The Royal Wedding


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Civil War Harper's Weekly, April 11, 1863

We have made out extensive collection of Civil War Harper's Weekly newspapers available online. This collection contains incredible details of the war not available anywhere else. They offer a new perspective on the War.

(Scroll Down to See Entire Page, or Newspaper Thumbnails below will take you to the page of interest)



Dixie Bayou

European Loan

European Confederate Loan

Farragut at Port Hudson

Farragut Passes Port Hudson

Prince and Princess of Wales

Prince and Princess of Wales

Queen Victoria and Beatrice

Queen Victoria and Princess Beatrice

Royal Wedding

The Royal Wedding

Newbern, NC

Battle of Newbern, NC

Dummy Ship

Dummy Ship at Vicksburg

Battle of Newbern

Battle of Newbern, North Carolina

St. George's Chapel

St. George's Chapel

Seward Cartoon

Secretary Seward Cartoon







[APRIL 11, 1863.


(Previous Page) and animated assemblies. The Usher of the Black Rod, Sir Augustus Clifford, enters, and then there is another pause, that is quickly broken by a loud hum of admiration in the nave, which the more stately and select gathering in the choir only notice by increased rigidity of uprightness till the cause of the murmur is made known by the appearance at the entrance of the Knights of the Garter, all robed and jeweled in their almost regal costume, and headed by the Premier himself. They make a noble and a gallant show as they sweep up the choir like a procession of monarchs, with their long velvet mantles of imperial blue, looped at the shoulders with white ribbon, trailing after them. Lord Palmerston proceeds at once to his stall on the left, where he is joined by Lady Palmerston; and the others, after waiting for a single second in a stately group, pass also to their seats. The Premier was, of course, the most observed of all, as he stepped up lightly into his seat, and looked round him with a brisk joviality, as if about to quell a troublesome member, or evade, by a most voluminous reply, an awkward question. The Duke of Newcastle, Earl Granville, Earl Clarendon, and Earl Russell are the most noticed of the rest, and the latter when once he sits in his wide, high, ample stall, is almost lost to view.

After all the knights are seated the Lord Chancellor, in his state robes and carrying the Great Seal, passes slow and stately up the choir—alone, but a perfect pageant in himself—to his seat at the head of all.


Suddenly there is just a perceptible movement—a kind of consciousness that something has occurred which tells at once that the Queen is either coming or has come, and all eyes are quietly directed toward the quaint old pew in the wall. In another instant the Queen herself appears, accompanied by his Royal Highness the Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, the brother of the late Prince, and, as we ail know, so like him as to make the resemblance almost startling as he stands by the side of Her Majesty. The Queen wears the simplest and plainest of widow's weeds—a widow's cap, a black silk dress, with white collar and cuffs, and black gloves. The only colors which appear upon her are the star of the Order of the Garter, and its blue ribbon, narrowed to the width Her Majesty usually wears across her left shoulder. She looks well in health, but thinner and older, with the permanent traces of deep grief and care stamped on every lineament of her features.

She stands at the window of the royal pew, a little withdrawn from general gaze, and only to be seen at all by those on the opposite side of the choir glancing quietly into the interior, while the Duke of Saxe-Coburg speaks, and apparently explains to her the arrangements going on below for the great ceremony which has drawn her forth from her mourning and seclusion. After a few minutes, she seats herself a little away from the window, and the Duke retires.


Officers of the household, pursuivants, and heralds lead the way as before, halting and making a double line below the dais, while the Princess Mary, of Cambridge, her magnificent train borne by Lady Edith Somerset, moves up the choir with the most stately grace. At the dais her attendant pauses, and she turns to gather her train over her arm, and, moving to the centre, makes a profound courtesy to her Majesty, then passes at once to her place on the north of the altar, in front of and just beneath those treasures of iron-work, the gates of Quintin Matsys. As she passes in the Duchess of Cambridge follows, with like state and ceremony, and then the Princess Beatrice, Princess Louise, and Princess Helena ascend in turn, followed by the Princes Arthur and Leopold, the latter in Highland dresses of the Royal tartan. All how and courtesy deeply to the Queen, and the Princess Helena, who wears a train, gathers hers on her arm like the rest, and seats herself near the Duchess of Cambridge. The next is the Princess Alice, wearing a noble coronet of brilliants, who pays the same deep reverence to her mother as all the rest; then the Princess Royal, looking as young, as amiable, and as timid as when, with slow steps, she herself was led to the altar at the Chaps Royal, but this time leading by the hand a fine little boy, who, all unawed by the stately pomp around, dragged on his mother's arm, as he looked behind him at the pageant, and with difficulty brought his little feet to surmount the three steps of the haut pas. All have risen as they enter, and the Queen now rises too, and bows to her daughter with a kind and winning smile—the first that has passed across her face since she entered the chapel. Beethoven's noble march has been played as they filed in, but, as may be guessed, its strains, though beautifully rendered, are but little attended to in such a scene as this. The Queen has evidently found an object which more deeply interests her, and instead of seating herself again she remains at the closet-window, watching her royal children as they pass one after another to their seats beneath, and even when they are seated she leans over the front and remains gazing down at them steadily with an expression of fond pride which is unmistakable, and in which no trace of grief can be discovered now.


Again the cheers come louder and more sustained than ever from the outside; again there is the same pause, broken by the trumpets and rattling kettle-drums in the Nave, and this time all save the Queen herself rise and remain standing respectfully; for it is the bridegroom that approaches. Great officers precede him, but they are little heeded; all eyes are turned upon the Prince of Wales, who, in his uniform of General, but wearing over all the insignia and purple mantle of a Knight of the Garter, comes alertly up the Choir, partly accompanied, partly followed by his brother-in-law, the Prince of Prussia, and his uncle, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg, similarly robed. The Wedding March is played as they move up with stately ease, and the Queen rises and comes fully forward as the heat pas is reached, and the three ascend and turn in line toward her, bowing deeply. The Duke of Saxe-Coburg and the Prince of Prussia retire to the south side of the altar, and the bridegroom, after kneeling a few seconds in prayer, rises and stands "the rose and expectancy of this fair State," in the centre of the haut pas, alone, with his face toward the Queen.

Such an occasion is one in which few men appear to advantage; yet the Prince gains by passing through it. With the easy grace that seems natural to all his actions he stood alone, the watched and observed of all observers, neither bashful nor confident, but with a manly royal bearing that became his illustrious birth and exalted station. He looked round upon the splendid scene for a moment quietly and easily, and his every movement, his look, his very bearing, seemed in their vivid likeness to his royal father to amaze and impress all—even those who, by their rank and station, might be supposed to be the most familiar with his features. As the sound of cheering was heard without, marking the coming of his youthful bride, he kept turning his head every moment; for from where he stood, in the centre of the altar, he could see through the screen and down the nave beyond to where the crimson curtains would hide the marshaling of the bride's procession. Often and often did he glance this way, but the curtains were motionless, and gave no sign of the coming forth of her whom all now watched for with such eager expectation that the suspense even of the slight delay seemed almost painful. Still he stood alone, and, though evidently keenly anxious for the coming of his young bride, he bore eager scrutiny of all with a quiet ease that was charming.


At last, with a great clangor of trumpets, which at first are muffled into a rich indistinctness behind the curtains, the long-looked-for procession of the bride enters, and the Prince, giving one look to satisfy himself of the fact of the arrival, keeps his eyes fixed upon the Queen, and never turns his head again till his affianced stands beside him.

The hush was now so deep and breathless that even the restless glitter of the jewels that twinkled every where seemed almost to break it, and, despite the stately etiquette which had hitherto regulated every word and gesture; all now bent far and eagerly forward, as the hum and rustle in the nave beyond showed the young bride to be drawing near. In another minute she had entered, and stood,

"In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one,"

the fairest and almost the youngest of all her lovely train

that bloomed in fair array behind her. Though not agitated, she appeared nervous, and the soft, delicate bloom of color, which ordinarily imparts a look of joyous happiness to her expressive features, had all but disappeared, as, with head bent down, but glancing her eyes occasionally from side to side, she moved slowly up toward the altar. The programme tells us that she was supported on the right by her royal father, Prince Christian, of Denmark, and on her left by the Duke of Cambridge; and the same dry but most authentic document leads us to believe that both were in full uniform, and wore the collars and badges of their respective orders of knighthood. But without wishing at all to derogate from the importance of these illustrious personages, we may say that any one else might have safely borne their part, so deep, so all-absorbing was the interest with which the bride, and bride alone, was watched. From the way her features are now shaded by the veil and her looks bent forward, it is difficult to see her features more fully; but as she nears the altar she drops her arm, and for the first time appears beneath the folds of her veil a large bouquet of orange flowers, carried in a princely gift from the Maharajah Dhuleep Singh.

On these occasions, we believe, the dress of the bride ranks, in general estimation, as only second in importance to the celebration of the ceremony itself, which is to be regretted, for a lady's dress, like a lady's beauty, can only be described by its effect. It is embroidered white silk, trimmed with silver, which can just be discerned in rich designs glittering between the snowy folds. The traditional white is not, however, departed from, though over all she wears a slight bodice with open sleeves of white silk, embroidered with silver, and which, falling tight, sets off her tapering waist and faultless symmetry of form to absolute perfection.

Her gorgeous train of white and silver is borne by eight young ladies, between the ages of fifteen and twenty, the very choice and flower of the fair scions of our most ancient houses. The young ladies thus honored with so fair a post in the long programme of this happy day are all the daughters of Dukes, Marquises, or Earls whose titles are almost as familiar as the names of our Kings of old.


Handel's march from "Joseph" had been played at entering, but all music had ceased as the party stood around the altar, till its strains broke out with the solemn words of the chorale:

"This day, with joyful heart and voice,

To Heav'n be raised a nation's pray'r; Almighty Father, deign to grant

Thy blessing to the wedded pair.


"So shall no clouds of sorrow dim

The sunshine of their early days;

But happiness in endless round

Shall still encompass all their ways."

The exquisitely soft music of this chant, at once solemn and sorrowful, was composed by the late Prince Consort. It may have been this, or the associations and life-long memories called up by the scene beneath her; but certain it is that as the hymn commenced Her Majesty drew back from the window of the pew, and, after an effort to conceal her emotion, gave way to her tears, and almost sobbed; nor did she throughout the rest of the ceremony entirely recover her composure.


As the solemn chant ended the Prelates advanced to the communion rails, and the Primate, in a rich, clear voice, which was heard throughout every part of the building, choir or nave, commenced the service with the usual formulary, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here, in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony." There is a solemn pause after that dreadful adjuration, in which they are charged to answer if there was any impediment to their marriage; and then, after a moment, the Primate passed on to, "Wilt thou, ALBERT EDWARD, have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

To this the Prince rather bowed than responded, his utterance was so indistinct. To the same question, "Wilt thou, ALEXANDRA CAROLINE MARIA, have this man to thy wedded husband?" the reply was just audible, but nothing more, though, as usual, every ear was strained to catch it.

But to the words, "I take thee, ALEXANDRA, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth," the Prince repeated clearly, word for word, after his Grace; though now again, when it was the turn of the young bride, she could be heard only to answer almost inaudibly, and her cheeks were suffused with a crimson flush, and she seemed very nervous.

To the question, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" the royal father of the bride only bowed and moved toward the Princess, who was removing her glove hurriedly. Then the Primate joined their hands, and in a clear, soft voice, firmly and deliberately repeated the words:

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

All then knelt down while the prayer commencing, "O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life; send Thy blessing upon these Thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in Thy name," was solemnly repeated, and then they rose, while the Primate joined their hands, and said the final words, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

With these words, which in law completed the marriage ceremony, the service was continued to the 67th Psalm, the solemn strains of which came like a relief to what seemed almost the overwrought feeling of all within the choir as the words went pealing softly through both nave and aisle.

The happy couple have gone to spend the honey-moon at Osborne, in the Isle of Wight.

The pleasure of the wedding was somewhat marred by the bad arrangements of the police. Seven women were crushed to death in the throng, and one hundred wounded. If such a thing occurred here, how our "mobocracy" would be abused!

By the Author of "Mary Barton," etc.

Printed from the Manuscript and early Proof-sheets purchased by the Proprietors of "Harper's Weekly."

CHAPTER XVII.—(Continued. )

ELLINOR walked as nearly round the castle as ever she could, looking up at the few high-barred windows she could see, and wondering in what part of the building Dixon was confined. Then she went into the adjoining church-yard, and sitting down upon a tomb-stone, she gazed idly at the view spread below her—a view which was considered as the lion of the place, to he shown to all strangers by the inhabitants of Hellingford. Ellinor did not see it, however. She only saw the blackness of that fatal night. The hurried work—the lanterns glancing to and fro. She only heard the hard breathing of those who are engaged upon unwonted labor; the few hoarse muttered words; the swaying of the branches to

and fro. All at once the church-clock above her struck eight, and then pealed out for distant laborers to cease their work for a time; such was the old custom of the place. Ellinor rose up, and made her way back to Mr. Johnson's house in High Street. The room felt close and confined in which she awaited her interview with Mr. Johnson, who had sent down an apology for having overslept himself, and at last made his appearance in a hurried, half-awakened state, in consequence of his late hospitality of the night before.

"I am so sorry I gave you all so much trouble last night," said Ellinor, apologetically. "I was overtired, and so much shocked by the news I heard."

"No trouble, no trouble, I am sure. Neither Mrs. Johnson nor I felt it in the least a trouble. Many ladies, I know, feel such things very trying, though there are others that can stand a judge's putting on the black cap better than most men. I'm sure I saw some as composed as could be under Judge Corbet's speech."

"But about Dixon? He must not die, Mr. Johnson."

"Well, I don't know that he will," said Mr. Johnson, in something of the. tone of voice he would have used in soothing a child. "Judge Corbet said something about the possibility of a pardon. The jury did not recommend him to mercy; you see, his looks went so much against him, and all the evidence was so strong, and no defense, so to speak, for he would not furnish any information on which we could base defense. But the judge did give some hope, to my mind, though there are others that think differently."

"I tell you, Mr. Johnson, he must not die, and he shall not. To whom must I go?"

"Whew! Have you got additional evidence?" with a sudden sharp glance of professional inquiry.

"Never mind," Ellinor answered. "I beg

your pardon    only tell me into whose hands the power of life and death have passed."

"Into the Home Secretary's — Sir Philip Homes; but you can not get access to him on such an errand. It is the judge who tried the case that must urge a reprieve—Judge Corbet."

"Judge Corbet?"

"Yes; and he was rather inclined to take a merciful view of the whole case. I saw it in his charge. He'll be the person for you to see. I suppose you don't like to give me your confidence, or else I could arrange and draw up what will have to be said?"

"No. What I have to say must be spoken to the arbiter—to no one else. I am afraid I answered you impatiently just now. You must forgive me; if you knew all, I am sure you would."

"Say no more, my dear lady. We will suppose you have some evidence not adduced at the trial. Well, you must go up and see the judge, since you don't choose to impart it to any one, and lay it before him. He will, doubtless, compare it with his notes of the trial, and see how far it agrees with them. Of course you must be prepared with some kind of proof of what you say, for Judge Corbet will have to test your evidence."

"It seems strange to think of him as the judge," said Ellinor, almost to herself.

"Why, yes. He's but a young judge. You knew him at Hawley, I suppose? I remember his reading there with Mr. Ness."

"Yes. But do not let us talk more about that time. Tell me, when can I see Dixon? I have been to the castle already, but they said I must have a sheriff's order."

"To be sure. I desired Mrs. Johnson to tell you so last night. Old Ormerod was dining here; he is clerk to the magistrates, and I told him of your wish. He said he would see Sir Henry Croper, and have the order here before ten. But all this time Mrs. Johnson is waiting breakfast for us. Let me take you into the dining-room."

It was very hard work for Ellinor to do her duty as a guest, and to allow herself to be interested and talked to on local affairs by her host and hostess. But she felt as if she had spoken shortly and abruptly to Mr. Johnson in their previous conversation, and that she must try and make amends for it; so she attended to all the details about the restoration of the church, and the difficulty of getting a good music-master for the three little Miss Johnsons, with all her usual gentle good-breeding and patience, though no one can tell how her heart and imagination were full of the coming interview with poor old Dixon.

By-and-by Mr. Johnson was called out of the room to see Mr. Ormerod, and receive the order of admission from him. Ellinor clasped her hands tight together as she listened with apparent composure to Mrs. Johnson's never-ending praise of the Tonic Sol-fa system. But when Mr. Johnson returned she could not help interrupting her eulogy, and saying,

"Then I may go now?"

"Yes; the order was there—she might go, and Mr. Johnson would accompany her, to see that she met with no difficulty or obstacle.

As they walked thither he told her that some one—a turnkey, or some one—would have to be present at the interview; that such was always the rule in the case of condemned prisoners; but that if this third person was "obliging" he would keep out of ear-shot. Mr. Johnson quietly took care to see that the turnkey who accompanied Ellinor was "obliging."

The man took her across high-walled courts, and along stone corridors, and through many locked doors before they came to the "condemned cells."

"I've had three at a time in here," said he, unlocking the final door, " after Judge Morton had been here. We always called him the 'Hanging Judge.' But it's five years since he died, and since then there's been never more than one in at a time—though once it was a

woman for poisoning her husband. Mary Jones was her name."

The stone passage out of which the cells opened was light, and bare, and scrupulously clean. Over each door was a small barred window, and an outer window of the same description was placed high up in the cell which the turnkey now opened,

Old Abraham Dixon was sitting on the side of his bed, doing nothing. His head was bent, his frame sunk, and he did not seem to care to turn round and see who it was that entered.

Ellinor tried to keep down her sobs while the man went up to him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, and lightly shaking him, he said:

"Here's a friend come to see you, Dixon." Then, turning to Ellinor, he added, "There's some as takes it in this kind o' stunned way, while others are as restless as a wild beast in a cage after they're sentenced." And then he withdrew into the passage, leaving the door open, so that he could see all that passed if he chose to look, but ostentatiously keeping his eyes averted, and whistling to himself, so that he could not hear what they said to each other.

Dixon looked up at Ellinor, but then let his eyes fall on the ground again; the increased trembling of his shrunk frame was the only sign he gave that he had recognized her.

She sat down by him, and took his large horny hand he hers. She wanted to overcome her inclination to sob hysterically before she spoke. She stroked the bony, shriveled fingers on which her hot, scalding tears kept dropping.

"Dunnot do that," said he, at length, in a hollow voice. "Dunnot take on about it; it's best as it is, missy."

"No! Dixon, it is not best. It shall not be. You know it shall not—can not be."

"I'm rather tired of living. It's been a great strain and labor for me. I think I'd as lief be with God as with men. And you see I were fond on him ever sin' he were a little lad, and told me what hard times he had at school, he did, just as if I were his brother! I loved him next to Molly Greaves. Dear! and I shall see her again, I reckon, come next Saturday week! They'll think well on me up there, I'll be bound; though I can not say as I've done all as I should do here below."

"But, Dixon," said Ellinor, "you know who did this—this—"

"Guilty o' murder," said he. "That's what they called it. Murder! And that it never were, choose who did it."

"My poor, poor father did it. I am going up to London this afternoon—I am going to see the judge, and tell him all."

"Don't you demean yourself to that fellow, missy. It's him as left you in the lurch as soon as sorrow and shame came nigh you."

He looked up at her now for the first time; but she went on as if she had not noticed those wist, weary eyes.

"Yes; I shall go to him. I know who it is, and I am resolved. After all he may be better than a stranger for real help; and I shall never remember any—any thing else when I think of you, good, faithful friend."

"He looks but a wizened old fellow in his gray wig. I should hardly ha' known him. I gave him a look as much as to say, 'I could tell tales o' you, my lord judge, if I chose.' I don't know if he heeded me though. I suppose it were for a sign of old acquaintance that he said he'd recommend me to mercy. But I'd sooner have death nor mercy, by long odds. Yon man out there says mercy means Botany Bay. It would be like killing me by inches, that would, It would. I'd liefer go straight to Heaven than live on among the black folk."

He began to shake again; this idea of transportation, from its very mysteriousness, was more terrifying to him than death. He kept on saying, plaintively, "Missy, you'll never let them send me to Botany Bay—I could not stand that."

"No, no!" said she. "You shall come out of this prison, and go home with me to East Chester—I promise you, you shall. I promise you. I don't yet quite know how, but trust in my promise. Don't fret about Botany Bay. If you go there, I go too—I am so sure you will not go. And you know if you have done any thing against the law in concealing that fatal night's work, I did too; and if you are to be punished, I will be punished too. But I feel sure it will be right—I mean as right as any thing can be, with the recollection of that time present to us, as it must always be." She almost spoke these last words to herself. They sat on, hand in hand, for a few minutes more in silence.

"I thought you'd come to me. I knowed you were far away in foreign parts. But I used to pray to God. 'Dear Lord God!' I need to say, 'let me see her again.' I told the chaplain as I'd begin to pray for repentance—at after I'd done praying that I might see you once again; for it just seemed to take all my strength to say those words as I have named. And I thought as how God knew what sees in my heart better than I could tell Him. How I was main and sorry for all as I'd ever done wrong; I allays were, at after it was done; but I thought as no one could know how bitter-keen I wanted to see you."

Again they sank into silence. Ellinor felt as if she would fain be away and active in procuring his release; but she also perceived how precious her presence was to him, and she did not like to leave him a moment before the time allowed for. His voice had changed to a weak piping old man's quaver, and between the times of his talking he seemed to relapse into a dreamy state; but through it all he held her hand tight, as though afraid that she would leave him.

So the hour elapsed, with no more spoken words than those above. From time to time




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