buckingham Palace, might send a simultaneous message to her subjects throughout the world, and these are the words, simple but sincere, which were transmitted over the private wire from the Palace to the Central Telegraph Department in St. Martins-le-Grand, thence to be flashed to the farthest corner of the British Empire:—“From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless them. V.R. & I.”

Let history record the fact, happy and significant as it is. During all that parade of military pomp and Royal splendour the sun had been hidden behind a haze of clouds, but at 11.15, just as a gun mounted in the Park booms the signal that the Queen is passing from under the portals of Buckingham Palace, there is a sudden burst of brilliant sunshine, which illumines that scene of inspiring grandeur and spreads itself over the carriage in which is seated Her Majesty, the Princess of Wales, and Princess Christian. Cheers burst forth from countless loyal throats, mingling with the strains of the National Anthem, as the Queen’s carriage is drawn along by eight cream-coloured horses, covered with trappings of crimson and gold, ridden by richly-apparelled postilions, and attended by grooms in gold-embroidered livery.

In front rides the Commander-in-Chief, Viscount Wolseley, his breast ablaze with decorations. On the right of the Royal carriage are the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Connaught, and on the left the veteran Duke of Cambridge, chief personal aide-de-camp to Her Majesty. In the rear is carried the Royal Standard, and following are high Court Officials, the Queen’s Colonial bodyguard, a squadron of Horse Guards, a troop of Life Guards, and a detachment of the Royal Irish Constabulary.

In Pall Mall the reception is one of exceptional loyalty and enthusiasm. “Clubland” is decorated with a richness and profusion testifying, as surely as do the shouts of welcome which greet the Royal progress, that in the ranks of wealth and fashion are to be found some of Her Majesty’s most devoted subjects. The chorus of acclamation is passed on by the crowds thronging the roadside, and is taken up by the Peers and County Councillors seated on immense stands in front of and facing the National Gallery.

At last Temple Bar, the boundary of the City, is reached, and here waits the Lord Mayor in Civic State, ready to offer fealty to his Sovereign by rendering up that famous pearl-hilted sword which Queen Elizabeth presented to the Corporation. The Royal carriage passes the Law Courts, where the learned judges and lawyers raise cries of welcome, and comes to a stand just within the City precincts, on the north side of the memorial which marks the site of the old City gates. Bowing low, with grace and deference the Chief Magistrate with both hands presents the sword. The Queen bends over the side of her carriage, lightly touches the emblem of authority, and, with a smile and softly-spoken words, once more consigns it to the Lord Mayor’s keeping. With an agility which the Queen good-humouredly remarks to the Prince of Wales, the Chief Magistrate, still wearing a long gold-embroidered robe of purple velvet, mounts his horse and, bare-headed, rides off towards the Mansion-House, sword in hand, while the people applaud approvingly.

Then the Royal procession continues on its way along Fleet Street, and thence to Ludgate Hill, with its choice decorations of bright purples and delicate greens, its hanging garlands, its laurel festoons, and its gaily-bedecked masts.

Here is the very apotheosis of all the splendour and magnificence of the day; for, as that mighty cavalcade surrounding and accompanying Queen Victoria reaches the summit of the hill, its stateliness and beauty is rivalled by such a picture of ecclesiastical pomp and circumstance, of grandeur and dignity, as was never before witnessed in connection with the rites of the Established Church. The solemn act of worship and thanksgiving is to be performed in the broad open space outside St. Paul’s, and on the steps leading to the west door of the Cathedral are grouped the highest dignitaries of the Church, in all their wealth of ornate vestments, waiting to receive the Sovereign; while gathered around are the military band and immense surpliced choir, a brilliant company of distinguished guests, including the Premier of England and the members of the Imperial Government, soldiers in brave array, and yeomen of the guard in their picturesque attire, a front line of splendid uniforms being formed by the corps of gentlemen-at-arms in their crimson cloth coats heavy with bullion adornments, their burnished helmets with nodding plumes of white, holding in hand richly-chased halberts.

From the outset of her reign the Queen showed her interest in the first line of defence of her island kingdom, and repeatedly held Royal reviews at Spithead. The most noteworthy of these were in 1856, at the close of the Crimean War, when Britain’s sea-power was displayed in 254 vessels of all sizes—the last occasion when “the wooden walls of Old England” took a prominent part; and in 1887, the Jubilee year, when it was believed that the iron bulwarks of Britain’s shores had attained their ultimate strength and power. Great as was the fleet then shown to Her Majesty’s Royal guests and her gratified people, it was weak compared with the vast array of 26th June 1897, when no fewer than a hundred and sixty vessels flew their pennants to the breeze, and in combined strength and powers, both of defence and attack, surpassed all other fleets which have ever been gathered together at any one corner of Neptune’s domain. These splendid squadrons, ready at a few days’ notice for mobilisation for active service, should need arise, are independent of the 125 vessels which constitute the British fleets in commission in all parts of the world.

It is the centre of this wondrous throng which furnishes the most striking portion of a gorgeous picture, for here at the foot of the steps stand the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, wearing dark purple copes; the Bishop of London, with a cope of salmon pink and gold, and on his head a skull-cap of cloth of gold; the Bishop of Winchester in a gown of dark velvet; the Dean of Westminster and the Canons of the Abbey attired in their coronation copes of purple velvet with gold devices; and the Dean of St. Paul’s and the Canons enveloped in scarlet copes emblazoned with the sacred monogram “I.H.S.,” surrounded by a halo of gold-embroidered tongues of fire. Here, too, is the Archimandrite of the Greek Church in more sable vestments, and a hat with black hangings descending down the back as far as the waist, a style of head-dress closely resembling that of the Archbishop Antonius of Finland. Behind the open masonry of the western portico sit hundreds of guests on rudely-constructed stands, and in the windows and on the roofs of the large business houses that encroach so near to the Cathedral are assembled thousands of eager spectators.

To this great scene of colour and animation the Queen approaches, amid the plaudits of her people, re-echoed by those assembled at the Cathedral front. A railed space is kept clear, while the one carriage containing the Sovereign passes within the enclosure to the foot of the steps, accompanied by those bearing the Royal Princes and Princesses and noble ladies in attendance.

Again the sun bursts forth in radiant beams as the National Anthem is thundered out by the military bands. A copy of the brief service, in morocco binding, is handed to the Queen, and the choir, assisted by the military bands, breaks out into that song of holy praise, “Te Deum Laudamus.” It is a setting composed for the occasion by Dr. Martin, the Cathedral organist, and the music is full of power and beauty. Subdued are the strains where the notes of praise change to those of prayer; first the male voices are heard in stately unison, and then the bright tones of the boys take up the song, but the whole vocal and instrumental strength joins in overwhelming power for the closing words, “O Lord, in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded.” All stand uncovered while this is sung, and Her Majesty remains seated, holding a white sunshade over her bowed head, but the Princesses by standing up in their carriages participate in this act of Royal Thanksgiving.

With united voices Dean Gregory, the Canons, and Minor Canons of St. Paul’s offer the prayer “O Lord, save our Queen,” to which the great choral force makes answer, “And mercifully hear us when we call upon Thee.” The Lord’s Prayer is recited by the Dean, and then the Bishop of London, standing immediately in front of the Sovereign, invokes the Divine favour—“O Lord, our heavenly Father, we give Thee hearty thanks for the many blessings which Thou hast bestowed upon us during the sixty years of the happy reign of our gracious Sovereign Lady, Queen Victoria. We thank Thee for progress made in knowledge of Thy marvellous works, for increase of comfort given to human life, for kindlier feeling between rich and poor, for wonderful preaching of the Gospel to many nations; and we pray that these and all other Thy gifts may be long continued to us, and our Queen, to the glory of Thy Holy Name, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

An awe-inspiring silence falls over that vast throng as the Archbishop of Canterbury, with hand uplifted and head uncovered, pronounces the Benediction, while the Sovereign, to whom all hearts go out in love and sympathy, bows her venerable head.

Few have remained unmoved spectators of that solemn and impressive scene; but every man turns pale with emotion, and the eyes of the women fill with tears when Dr. Martin, having turned to the mighty numbers which occupy the surrounding buildings, has raised his baton, the signal has been understood, and the populace has risen in one great body to join with the crowned heads, the princes, the statesmen, the bishops, and all the noble and brilliant assembly fronting the Cathedral, in voicing the music of the Old Hundredth.

Little wonder that the beloved Sovereign, seated there in her half-mourning attire in the midst of all that throng of dazzling colour, is overcome with the might and the power of that final outburst of praise and thanksgiving. The tears fall fast down that kindly face, and the hands are seen to tremble.

But there is a greater and a grander scene yet to come. A hush as of death, which succeeds the “Amen” of the grand old hymn, is broken by a cry which at once changes thoughts of worship into shouts of almost frenzied loyalty. “Three Cheers for the Queen.” Whose voice utters this welcome summons?—welcome to feelings bursting for expression, welcome to hearts throbbing in the throat with half-hysterical excitement. Some say it was the Archbishop of Canterbury (Dr. Temple) who gave the call, others that the voice came from the group of foreign princes.

Whoever it was, the word is obeyed with electric power. Stately bishops wave their caps in air, soldiers raise their swords on high, flags and handkerchiefs flutter from the surrounding houses, and with one mighty voice “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” is hurled forth by the great throng.

And what of the Queen, the gracious lady, the centre of all this overwhelming enthusiasm. Her face is pale, but radiant; and, although the tears course down her cheeks, there is a look of inexpressible pride and thankfulness in the Sovereign’s eyes. Her eldest son comes forward to whisper—words maybe of comfort and courage—to his beloved mother, and the Duke of Cambridge also draws nearer to Her Majesty.

“God Save the Queen” is given out by the massed bands and voices, and all the people join in singing. Then there is more joyous cheering, and then the end of the ceremony, so grand and impressive, so heart-stirring, and so wonderful that those who witnessed it are for the moment dazed by its overwhelming effects.

Once more there is movement in the procession, for the Queen has yet to meet countless thousands of her people; and with remarkable precision the great cortege sets out on its way, to the accompaniment of the music of instruments and that grander music, the plaudits of a happy and contented people. The Sovereign is driven through the City, and past the Mansion-House, where the Lord Mayor has already arrived, and where the Lady Mayoress briefly welcomes the Queen and hands her a bouquet of mauve and white orchids in a silver basket. The procession proceeds over the river by way of London Bridge, through the ancient borough of Southwark, the High Street, the Borough Road, and Westminster Bridge Road, over the Thames again, and then under the shadow of the Houses of Parliament, where the “faithful Commons” are assembled on a stand of immense construction, along Parliament Street, across the Horse Guards’ Parade, where, as throughout the whole route, space is kept for the procession by a thin red line of military, ’neath the welcome shade of Mall’s avenue of trees, to the massive entrance gates of Buckingham Palace.

Following is the order of that portion of the Procession known as the “Queen’s Procession”:—

It is calculated that considerably over a million persons saw the Royal procession, but so admirable was the conduct and the temper of the vast multitude that the accidents along the six miles of route were comparatively insignificant, and no loss of life was recorded.

At night the Queen gave a State Banquet to her royal and distinguished guests at Buckingham Palace. London was brilliantly illuminated with gas and electric devices, and on all the highest eminences of England bonfires were lighted, forming a ring of fire round the coast. More than a hundred of these joyous beacons could be counted from the Malvern heights, and some seventy blazed on the heights discernible from the top of the Crystal Palace.

On Wednesday, 23rd June, Her Majesty, none the worse for the fatigue of that never-to-be-forgotten day, received the Lord Chancellor and the Peers, the Speaker and the Members of the House of Commons, at Buckingham Palace, where they presented loyal and dutiful addresses. Subsequently the Queen journeyed to Windsor, and on her way received 10,000 school children in St. James’s Park. At night the streets and buildings were again illuminated, and by Royal Command a gala performance was given at the Opera House, Covent Garden, attended by the Prince and Princess of Wales, the foreign Princes and Princesses, and all the special Envoys.

There were yet other interesting events to be crowded into these times of national rejoicing. On the following day, the 24th, 300,000 of the poorest in London were fed; and the Princess of Wales, accompanied by the Prince and two of her daughters, visited many of the dining-halls, drank to the health of the old people, and spoke kindly words.

If the Tuesday of the week of Diamond Jubilee, with its gorgeous pageant through the streets of London, gave proof of military power and Imperial greatness, the Naval Review on the Saturday, when the Prince of Wales, on behalf of the Queen, passed down lines of battleships moored a length of 25 miles, afforded significant evidence of unparalleled naval strength. In the quiet waters of the Solent rode at anchor these maritime leviathans in five columns, each nearly five miles long, every battleship decorated with brilliant bunting and manned by England’s Blue-jackets,—ironclads, torpedo vessels, cruisers, gunboats, and torpedo-boat destroyers, sea-engines of destruction of every kind were there, and yet that immense collection of British war-vessels formed but a portion of the Queen’s Navy scattered over the waters of the globe. Foreign nations sent a brave array of battleships in honour of the occasion, thousands of spectators crowded steamers in the waterway between the southern coast and the Isle of Wight, while the shores were black with sightseers.

At about two o’clock in the afternoon the Prince of Wales, wearing the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet, accompanied by his brother, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg, and his son, the Duke of York, passed out of Portsmouth Harbour on the Royal yacht, Victoria and Albert. At the same moment the signal was given to “man ship” and fire a Royal salute. The first to obey the order is the flagship Renown, carrying the pennant of Fleet-Admiral Sir Nowell Salmon, in supreme command; then follow in turn all the guns of that mighty fleet, until the booming of ordnance sounds like the roaring of many thunders. Ships bearing foreign Princes, Colonial Premiers, and Ambassadors proceed in the wake of the Royal yacht, which, as it passes each vessel of the Fleet, is cheered by officers and men, hat in hand. When the Prince of Wales had completed his inspection of those unbroken lines, one mighty and overpowering Hurrah! is given by all on a signal from the Renown. Although later in the day a tropical thunderstorm broke over that “Nineteenth-Century Armada,” and the weather continued unpropitious, at night every ship was outlined with incandescent lamps, the shape of each man-o’-war being plainly shown by the electric glow. As the Royal yacht slowly passed to her anchorage, half-way down the line of battleships, the sun blinked with a golden glitter, and the breeze from the west stretched every pennant and flag. The play of colour was like that of an old English garden in the first blush of summer, of the African veldt after rain, or the swaying rainbow sheen of the flower-strewn grasses and uplands of Australia. Then came once more that strangely joyous clapping of hands or the guns from the phanto-ships in unison with hearts beating with gratified loyalty on the long line of vessels on the outer verge. The Prince of Wales held a reception on board the Victoria and Albert of all the flag officers of the fleet and the officers representing the foreign fleets. While this function was going on, the Dunera weighed anchor to make around the fleet. The sun shone with brilliancy, and the dancing pale green waves mocked the happy hearts of a proud people. At no period of the long day did the magnificent lines of the vessels stand out with such vivid and coloured brilliancy. The low mainland, dressed in its nearest front with shapely woods, formed a nice background to the sun-glinted funnels and hulls of the ships.

To complete as far as possible this brief record of national rejoicing, mention must be made of the Queen’s visit to Kensington, the place of her birth, and of the garden party given on the same day, 28th June 1897, at Buckingham Palace. Seated at the entrance to a marquee erected on the lawn, the Sovereign received her guests, the Princes and Princesses from European and Eastern Courts and the flower of the English nobility. It was a brilliant gathering, forming a fitting conclusion to that panorama of scenes of splendour and beauty which the capital of the Empire had contributed in celebration of sixty years of a beneficent and illustrious reign.

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