THE CORONATION

And so the great Act draws near—the "high midsummer pomp" of Patriotism and Regality and Religion—the "one far-off divine event" to which the whole social creation has moved since the day was appointed and the preparations began. A thousand pens will picture the Coronation as it actually occurs. Writing in advance, I can only contemplate it as a magnificent ideal, and describe it as it strikes not the eye and ear but the heart, the imagination, and the historic sense.

First and foremost and above all else, the Coronation is a religious act. It is imbedded in the very heart of the great Christian service of the Holy Eucharist. Litany and Introit and Gospel and Creed lead up to it, and it in turn leads on to Te Deum and Offertory and Consecration and Communion. But though (or perhaps because) it is thus supremely and conspicuously religious, the Coronation is national and secular and historical as well. Other nations do not crown their Sovereigns. Some have no crowns to give, and others are in doubt about the rightful recipients; in some, revolutions have shattered the immemorial landmarks, or the sharp sword of civil war has severed the sacred thread of succession, or the State itself is a mushroom growth of yesterday, with no roots and fibres striking deep down to the bedrock of the national life.

But here in England we crown our kings as we have crowned them for a thousand years, and our act of crowning is the august symbol of a nation's story and a people's will. For before ever the ministers of God approach the altar, before the sacred emblems of sovereignty are hallowed, before the Christian's Mysteries begin, before the Eternal Spirit is invoked and the consecrating unction bestowed, the English people plays its part, and, through the mouth of its chief citizen asserts its fundamental place in the system of the Kingly Commonwealth.

"Sirs, I here present unto you King Edward, the undoubted King of this realm; wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage, are you willing to do the same?" And, as the King stands up and turns and shows himself four times to the assembled freemen, they "signify their willingness and joy by loud and repeated acclamations, all with one voice crying out, 'God Save King Edward.'"

And here I borrow from one[1] who touches as no other living man can touch these dramatic solemnities of our national life (for I know he will consent to the borrowing), and I say that this is as noble as it is intelligible. "It embodies the splendid liberty with which a free people asserts its claim to have nothing imposed upon it in the dark, no tyrannous rule set over it which it has not measured and considered and acknowledged in the open light of Heaven." And then the whole great company falls to prayer, and the Archbishop, who has hitherto played his part as the first citizen of England and the greatest subject of the Crown, takes up a still higher function, and goes up, vested to the altar and begins the Service of the Eucharist, and, as a priest, invokes the supreme sanction of the Eternal. And then the majestic course of the rite is broken off in the very centre, and, with every act and feature and ceremony which can most forcibly express the solemnity of the transaction, the Archbishop demands of the King, in the face of God and the Church and the people, whether he will promise to rule England in due obedience to law and with sacred regard to Justice, Mercy, and Religion. And the King gives his promise, and, kneeling at the altar, confirms it with an oath upon the Holy Gospel.

"This free intercourse that passes between Ruler and Ruled is no child's play, no mere pretty ceremonial; it is the act of men in solemn earnest pledging their troth the one to the other. The act is broad and deep and strong as the national life. It embodies the experience of centuries. It has in it the stern breath of conflict and the anxious determinations of secured peace. The Great Charter is behind it, and the memories of Runnymede and Whitehall. It seals a concentrated purpose. King and people look each other in the face, and speak their minds out and give their word." And then, and not till then, the Archbishop will go forward with his hallowing office and perform the symbolic acts, and pronounce the benediction of the Highest upon the covenant between King and Commonwealth. He anoints with the sacred unction and girds with the kingly sword. He delivers the sceptre of empire and the emblematic orb which, "set under the Cross," reminds the King "that the whole world is subject to the power and empire of Christ our Redeemer." And then the crown, of pure gold enriched with gems each one of which is a history, is set upon the Sovereign's head, and the Archbishop blesses and the onlookers acclaim.

"Blow, trumpets; all your exultations blow!"

as King Edward VII. takes his seat on the throne of the Confessor and the Conqueror, of the Plantagenets and the Tudors, and receives by the mouth of all that is greatest in Church and State the proud homage of a self-governing people.

And then, once again, the splendid trappings of sovereignty are laid aside, and the King, uncrowned, kneels down like the lowliest son of Adam before the Mercy-seat of the Christian covenant, and the great action of the Eucharist is resumed, and the memories of the Upper Chamber at Jerusalem are renewed at the altar of Westminster. The Word is spoken and the Deed is done. A great cloud of prayer and aspiration and intercession floats up from the vast concourse of assembled worshippers; and, in the midst of them, the crowned and anointed King, kneeling by her who must aid him to bear his burden, seeks through the Divinely-appointed Medium supernatural strength for a more than human task. From a full heart and with the solemnest intent a united nation says, "God save King Edward."

The scene is changed from Westminster Abbey to a dining-room in Belgravia, and the date from Saturday, 9th August, to Sunday, 3rd. Thirty guests, male and female, are gathered round a too-bountiful board; and, amidst the rich fumes of mayonnaise and quails and whitebait and champagne-cup, there rise the mingled voices of the great "Coronation Chorus."

Enthusiastic Young Lady. "I can think of nothing but the Coronation. Where are you going to see it from?"

Facetious Young Man. "Oh! from Hurlingham. That's quite near enough. The whole thing is such a frightful bore. You know what they say London is just now. All Board and no Lodging."

New Peeress. "I really envy the duchesses. They have such good places in the front row. I shall be poked away under the gallery quite at the back. I don't believe I shall see a thing. But, after all, one will be able to say one has been there."

Facetious Young Man. "Oh! you could say that anyhow. It's not good enough to get up at four in the morning for the sake of saying that. Charley FitzBattleaxe thinks just the same as I do about it, but of course, as he's a peer, he's bound to go. He's a bad hand at getting up early, so he's going to sit up playing bridge all night, and then have his bath and go straight to the show."

Stout Peeress. "Our creation is rather old, so I have got a very good place, but the chairs are too dreadful. Such stiff backs, and only nine inches to sit on, and horrid wicker seats which will make marks on our velvet."

Thrifty Peeress. "Well, I really don't know where I shall have my luncheon. It seems monstrous to have to pay two guineas at the House of Lords for a sandwich and a glass of claret. The Watermans in Dean's Yard have most kindly asked me to go to luncheon with them, and it would be an immense saving. But they are strict teetotallers, and I feel that, after all those hours in the Abbey, I shall want something more supporting than lemonade. So I am rather divided. I dread the idea of a teetotal luncheon, but two guineas for a glass of claret and a sandwich is rather much."

Nervous Peeress. "I am so terrified of being faint in the Abbey. I am going to take chocolate and meat lozenges in my coronet, and some brandy and water in my smelling-bottle."

Chorus (confusedly). "Oh no, port wine is the thing. No—rum and milk. My doctor says whisky. Whisky? Oh no; sal volatile is much the best, and Plasmon biscuits. Not sandwiches—I hate sandwiches. Cold chicken. But can we eat in church? Isn't it rather odd? Oh, the Abbey isn't exactly a church, you know. Isn't it? I should have thought it was. Well—no—our Vicar tells me that it was never consecrated. How very curious! At least it was only consecrated by the Angels, not by the Bishop. Well, of course that makes a difference. Still, I don't like the idea of eating and drinking in it. So I shall have some pÂtÉ de foie gras and champagne in the carriage, and eat till the very moment I get to the Abbey, and begin again the very moment I get out."

Lively Young Lady. "I'm not afraid of being faint—only of being bored in that long wait. I shall take something to read while mamma is stuffing herself with her sandwiches."

Facetious Young Man. "What a good idea! Shall you take Modern Society or the Pink 'Un?"

Grave Young Lady (intervening). "Neither, I hope. People seem to forget that after all it is a religious service. If one must read, I think 'John Inglesant' or one of Miss Yonge's books would be more suitable than a newspaper."

Lively Young Lady. "Well, really, it is so difficult to think of it as a religious service. It seems to me more like a play. I saw one of the rehearsals, and certainly it was as funny as a pantomime. But still, of course, one wouldn't wish to do anything that was unsuitable; so I think I shall take a 'Guide-book to the Abbey' and learn all the history while we are waiting. One hears so much about it just now, and it seems stupid not to know. I never can remember whether St. Edward was Edward the Confessor or Edward the Sixth. Do you know?"

Facetious Young Man. "Oh, ask me an easier one. Those old jossers were all pretty much of a muchness. I tell you I'm not taking any. The whole thing is utterly out of date. Why couldn't he write his name in a book, or send a crier round with a bell to say he's come to the throne?"

The Host. "My dear Freddy Du Cane, I don't agree with you the least. I am bound to say quite honestly that all my life I have hoped that I might live to see a Coronation, and I am honestly thankful that I have got a place. It is all the things that interest me most rolled into one—Pageant and History and Patriotism and a great Religious Ceremony. I am a Liberal; therefore I like the Recognition and the Oath. I am a Ritualist; therefore I like the vestments and the Unction and the oblation of the Golden Pall. Above all I am an Englishman, and I like to see my Sovereign take up the duties of sovereignty at the altar of 'that Royal and National sanctuary which has for so many centuries enshrined the varied memories of his august ancestors and the manifold glories of his free and famous kingdom.' Those words are Dean Stanley's. Do you know his account of the Coronation in his 'Memorials of Westminster Abbey'? If you will let me, I will show it to you after luncheon. People ought at least to know what the service is before they presume to make stupid jokes about it."

Curtain.