LONDON, SATURDAY
Among the curiously mingled impressions left by to-day's great ceremony in London, that of the immense dignity and sincerity of the nation's mourning stands out most sharply. The funeral procession, although of great length, was extremely simple in character and, considered purely as a pageant, would have been comparatively unimpressive. Its greatness lay in the vast unison of a human feeling which it evoked and in its power to clothe what was probably the most representative crowd that London ever assembled in one grand garment of simple mourning. The scene of to-day will never be forgotten by those who regarded it.
Nothing could have been more worthy of an honoured monarch and nothing more creditable to her country. When one considers the emotional sympathy of the great crowd and all the massed effects of military pomp and royal dignity, of thousands of men stepping slowly to the measure of solemn music, of the mingling of pride and pathos, triumph and pity, grandeur and humility round the dust of one simple lonely woman – then, indeed, one may realise the significance of to-day's scene. Greatness and power win great and powerful tributes; success levies its tax of admiration and envy; but love alone wins love. The coin in which England chose to pay her last duty to Queen Victoria was the pure gold of silence and perfectly natural behaviour.
It was in no sense a sad occasion – it was far too solemn to be melancholy. Hours before the pageant passed its route was packed and lined with the greatest multitude that any living person has seen in London. From on all sides people poured towards the scene of the procession; the sound of wheels was silent and the streets resounded only with the tramping of feet. At points such as the railway stations and Buckingham Palace the crowd seemed to expand into seas of living faces. In the time of waiting the people talked quietly and cheerfully among themselves, interested in the forming up of the troops, and ready to be amused in a quiet way by the little incidents that enliven such intervals. There was no false restraint, no attempt to beat up artificial emotion. It was a silent crowd; indeed its supreme characteristics were its blackness and silence. People were silent because they wished to be silent, because the magnetism of the hour was upon them, and its solemnity. Shutting one's eyes, it was the seashore that seemed to sound – not the busy city with its clamorous voices and roarings.
Over London there hung the light mist of our winter mornings, and the sun shone like a dim, far-off lighthouse, with its intervals of eclipse. When the dead Queen's body was borne past, the silence simply deepened – that was all.
Manchester Guardian, 4 February 1901
