looked almost marvellous.'
The coffin was placed on a truck, to which the sailors harnessed
themselves, and dragged it up an inclined plane (formed over the steps)
with no apparent effort in spite of the enormous weight. It was taken
along a suite of rooms, 'hung with black, and lighted with a curious
simplicity and grandeur.' Here, again, the coffin had to be lifted, and
'it was most striking to see the absolute silence with which the men
moved the monstrous weight at a sign from the captain's hand.' The only
sound was when a spar snapped in the hands of a 'giant of a fellow, who
was lifting with it. There was a respectful delicacy in every motion of
these men which combined beautifully with their immense, quiet,
controlled strength, and impressed me very much. After a few prayers we
left.'

On Wednesday, the 21st, the coffin was again removed to the ship. The
imprudence of the former procession had struck everyone. The streets
were cleared and no one admitted to the jetty except the procession.
'You cannot imagine the awful solemnity which all this precaution gave
the whole thing. It was like marching through a city half-dead and
half-besieged.' Nothing was to be seen but troops; and, 'when we got
into Dalhousie Square, there was a battery of artillery firing
minute-guns, and drawn up on the road just as if they were going to
fight. Two or three bands played the Dead March the whole way, till I
felt as if it would never get out of my ears. At the end of the jetty
lay the "Daphne." ... The sailors, with infinite delicacy and quiet,
draped the coffin carefully with its flags ... and it was raised and
lowered by a steam-crane, which, somehow or other, they managed to work
without any sound at all. When the ship steamed off down the river, and
the minute-guns stopped, and I drove home with Henry Cunningham, I
really felt as I suppose people feel when an operation is over. There
was a stern look of reality about the whole affair, quite unlike what
one has seen elsewhere. Troops and cannon and gun-carriages seem out of
place in England, ... but it is a very different matter here, where
everything rests upon military force. The guns and the troops are not
only the outward and visible marks of power, but they are the power
itself to a great extent, and it is very impressive to see them.

'It gives a sort of relief to one,' he adds, 'that after all Lord Mayo
was, in a sense, going home: that he (so far as one can speak of hi